Camping Adventures
By,
Jennifer E. Miller
(Alternate names used for privacy but to maintain story simplicity.)
It’s that time
of year for our family’s annual camping trip. I’m not sure why we like to spend
half a day packing up a carload of stuff, drive for an hour, and pay a nominal
fee to sleep uncomfortably inside a meager soft-sided structure which holds no
protection for things like bears or psychotic murderers. Maybe it’s the endless
cricket chatter as we drift off to sleep. Or the eerie dead silence at three am
when we are awoken because of nature’s calling. It could dalso be the s’mores
and hotdogs. At any rate, this year we changed things a bit. We left the boat
at home, in favor of our bikes to ride on the paved trail. That’s when the
trouble started.
Our bike rack
only holds two bikes so we borrowed a larger bike rack from the neighbor. Everything
was going smoothly until it came time to secure the bike rack to the hitch. Tom
decided he didn’t need the pin that was made for the bike rack and left it with
the neighbor. One of his own must be better than the OEM. As you can guess, it
didn’t work.
We couldn’t
reach the neighbor to retrieve the part, which left no choice but to figure out
another option. Since our rack only held two bikes, we secured Gia’s bike to
the luggage rack on top of our SUV. Placing the bike on its side brought forth a
new issue: it could possibly scratch the roof of the vehicle.
“Does it really
matter?” I asked. “The car is twelve years old.”
“I don’t want a
big scratch up there.”
“It’d be on the
roof. No one will see it.”
“It could rust
a hole in up there.”
“A sunroof
would be nice,” I pointed out, trying to keep some optimism. We were already an
hour passed our preferred departure time.
“It will rust
quicker than you think,” Tom grumps.
“You said you
wanted a new truck in the next couple of years anyway.”
No response.
“I’ll just place
a towel under the bike.”
“Are we ready yet?” complained Gia. She had been
waiting on the front steps, eager to leave home and, no doubt, eat her share of
s’mores.
“Almost,” I
said.
To speed up our
departure, I assisted strapping down the bike. I grabbed a bungee cord and tightly
wrapped one end around the bike and the other end to the luggage rack. Now all
I had to do was hook the ends together and voila!
We would finally be on our way.
Anyone who is
familiar with the temperament of bungee cords, knows that you never pick quite
the right length for the job on the first try. I wound it a little too tightly
and the two ends were just short of reaching each other. But they’re so close.
I decided to stretch just a little further...whack! One end slipped out of my hand and slammed into my knuckle.
Our departure was delayed another fifteen minutes so I could ice my bruised
finger.
“I really want
to go camping now!” complained Gia.
Off we went.
About an hour
later, we steered into the visitor’s center. I informed the gal behind the
front desk we needed a campsite.
“Go pick one
out. Just check the tags on the site’s post to make sure it’s not already reserved
for tonight.”
I paid, and we
zigzagged up the hillside’s dirt road.
Rolling into the
campground’s road loop, we picked a campsite. A middle-aged couple was in set
up in site next to us and they waved a friendly hello as we walked by with
armfuls of camping gear.
Gia was a
self-proclaimed expert at setting up tents. At Girl Scout camp, they were
required to erect the tents themselves. I think she forgot the whole “many
hands make like work” motto and quickly found setting up a large tent solo was
complicated. We helped her finish, then grabbed a snack.
After a healthy
dose of Pringles chips, Gia declared she was ready for a bike ride. Jumping on
our bikes, we headed for the trail. We pedaled up and over the steep bridge an
onto the other side of the lake where we stopped for a break. Good thing cause I
noticed my injured finger ached from gripping the handlebar.
We happened to park
ourselves in just the right spot because hopping from one tree to the next was
a
pileated woodpecker. If you’re not familiar, that’s the Woody the Woodpecker
woodpecker. It is surprisingly large; I’d say slighter bigger than a crow. And
it cackled like jungle bird. I can just imagine this thing hollowing out a
tree, power pole, or the side of log cabin, and every so often pausing to throw
back its little red mohawk to erupt into a cackle like the wicked witch of the
west. “I’m going to peck irreversible damage into this thing. Ah hahahahahaha!”
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| I only had my phone camera. The woodpecker is on the trunk. Can you see him? I didn't think so. |
 |
| She's not a team player. |
Our late
afternoon-into-early-evening bike ride worked up appetites. We returned to our
campsite for a dinner of hot dogs. Blast this extreme heat and dry conditions resulting
in a burn ban. No real campfire for us this year, but we lit up our propane
stove.
If I had known
the smell of propane attracted troops of yellow jackets, I may have opted for takeout
pizza. After turning on the fuel, and lighting the burner with a muffled whoomp!, the next sound was buzzzzzzz! First it was just a few of the
little suckers hovering over the stove or in front of our faces. They do a
little bee dance, reposition themselves, and in their special little insect
language call all their friends over. Much of the time cooking was spent
swatting at the yellow jackets with the skewers, which sent hot dog juice
dripping onto the propane burner with ferocious pops. This had no effect on our
unwelcomed guests and they continued arriving in hungry swarms. Thankfully,
none of us are allergic, but we ate our dinner in the tent to escape the flying
devils.
I know, I know,
I know. Food in the tent is a Camping 101 failure. But I would have preferred a
bear’s visit over those trauma-inducing bugs! They perched on the screen of the
tent with angry eyes. They revved their wings faster and faster while the
buzzing became louder. They were ready for an opening when they’d hit the gas
pedal and zoom in. Too bad for them.
After they watched
us consume our dinner, they got distracted by another family of campers
preparing to dine and buzzed off. I realized my finger was throbbing again
under the anxiety.
“Good. They’re gone.
Let’s eat s’mores now,” Gia proclaimed.
“I like what
she said,” Tom said.
I nodded in
agreement.
After listening
for the shrieks and cries of the unfortunate campers under the current yellow
jacket attack, we determined it was safe to fire up the propane stove again. We
looked forward to relaxing with a sweet treat.
Tom gathered
the items for the s’mores and asked how many I wanted.
“Two is good.
But I want my s’mores without the graham crackers or chocolate, please.”
Gia was
stumped. “You mean you want a roasted
marshmallow?”
“No. I’m going
to eat s’mores with you guys. I just happen to prefer mine without the graham
crackers or chocolate.”
After an
eyeroll, Gia said, “Whatever. That’s just a roasted marshmallow.”
Not wishing to
start an argument with an eight year old who clearly knows more than her
mother, I let it slide.
Roasting s’mores
marshmallows over a propane flame is not the same as roasting them over a real
fire. The propane gives food a weird taste. But there was a far more unpleasant
reason this marshmallow roasting session was different.
As we stood
over the stove, with white puffy things on the end of sticks, we heard an ear
splitting cccccrrrrrrrrrrr. Our
auditory senses perked up as we listened for the rest of the rrrraaaccckkkkkk! We turned our heads in
the direction of the sound in time to see a nearby tree plummet to the ground
with a thump! followed by a whoosh! as the draft rustled the dry
shrubbery.
Did you notice
I said “nearby?” The tree was only about a hundred feet from our campsite. What’s
that old saying? If a tree falls in the forest will anyone hear it. Yyyyyyyep!
Yep, they certainly will. Falling trees are loud, and they make sure everyone
knows it.
After we
scooped up our jaws off the ground, I shoved my marshmallow into Tom’s hand and
took off.
“Where are you
going?” he asked.
“To check out
the tree.”
“It’s not going
anywhere. Come back and cook your own marshmallow.”
“I know but I
want to see it. Finish cooking my s’more, please.”
As I walked
down the pathway I heard, “You mean your roasted marshmallow!”
Chuckling to
myself, I continued walking towards the tree. I came across the couple who was
camped next to us. The woman looked alarmed and relieved at the same time.
“There you are!
We were worried that tree smashed you in your tent. Judging from the lack of
screams, we figured it didn’t.”
I wasn’t sure
if I should be thankful the campers nearby were concerned, or worried that they
thought about us being squished to death.
“No, no. We’re
good,” I said.
They had
already located the tree in question and pointed it out. The man
mentioned it looked as though it rotted out and gave way. We all noticed a
couple other trees leaning a bit too much on their neighbors. Luckily, no
campsites were in their direct leaning path.
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| Small trees carry BIG sound! |
We parted ways as we walked into
our campsites.
Gia heard my approaching
footsteps on the dirt. “Mom’s back for her roasted marshmallow,” she bellowed.
While eating my
specialty s’more, I examined the trees directly around our tent. I noticed one
was a little bent.
The sun went
down and we turned in for the night. The crickets seemed louder and more
populous than usual. My finger throbbed. I couldn’t get the woodpecker’s cackle,
the yellow jackets’ battle buzz, or the ear-splitting crack of the tree out of
my head. Yeah. That was a great night’s rest.
