I always prided myself on being a good and conscientious
father; I got up early and went to work and came home late and didn’t yell at
anyone because I was too tired. I took
turns with cranky babies at night and did my share of laundry and dishes.
But there was one area where I was admittedly deficient. I didn’t take my boys camping. I’d never been camping as a boy myself; my
old man considered the weekend well-spent in round-the-clock pinochle games
down at the Pine Tavern. I didn’t belong
to a Scout troop. So I never had any
camping experience as a kid. I tried to
shrug it off to my wife Amy, saying “Oh, the kids will have just as much fun
playing Monopoly with me instead of going out into the woods and being eaten
alive by grizzlies.” She never
reproached me, just gave me “The Look.”
All you husbands are familiar with “The Look” – it is a combination of
pity, contempt, frustration, and just a pinch of grudging affection. Amy took to leaving camping gear magazines
around for me to accidentally find, and maps and brochures of the State Parks
in our vicinity suddenly appeared in the bathroom.
So I finally decided to take the two boys, Adam and Stephen,
on a campout. I chose the first weekend
in October, up in Minnesota. How cold
could it get?
I begged, borrowed and practically stole all the camping gear
from our neighbors and friends, and the boys and I set out early Friday
afternoon to spend 2 glorious days at Wicked Waters State Park.
As I drove us into the Park I congratulated myself on my
timing; there was not a single other soul at the camp site. We had the place to ourselves. Indeed, the man who took our reservation
looked as surprised at our appearance as if we were a troop of Martians.
I had the boys set up the tent, which they did in a
surprisingly quick and quarrel-free manner, while I got the portable charcoal
grill going for our first meal in the great outdoors – grilled wieners and a
can of beans set right on the grill. I
neglected to make sure the grill was level, so the wienies all rolled off into
the dirt and the can of beans also managed to eventually slide off into the
dust. We had cold baloney sandwiches for
dinner, and then, the night coming on unexpectedly fast, I didn’t have time to
get a roaring campfire going for our s’mores.
Instead we made an early evening of it.
In the morning, I promised, we’d revel in fried eggs and bacon straight
from the cast iron skillet, and then go fishing and hiking and probably manage
to catch a glimpse of Sasquatch. As we
snuggled into our bulky sleeping bags I felt a glow of satisfaction at having
at last taken my boys out into the wilderness – where we would undoubtedly bond
like Super Glue.
And then the temperature plummeted. In the middle of the night I found two frozen
little boys begging to get inside my sleeping bag with me. I welcomed their company, as I was beginning
to feel like a Popsicle myself. I don’t
know where those sleeping bags were made, but they were not insulated, and, in
fact, seemed to suck the body heat right out of us. I remembered reading the tag on one of ‘em;
it said “Made in Lower Slobovia.”
At dawn, with a heavy frost on the ground and our breath
coming out like puffs from a steam engine, Adam, Stephen, and I creakily got
out of our sleeping bags, broke the icicles off our noses, and agreed that
breakfast could wait until we packed everything up and drove out of the Park
and up the road to the McDonalds we had passed on the way in.
That was my one and only camping expedition with my
boys. Thereafter, when I would suggest
we take a little time off from civilization for another try at camping out,
they developed facial tics and began to stutter.
Monopoly’s a great game, y’know that?
(You can avoid an uncomfortable night’s rest when
you go camping by buying your sleeping bags from a reputable source like
hikingware.com. They feature quality
brands such as Texsport and Snugpak.)Visit us at www.hikingware.com
Email: sales@hikingware.com
Telephone: (703) 496-5500
www.facebook.com/pages/Hikingware/183290271848107
https://twitter.com/Hikingware
written by Tim Torkildson
