The 'c' word

If ever there was a sure-fire way to quash every last ounce of spontaneity, adventure and joie de verve from one’s life, it’s kids.
Not to say they don’t more than make up for it in other ways, the sweet little angels with endless zest and curiosity for life (as evidenced by the constant soundtrack of “why?”) But let’s face it, the great outdoors that once harbored so much wonder, adrenaline and endless recreational opportunities is suddenly rife with potentially deadly drop-offs, bone-breaking faceplants, poisonous insect bites and scorching sunburn.

Suddenly, the urge to “go big” is gone, as are the days of casually tossing the freeze-dried beans and Jim Beam Traveler in the pack and hitting the trail. Now, by the time I’ve packed the massive arsenal of anti-bacterial wipes, band-aids, snacks, books, toys, sunscreen, cell phone, Neosporin, Ibuprofen, aloe vera, toilet paper, tweezers, bug spray, splint, lucky pillow, extra clothes and clean underwear (just in case), I’ve forgotten where it was I was supposed to go in the first place. And even if did remember, good luck getting there with all the stuff blocking the rear window.

In fact, at the risk of making myself unpopular among some dear readers, I must admit those seven letters I once cherished, now grip me with fear, loathing and cold sweats. Yes, I’m talking about camping.

Don’t get me wrong – I hate that I hate the c-word. But, allow me to defend myself by saying it’s not so much the actual act of “camping” – I mean, who doesn’t like laying in the dirt and getting “toasty” by the fire – so much as the several hours of pre- and post-paration panic. Forget one camp chair, hairbrush or pair of socks, and it’s all over.

Alas, this is no to way to rear your young. The last thing I want is to foment outdoor ignorance and have them end up like me, suffering through my first camping trip at the age of 19 with a 55-degree bedspread and the cold hard ground.

So, it was with this seared in my memory that I agreed to a one-night car-camping excursion with my daughter (only after I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince her that in the event of rain, we could not sit inside the minivan and watch DVDs.) Plus, I wanted her to know that mom does more than yell and chase people around with washcloths. She has a fun, spontaneous side, too, no matter how painful it is to find it.

While I did an exemplary job of packing, down to the last marshmallow, I’ll admit there wasn’t forethought to what came after. The plan was sketchy at best for someone of my limited navigational skills: meet up with a larger group that had gone up ahead of us to secure a spot. Follow the road and look for the signs and the Airstream. I mean, if I can cross Red Mountain Pass in a 1988 Subaru Loyale in a raging whiteout, then a little jaunt up Missionary Ridge in the rain would be a cakewalk. Right?

When I had to ford a boulder-strewn mud slide (two actually) just to get to the road, I should’ve taken it as a sign. The lightning bolt that flashed in front of the car out of the angry afternoon sky (now a darker shade of black) should’ve been another one. And the sign: “Warning burnt watershed next 13 miles. Look for flash floods, debris flows and falling rock” – well, duh.

Alas, the miles dragged on, my co-pilot passed out and I soon found myself an hour invested and mired in thick red clay midway up a rutted forest sideroad. Faced with potholes big enough to make mincemeat out of low-clearance soccer mobiles, I made a desperate call to mission control. The Spouseman, once again smelling a boondoggle brewing, had wisely stayed home. After a concise order to “get the (bleep) out of there,” I gingerly backed down the slippery slope and set back from whence I came, to a fork in the road where a sign (yet another I failed to heed) awaited with more explicit instructions. Maybe it was the fact that I was standing in a T-shirt in a torrential downpour trying to decipher words on wet cardboard, or the fact that my co-pilot had awakened and was quickly losing faith in my abilities, but I was perhaps a little hasty in reading the directions.

Once again, I headed off in the “right” direction, only to be stymied by the elements. By now, I had burned nearly a quarter tank of gas and successfully driven myself out of mission control range. I was forced to survive by my own wits – which were quickly coming to a frazzled end.
After a few more agonizing miles of potholes on an ever-rockier, steepening and slower-going road, not to mention several hits to the mother ship, I decided to abort mission.

In a sketchy, white-knuckled 30-point turn that would’ve given the Spouseman chest pains, I pointed the miniature back home. But not before my swan song for the night (which it now was, by the way). The maneuver in question, which probably should go down in the mini-van hall of fame, involved a one-lane game of chicken with three Bubbas in a late model Ford pickup. Suffice to say, I lost in the “my rig is bigger than yours” category and was forced to retreat, backwards, uphill, head hanging out the door to make sure we didn’t plunge off a cliff to our fiery deaths. Sure, I may have lost the battle, but rest assured, I scored an impressive point for discriminated soccer moms everywhere.

Anyway, as we headed home, tailpipe between our legs, I used the long drive for one of those “teaching moments,” i.e. p.c. parentspeak for “lecture.” However, I was careful not to use the word “lost” for fear no child would ever set foot in a car with me again without incessantly asking “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

While I’m not sure she heard every word through the din of “Ponyo,” I explained that giving up short of your goal is always disappointing (especially when you later learn you were so close you could’ve hit it with a tent pole). But it’s just as important, maybe even more so, to know when to turn tail and get the heck out of there. And while it’s great to go big, sometimes, it’s OK to just go home.

– Missy Votel