Camping Adventures

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!”

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. 

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.