I didn’t camp much as a child. My only real memory of camping was a weekend with Uncle Ed and Auntie Rita at a Yogi Bear’s Jellystone campground where my dad accidentally pitched our tent on top of a spider’s nest. In his defense, we arrived in the dark and had just narrowly escaped a group of angry pre-teens who didn’t appreciate our station wagon headlights shining on their outdoor Yogi movie.
I camped in a tent once or twice with my husband and spent one entire evening shaking through a severe lightening storm waiting for a tree to crush my skull. While admittedly not a huge fan of the tent camping, I love all that goes along with the full camping experience…hiking, biking, kayaking, bonfires, s’mores, Toby Keith, and Tanqueray. I wanted it all, and so began our camping evolution.
The tent retired into the basement and we bought a pop-up camper. Had some good times in that old Dutchman and even camped into Month 8 of my first pregnancy. God bless the Luggable Loo. A couple years went by and we splurged on a used hard-sided camper, which we still own today. We’ve blown all four tires, almost lost a side wall on the Interstate, smashed a window and cracked a water pipe. Time for an upgrade?
While a friend might (and does) argue that dining in supper clubs and having a private bathroom is not camping, it suits me just fine. That said, this past weekend when we took our not-so-trusty old camper to northern Wisconsin with the kiddos, I realized that maybe, just maybe, we have evolved a little too far.
What do you think? Too much?!
