So I and the family are back from our annual four-day camping trip, which means a week spent drying out tarps and tents, washing the sand and the smoke out of our clothes and hair, and cleaning the mismatched cutlery and plastic plates on which we ate our Coleman-cooked meals.
We’re not soft, RV campers. We head into the woods – okay, Sandbanks Provincial Park on the shore of Lake Ontario – with nothing more than an eight-man pop-up tent, air mattress, sleeping bags, pillows, folding chairs, cooler, radio, propane lantern, fresh water, beach toys, toiletries, board games and whatever else can be crammed into the back of the SUV and its rooftop Thule box.
This year, as last, we spent part of one middle-of-the-night huddled safely in the car as a Morse code of sheet lightning flickered overhead. We lived a life where “going to the bathroom” means actually taking a five-minute walk to get there. And we arose each morning to a cloud of mosquitoes outside the tent, excited by our carbon dioxide exhalations, and congregating like crowds of tiny flying vampire groupies.
Then there was the poison ivy. Through years of camping I’d never been afflicted by the three-leafed devil, and had become something of a Toxicodendron Radicans denier, tramping through underbrush with abandon and immunity. No doubt ticks, which I’ve also convinced myself are a hoax, will one day make themselves similarly known. For now, though, I’m taking daily oatmeal baths, which ease the ankle-to-mid-calf welts somewhat, and leave the tub looking like a miniature sandbank as the draining waters deposit an oaty effluent.
Granted, there are many wonderful moments to be had while camping. Sandbanks in particular offers beautiful sandy beaches and, thanks to the influx of Quebec visitors, a chance to practice one’s French. (“La plage est la-bas. Attention au sumac vénéneux!”) Nothing beats a relaxing, crackling fire, especially after a day of preparing and tidying up three meals without running water or electricity. And as dusk falls, out come the constellations and the fireflies, stars in heaven and on earth. No wonder the ancients believed in faeries.
But late summer is when I start to doubt. Is my annual pilgrimage into nature merely a nostalgic opiate, reviving memories of family trips when I was a child? Am I lying to myself that it’s worth the discomfort?
Then I remember waking up in pitch darkness one lightning-free night, and hearing the rustle and whoosh of air through tree leaves before nodding off again. It sounded like the breath of Earth itself, and how often do you stop to listen to that in the air-conditioned city? Clearly, I need to ponder this question further. Maybe on next year’s trip.
