Out on the shelves of our garage, along with the rest of the ephemera is a considerable quantity of camping gear of all description. Camping? I mean, wha-a-at?? Wendy and I have been a couple for (I think) 16 years and never once have we gone camping, or had the impulse to do so.
Camping to me is punctuated by a desperate need to pee at 3 am with the sure knowledge that one will have to venture out into a darkness that may be populated by bears and cougars and wolverines all for the sake of not peeing accidentally in one’s sleeping bag.
And sleeping bags. What a less-than-savory site to grab your 40 and it is probably situated atop a rickety camp cot or worse yet, an air-mattress. No camping charm happening so far.
So, that is why we have selected lovely outer-deck suites on cruise ships, or beachfront condos in Hawaii for vacations in recent years – but never camping. If God had meant one to camp he wouldn’t have created shipboard suites or condos on Kauai.
So in the garage we have two – count ’em, two – tents. We have sleeping bags and cots and backpacks and stoves and all of the other stuff that will enable a modern person to live like it’s still 1857. Pooping in a two-holer always filled me with enchantment. Or reading in a tent with gas lantern going – a lantern that is methodically sucking up all the oxygen in the tent. Or making love in a sleeping bag? Sort of takes a little fun out of the process no matter how urgent.
So, we have all this stuff. The products of the lives of two people who were married a priori and bought their former shit with them, living under the delusion it would be ever so much going camping together at some point in a magical future. But it has never happened. The stuff was relegated to the garage and there it has sat for years and years.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate all aspects of camping, and the most enjoyable part is rising at sunup, smelling the foresty air, listening to the rippling of a brook (you know, the one you could hear when your bladder was bursting the previous night) and then firing up that Coleman campstove of the old green sort that had to be pumped up to get the right pressure in that white gas tank.
When the stove is lit the coffee is set to perk and soon its fragrance will be permeating the vicinity, only to be trumped by the perfume of the morning bacon when it begins to sizzle. Meanwhile, the campfire is also reignited from the night before and all is primal heaven.
So, if I miss anything about camping it’s that morning stuff.
Meanwhile, anybody want any camping gear in moderately decent condition?