You know it’s going to be a good day when you’re barely out of the driveway and your wife announces her intent to chastise you. Her need to express her anger was so important she felt compelled to announce it advance so that I wouldn’t miss it. At least I was in good company; my daughter had already caught my wife’s wrath as the week’s stress had finally gotten to her.
It was a gorgeous October morning and my daughter was on her way to her first Girl Scout campout. My wife was a troop leader, and I was going for the support and the experience, I guess. We were on schedule, but my wife had wanted to be early; perhaps even the first ones on site. We’ve not been on time since our daughter was born; clearly her expectations were too high and a letdown was inevitable. During the half-hour drive to the campsite, I was able to get to the core of the problem, though my psycho analysis was neither requested nor well-timed.
I was able to determine my wife’s mood was about broken commitments, changes of plans, and simply having too much to do and not enough time to do it. My wife ceded these points but still contended that our daughter and I could have been a bit more cooperative and supportive given the circumstances. It was a marital plea bargain and I was glad to take the deal.
*****
When this excursion was originally being planned, my wife was filling a notebook with names, tasks, and things to worry about. I was recruited for my fire building abilities, the secret of which involves the liberal application of flammable liquids. The campout was weeks away, and I had a soft moment where I failed to consider the gravity of my commitment.
“No problem,” I responded; blinded by a fleeting vision of potential autumnal outdoor fun. I’d hang around the campsite with the scout moms, lend assistance to the girls, build a fire later that night, then drink seasonal ale into the wee hours after the Daisies were tucked into their bunks.
“I don’t believe accelerants are allowed,” my wife replied, siphoning the air from my optimistic sails. “And alcoholic beverages are prohibited on the grounds.”
In two short sentences, I went from mildly enthusiastic to diametrically opposed.
I was ill-suited for any aspect of this junket, and attempted repeatedly to make my case as the day approached. I didn’t come from an outdoorsy family. My dad only slept outside when he passed out sunning himself in the backyard. We didn’t even do picnics.
In fact, I’d only been camping once in my life and was more of a spectator than an active participant. I went because a friend invited me, having no idea what I was in for.
*****
When I was eleven, my best friend’s dad had a small pull-behind camper that we
took to a campsite near a small lake. Because this was my best friend, I endured conditions I would have otherwise deemed unacceptable. The rolling corrugated shack was small and cold, and while it was nothing to look out, these days somebody could shabby chic the fuck out of it and sell it for top dollar.
However, as a first time camper, I was not impressed. Though battle tested, I was sure that even with the three of us inside, a formidable gust of wind would capsize us and we’d end up in the water after a brief but bumpy roll. The small trailer reminded me of Jethro Bodine’s mobile bachelor pad--the one he rescued from the dump. This one didn’t have a hi-fi though. I supplied the tunes with my ghetto blaster. Fortunately, my friend’s dad was cool and he didn’t complain about the crap music we insisted on listening to for half the night.
The autumn evening was unseasonably cold and I shivered throughout the night as the tin box creaked with every gust of wind. The following morning we were treated to a man’s breakfast consisting of ham and home fries prepared in the same skillet. After that, my dad’s friend grabbed a roll of bath tissue and headed for the camper door.
Announcing his destination was unnecessary, and left to my imagination, vividly horrific scenes came to find. I pictured a row of men sitting on open air toilets, clutching their toilet paper rolls as their knees were drained of color in the chilly morning air. I coached my bowels to not even think about relaxing until I was back in my warm bathroom.
The day’s agenda included fishing at the aforementioned lake. This was also something we didn’t do in my family, so like sleeping in a camper and shitting outside, I had no affinity for it. Fortunately, successful and unsuccessful fishing look remarkably similar and the morning’s activity ended in a scoreless tie.
*****
The Girl Scout ranch was something out of a campfire song or perhaps an informational DVD you get while considering a timeshare. Located among one of the few elevated areas in the state of Oklahoma, gentle hills dotted with trees and carpeted with speckled autumn grass stretched for miles, all capped by a cloudless, azure sky. It was the kind of peace you can only get removed from the city. The air was cool, but kept comfortable by an ample stream of brilliant sunlight unfiltered by clouds. Stretching once we were out of the car, I knew that my decision to come was a good one. The weather was perfect while the scenery was beautiful and serene. It was going to be a great experience.
The vast campsite had a variety of buildings and other enclosures for sleeping. While the bulk of the day would be spent outdoors, all campers would be sleeping inside. The degree to which campers would be “roughing it” was commiserate with their ages. Being the youngest, my daughter’s Daisy troop was assigned to the building called the Lodge--the one with the greatest menu of creature comforts. Other sites included a cabin, treehouse, and a trio of buildings for an old west reenactment--a hotel, jail, and newspaper office.
While my wife and daughter unloaded the vehicle, I was assigned the kaper of standing at the entrance and directing campers as they arrived. Each age group had been assigned a different location for lodging, and it was my task to point them in the correct direction as well as remind them to unpack their things and park their cars before setting up their cabins. This was a specific rule emphasized to prevent cars from crowding the area.
The few cars that stopped needed directions. When the old campaigners began arriving however, I was little more than a fleshy speed bump. Some waved--telling me in so few words that my assistance wasn’t needed--while others neither slowed nor acknowledged me. Nobody parked before setting up their cabins, clogging the driveways. I abandoned my post before getting run over.
One such family pulled their oversized, ostentatious, expensive European SUV alongside their assigned quarters and left it parked for nearly two hours. The mom and dad had just come from couples’ hot yoga and had no time to change clothes. Initially I figured them to be more inept than myself, likely breaking out a contraband box wine and grilling portobello steaks over a portable grill later that evening.
But after setting up their cabin, they promptly clear-cut a hectare using only a sling blade (some people call it a kaiser blade), then gathered the brush for their campfire. Despite their douchey arrival and pretentious appearance, they were professionals.
I found my family back at the lodge, and took a look around while they set up their bunks. Calling the structure a “lodge” was generous. It reminded me more of a senior center, with its large kitchen and even larger open gathering space and fireplace. The only things missing were the walkers, large-print books, and library of obscure movies on VHS.
The accommodations were not without issues, however. Particularly for the dads. The men’s restroom was reachable only by entering from an exterior door at the side of the building or slivering through a crowded storage closet and dealing with a sticky door.
Naturally, no men were allowed to bunk in the same building with the scouts. Our choices were a yurt or any of the old west buildings. Our assigned yurt looked like a bouncy house that didn’t bounce. It had taken on water from an overnight storm, leaving it with a damp, musty odor and water on the floor.
Ignoring accuracy, the old west structures were climate controlled. Unfortunately, there was a report of scorpions in those structures, making them less than ideal for lassoing a few z’s.
The town could have used a waddy to beef, or otherwise get shed of the bugs that had infested the place. I’d had a run-in with a scorpion and wasn’t interested in a return engagement. I decided I would not be sleeping in the old west.*
I was largely useless for the remainder of the morning. It was still several hours before a campfire was needed leaving me, like in “Ridin’ the Storm Out,” thinking about what I was missing in the city. Still concerned about the unresolved sleeping situation, I scouted outdoor locations for a place to unfurl my sleeping bag.
At noon, the day was called to order as the scouts and parents gathered around the flagpole and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Announcements were also made but the lull of the outdoors and proximity of friends was too much to bear and attention spans were cut short. It was noted that snakes had been spotted around the grounds and caution was warranted. With that, my idea of sleeping under the stars was effectively squelched.
The afternoon agenda was filled with various activities including crafts, capture the flag, hiking, and fishing. The weather remained brilliant throughout the day, and the girls seemed to be having fun. As the scouts and their moms were self-sufficient, I became conscious of my own superfluousness. I watched football on my phone and hovered near my wife in the event I was needed for anything.
I was asked to help guide the fishing trip. The idea of me in any form of leadership role in a fishing excursion is laughable. I can count the number of times I’ve been fishing on one hand and the times I’ve caught something even less. I could, however, keep hooks away from eyes and help with casting. My daughter proved to be the expert at baiting hooks, nonchalantly handling worms and attaching them to the end of the other girls’ lines. Again, with little to offer, the activity ended with me holding a line in shallow murky water. I caught nothing.
As a safety precaution, each scout was required to wear a whistle around her neck in case of trouble. There was no sign of bears or human predators, but that afternoon, I responded to blown whistles for a malfunctioning rod and reel, an untied shoelace, and to address whether or not we’d be making s’mores after dinner.
The ducking of the sun beneath the horizon ushered in a crisp chill. Moms went into the kitchen to begin dinner while the scouts set up chairs around the proposed campfire site. Soon it would be time for me to earn my keep by starting the fire.
However, one of the moms had beaten me to the scene, and was constructing a textbook campfire with kindling collected by scouts. She used no accelerant; just wood, a match and lots of blowing and stoking. I sat in a chair and watched helplessly. The case had been closed. I had no business camping with my daughter’s scout troop.
Another of the dads decided the sleeping accommodations were not acceptable and decided to go home. I was offered a ride, which my wife by that time encouraged, but I refused. I’d already put in seven hours, and I was determined to finish regardless of how useless and bored I’d been. At this point I’d just eat dinner, watch a football game, and go to bed had I been home. I’d be able to do the same things outside with the girls and earn my completion ribbon.
By the time darkness dominated the sky, our fire was roaring, and the girls sang songs, told stories, and made s’mores. I split my attention between the scouts and the football game on my phone. On a trip into the lodge to grab a drink, I spotted an empty bottle of cabernet on the counter. Clearly somebody was ignoring the no-booze clause and it wasn’t anybody from our troop. The question was whether the placement was accidental or a Machiavellian attempt at inter-troop sabotage.
On my way back to the campfire, I took a detour to where the yoga couple’s troop was gathered. The adults were loud, bordering on obnoxious, and their fire stretched easily ten feet into the night sky. Outside the perimeter of camping chairs were bottles of lighter fluid. In the orange fire light I saw stemless wine glasses raised. My initial instincts had been correct. The people were bougie assholes.
Though I’d contributed next to nothing to the day’s effort, I was at least an affable dad. As I kept an eye on the football game, I chatted with moms and scouts and enjoyed seeing my daughter having a good time and acquiring skills I still hadn’t mastered. Still as the evening grew longer, the prospect of where I was going to sleep weighed more heavily on my mind.
What I did not realize is that my wife’s empathy expired when I refused the last tender of the mountain. From that point I was operating in an environment of you-had-your-chance indifference.
The fire began to wane and the scouts filed into the lodge to get ready for bed. A sudden quiet washed across the grounds as most everyone had retreated inside for the night--the lone exceptions being a few of the bougie assholes and myself.
After some thought, I decided that I’d sleep in the car. We’d driven the SUV to accommodate our equipment, and with the seats folded down I thought my sleeping back would fit, if snugly.
I told my wife of my intentions and was met with an “are you sure?” that sounded more like “suit yourself.” Since I was going out to the car, I was given a number of things to stow that the girls didn’t need. Aided by only the light from my phone, I fumbled toward the parking lot. At capacity, I was carrying my two backpacks, two pillows, a sleeping bag, and for some reason, a yoga mat. To my left, I heard the voices of a few people lingering around the illegal campfire.
Once in the parking field, the silence and darkness were disorienting. Weighed down like a beast of burden, I felt my way to the car, led by the outmatched beam of my phone. I quickly set up my camp, folding the backseats down and pushing the front seats forward for maximum space. I unfurled my sleeping bag and climbed in the back of the car where I watched the end of the football game in chilly, black solitude.
Problems emerged when I tried to sleep. Comfortably extended, I am roughly five feet, eleven inches tall. The space I was able to create in the back of the SUV was approximately five feet, eight inches. This doesn’t sound like a huge difference but it prevented me from lying comfortably.
Anticipating possible difficulties, I’d put a couple of NyQuil gel caps in my backpack, as I am nothing if not resourceful and thorough.** I swallowed them and played music on my phone and tried again to sleep.
Not long after I fell asleep, I was awakened by a poking in my lower back. It was the seat belt buckle protruding from the folded down backseat. Given the lack of wiggle room, there was no way I could completely avoid it, I could only position myself to make it less uncomfortable. With this disturbance, came a full bladder.
One of the rules that had been emphasized earlier that morning was that one could piss only in designated areas. This was clearly aimed at the dads and clearly it had merit, but with the nearest authorized facilities a quarter-mile away, this figured to be a challenge. At this point in my life, my nights of not waking to nature’s call are long gone, and this was a little more involved than a simple trip down the hall. As much as I despise most rules, I do my best to respect them. However, there was no way I could accommodate this one.
Getting out the door proved to be complicated. I first had to extricate myself from my sleeping bag, then turn so that I could exit the car feet first. By this time, a thick dew had settled on the ground. My first step found wet grass and sharp gravel.
By that time, the medicine had at least made me groggy, and while my sleep was restless and uncomfortable, I managed to make it to the morning. I woke to the sound of a car door closing nearby. The interior of the vehicle was filled with an early morning fog and visibility inside was roughly two feet. The windows were covered in condensation, and the morning air was cold. I remained tucked in my sleeping bag, sore and insufficiently rested, looking at my phone as activity picked up outside.
After breakfast I finally made myself useful. When it was time to pack the car and clean the lodge, I was in my element--sweeping, wiping down surfaces, and taking out trash. It was far too little and way too late, but at least I’d made a contribution.
That afternoon, we were back in the city running errands. My wife, who slept in a bed in the lodge, was in a chipper mood after our excursion and seemed amused by something.
“What is so funny?” I finally demanded.
“It’s just odd,” she said with a wide grin. “In the fifteen years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you as completely inept as you were yesterday.”
“Oh well,” I shrugged. “You knew my dad. I’ve got no pedigree for the outdoors.”
I squirmed in my seat, still trying to work out the kinks in my back from the previous night. My back is dicey on a good day, and spending several hours compacted and on top of a seatbelt latch had done me no favors.
“Oh, said my wife,” finding a moment of solemnity. “Evidently sleeping in the car is a major violation of camp rules.”
So please don’t mention that part to anyone.
*After my wife and I were married, our first apartment was situated on a riverbank where small scorpions were common in the sand. One night while sleeping, I felt a sting under my arm and pulled a scorpion from my body. I called it “a sorry fucker” and threw it across the room. Not willing to give up, it crawled into a pair of my jeans and tried again the following day.
**Or am generally game for drug consumption of any kind.
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