Deep Thoughts about Camping

Ah, camping! It just isn't what it used to be.

We just returned from a weekend of roughing it... cooking on a gas stovetop, sleeping in a foam-topped bed, relaxing in a climate-controlled 29-foot camper with a grand slide-out. Our twenty-something selves would shake our heads in disgust.

In our early days, Ryan and I would have proud conversations about roughing it. We packed the necessary supplies into our boat and headed out to the mini-camps along Dworshak Reservoir. We shook our heads in disgust as we passed the motor homes and campers in the Freeman Creek Campground. That wasn't camping, that was pretending. Why not just stay home?

Ah, but we've become wise. The variable we never considered in our youth: kids. It's one thing to take care of yours-truly in a camping situation, but another situation entirely when you add multiple small, needy people to the mix. Multiply the work load of camping by 100 and add whining, and without modern conveniences, you have a recipe for disaster.

Such deep wisdom brings to me a new respect for my parents. We went camping--and I mean really camping--a lot . . . mom says we went every weekend in the summer. They must have been crazy.

We had a tent that defines the word "tent" for me. So unlike these new-fangled get-ups with "rooms" and "porches," ours was shaped like tents in children's drawings: a triangle with guy lines running off of each of the four corners. It was an ugly yellow color that must have been a little gray with age. And while it was sturdy, it had breakdowns. Nowadays, if you broke a pole or got a hole in your tent, you would run out and buy a new one ($30 at Big 5!), but not back then. I remember broken poles, torn seams, broken zippers... I remember the dread when one of those disasters happened: I just knew my dad was going to make us pack up everything and head for home. He never did. We somehow managed to cobble it together well enough for use on that trip.

And, of course, sleeping in a tent meant middle-of-the night calls from nature. I was too young to venture out alone (and my Dad told me a bear's favorite dish was a little girl in the middle of the night), so I always woke my Mom to take me out. We stumbled over my brother and Dad into the vast darkness and wilderness. And my Mom never complained or groaned or rolled over and ignored me. Thanks, Mom.

We even had a boat for venturing out on the lake, combing the beaches, waterskiing and soaking up sun. It was not much of a boat, but how much of a boat do you really need when you are happy?

It seemed normal to live with less back then, and I like to think I'm better for it. But does that mean we should give our kids less to make them better people? Should we suffer through the painful weekends with miserable whining kids, just to teach them a lesson? It's tempting to say yes...but I would also like to keep the harmony in my family. So for now, I'm sticking with the modern conveniences. Maybe Mom and Dad were stronger than me--or maybe each generation needs to grow differently.