Photo Illustration: Ryan Duggan
Photo Illustration: Ryan Duggan
“KAMPING WITH KIDS.” I’m wary of the spelling on a placard inside the sporting goods store. Still, I postpone my search for sandals to eavesdrop on a circle of parents and children who listen, enthralled, as a bubbly employee lectures on car camping.
“Begin your experience at a campground resort,” she suggests. “They offer swimming pools and miniature golf, so you don’t have to entertain children in the woods.”
The woods? Camping resorts are long on asphalt and short on trees. My mother forbade her children to patronize them. Instead, we headed for Lake Casitas — a scattering of campsites bordering a reservoir in which we weren’t allowed to swim because it provided drinking water for California’s Ojai Valley.
At 6, I could repeat my mother’s disparaging litany — “You’re allowed to put your filthy boat in the lake, but not your body.”
When nap-time was impossible in a tent that threatened to bake us alive, mom filled canteens from a spigot. “Here,” she would say as she’d hand us aluminum cooking pots. “Play with this water.”
In the store, I study the baby-Birkenstock crowd as they coo over water guns and inflatable pools. I suspect they’d be just as happy pouring water between pots.
“Safety is critical,” the employee chirps. “Beware of wild animals.”
I’m momentarily distracted by a memory involving me at 11, feeding crackers to raccoons from my teeth.
“Keep sharp camping tools away from kids.”
I smother a giggle. As a child, it was my job to chop firewood. My prized possession was a hand-held ax, its rusting head affixed to a broken handle with duct tape. Whenever I would appproach the campground hosts for a bundle of oak, I would avoid their RV, which mom assured me was pure evil.
My sister’s job was to light the Coleman stove, since our mother was inexplicably afraid of propane. But the stove appeared much later. When we first began camping, mom consulted her holy book — Roughing it Easy. We fried eggs on sun-heated stones and roasted bread dough on sticks, mindful of the urban myth about Scouts who died after toasting marshmallows on oleander skewers. Now, I look at $200 camping stoves — complete with grill, oven, and wok — and cringe.
Although the display of “kamping commerce” in the store offends me, I remain transfixed as an employee exclaims: “We offer a five-room tent! And a queen-sized air bed with frame. It comes with a wheeled carrying case!”
Parents beam. The employee has banished remaining doubt. Yes, they can embark on a wilderness adventure with their young’uns, and get a good night’s sleep. Disgusted, I stalk out.
I’m still raging the first night of a trip in northeastern Oregon, as my husband and I set up camp in a near-empty Forest Service campground.
“No pillow?” Jonathan asks.
“No pillow.”
I describe the delicious agony of waking up to squawking crows, our bodies contorted from avoiding rocks in our sleep. My mom said air mattresses were wimpy. We only got a sleeping bag. We’d crawl out of the tent to find mom encased in her mummy bag on the picnic table, snoring beside the requisite flask of apricot brandy and a deck of cards.
The “Kamping for Kids” lecturer never mentioned poker. “We’d play until 3 a.m.,” I tell Jonathan as we build a fire.
He points to the only other adult in the campground — a woman surrounded by an enormous tent and three children riding bikes and Big Wheels. “Alone with three kids,” he observes. “That’s brave.”
I snort. “Mom wouldn’t let us bring our bikes. We played with acorns and studied animal tracks.”
Jonathan raises his eyebrow. I’m suddenly aware of how superior I sound — how grungier-than-thou. I close my mouth, but in my head, the argument continues. Parents protect children from nature so the poor things never even stub a toe on a rock. They’d be horrified by my tales of raccoons, rusty axes, and brandy flasks. But in spite of my mother’s seemingly laissez-faire attitude, she was watchful as the proverbial hawk.
I was 13 the day I sprained my ankle. I’d earned the privilege of exploring the creek below the campground alone, so I left my mother with her guidebook, while my younger siblings played with their pots of water. I was leaping from boulder to boulder when a rock shifted and my ankle turned.
I limped back to our campsite, where my mother held out an ice-pack. “Prop your foot up, honey. I’ll teach you to play blackjack.”
I’m remembering this while watching the girls on their bicycles. The oldest one brakes, and the others skid to a stop. Through my binoculars, I spot a snake slipping across the road. The girls lean down to inspect it. I watch them clearing sticks from its path until Jonathan calls me.
“Your latte’s ready.”
We couldn’t resist the lightweight contraption that brews espresso over the fire, despite my worries over what my mother would say. Topped by soy milk, the lattes are a comforting reminder of home. I sip my coffee and watch the girls acquaint themselves with their snake.
Somewhere, hard-core backpackers may be shaking their heads over my own excess of equipment. To them, I point out that the weight of my espresso-maker equals a roll of toilet paper, which I boldly left at home.
Melissa Hart is the author of The Assault of Laughter (Windstorm, 2005). Visit her website