Unhappy Camper

There's one in every house. 

It seems Mrs. Cricket has developed a passion for camping.  So have the kids.  Alas, I have not. 

Came home one day to find a good chunk of change had been dropped on tents, sleeping bags,  air mattresses and the like.  Uh-oh.  Not only did this show a degree of seriousness, it pretty much guaranteed a fair number of trips were in the works, if only to justify the expense.

Now, surprisingly, it's not that I don't know how to camp.  I'm actually pretty good at some things:  first aid, getting fires going, outdoor cooking.  I'm quite competent living in primitive conditions.  I'm really good at making do.

I just don't volunteer for it. 

I used to like it.  Way back when, camping meant a week-long party in the woods, far from the authorities and prying eyes.  I liked it then.  But that was different.  Back then, you just brought the basics:  tent, blanket, bread, peanut butter, jelly, instant coffee.  Smokes, lighter, booze.

And enough drugs to stop a stampeding herd of rhinos.

Good times... good times.

Sleeping on the ground with just a blanket was easy then.  My back was young and flexible.  And, of course, most nights by bedtime, you probably could have removed my appendix with a butter knife without so much as a whimper.

Not that it was all fun.  I could tell the story of how I got stung on the eyeball by a big nasty mountain wasp.  But I won't.  That sucked though.  Really.

Which kind of brings me to my main point.  I think our long-ago ancestors invented things like houses and cities for a reason:  a damn good reason:  namely, that sleeping in the woods kind of sucks and wouldn't it be nicer if perhaps things could be a little more comfortable?

Sometimes you just have to think these things through.

I once went mountain climbing with a woodsy-type friend.  It took us a good four or five hours to reach the top.  We sat for a while, catching our breath and enjoying the view.  He looked over to me

      Nice, huh?

      Yep.  Now where can I get a decent cup of coffee?

Well, he thought it was funny.  Me, not so much.

No, the only reason I go for it at all is that the kids like me, for some reason, and want me to come.  And it is cute, how much they like camping.  Their smiles almost make it worth it.  Almost.

I'll try and fake it for them.

Mrs. Cricket is the eternal optimist, who hopes every trip that this time I will catch the bug.  Bug(s), more likely.   This is the sort of thing I think about in the morning, as I wander down a country path, in a haze of gnats, looking for a place to do you-know-what.  Wondering why I went to so much trouble to be uncomfortable, and missing the frills of modern living.

Like flush toilets.  Or a decent cup of coffee.

At least where we're going it's only bugs I'll have to worry about, not bears, like last time.  See?  This is the kind of thing I'm talking about.  It's a well-established fact that a bear shits in the woods.  Stands to reason that I should do my bidness elsewhere.

The way I see it, it's like anything else.  Some people like anchovies.  Other people like camping.  Mrs. Cricket does not like chocolate.  Fine.  That's perfectly reasonable.  She doesn't like chocolate.  I do not expect her to eat it.  It's just a matter of taste, not a character flaw.  To me, camping is something you do when you need to.  You don't just pack up and drive to another part of the state that looks just like where you already live to sleep on the ground for a few days.

I know I can't be the only one.

For me, in a perfect world, "roughing it" would mean going for the four-star hotel, or taking a room without a sweeping panoramic view of Paris, or getting just the filet, not the surf-and-turf.  See?  I can make do. 

But for now I'd settle for a flush toilet and a decent cup of coffee.



Respectfully Yours, 



Cricket