Last week, I went camping with the family along the shores of Lake Don Pedro in Northern California. It sounded like a great idea while we were planning it: enjoy the scenery, eat some junk food, hang out on the shoreline with our feet in the water and watch the water skiers and fishing boats go by. Unfortunately, the reality of the trip was something quite a bit different.
When we arrived at our campsite, it was early afternoon and it was already a hundred degrees outside. I stepped out of the truck and I noticed a small bird sitting in a tree branch nearby. It opened its beak as if to warn me about something, but then burst into flame. I should have taken the hint and just climbed back into my vehicle and driven home. But we had only just arrived, and I am by nature far too stubborn to admit a mistake.
And it was a mistake.
By the time I had unhooked the trailer and set up our camp, I was dripping with sweat, panting to catch my breath, and about three seconds away from heatstroke. For the first few hours that we were there, all I was capable of doing was lying down on the trailer’s linoleum floor and trying to die. However, despite my best efforts to end my misery by melting into a primordial puddle of ooze, I reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going to survive. When it became clear that the cool release of death was not in my immediate future, I decided I should get up and fix some dinner.
Not wanting to use the small stove in the trailer (because the last thing I wanted to do in an already miserably hot trailer is light a fire) I stepped outside and set up the tiny portable grill I had purchased a few days before our trip. I attached to the grill one of the two propane cylinders I had packed, then pressed the ignition button.
Nothing.
After a little bit of fiddling with various knobs and dials, I realized that the propane canister was completely empty. I unscrewed the cannister from the grill and grabbed the second propane tank. I attached it, turned on the grill and….
Nothing.
It too was completely empty.
Here is a little tip to all the people out there that like to camp. If you have been storing cylinders of propane in your garage for three years without checking them, you probably shouldn’t get your hopes too high about still having any propane in them. Over long periods of time, they leak. Who knew?
With no way to cook our meal that evening, and not relishing the idea of eating raw hamburger, I suggested a short field trip. Not too far from our campsite was one of the lakeside marinas. The faded copy of the campground map I had received when we arrived advised that the marina had a small store and café that provided ice, propane, and food. These items seemed the perfect solution to our current dilemma.
The map showed that the marina was only a five-minute walk from where we were currently situated, so, of course, we all piled into the truck. If God had meant for me to walk in ridiculously hot weather, he would not have put air conditioning in automobiles.
At the marina, we found the general store and café and tried to go inside. Tried. We did not succeed. It was only six o’clock in the evening, but there was already a large red and white sign on the side of the building announcing that the store was closed.
Strike three.
There was nothing left for us to do but to go back to our trailer and break into our emergency supplies; and by emergency supplies I mean several bottles of wine. In all honesty, I do not recall much more of that first day, and I am thinking that is probably for the best.
My next conscious memory of the trip was staggering down to the campground bathrooms the next morning. The bathrooms had running water toilets (which was surprising) and they were absolutely filthy (which was not). As I stood in the bathroom looking around, something banged on the tin ceiling overhead and then skittered along the roof before falling to the ground somewhere outside the building. I like to think it was a pine cone falling out of one of the trees growing nearby, but I couldn’t help feeling like I had just walked into a scene from every horror movie I had ever watched in the 1980’s. All that was missing was some dude wearing a hockey mask and carrying a machete.
What I recall most vividly about that bathroom, however, was a cloud of the most aggressive flies I have ever had the misfortune of running into. They were everywhere, and it was clear that they considered me to be the intruder in this scenario. Fortunately, they seemed to have more pressing concerns than me at that moment.
The flies and the spiders in the building seemed to be engaged in some kind of active dispute, like miniature gang members involved in a violent turf war. I watched three flies rush at a spider who had made the mistake of hanging out alone in his web. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw the glint of a tiny knife. They all suddenly scattered and the spider fell limp onto the floor clutching its chest. I thought about calling the police, but the flies were still somewhere in the area and I figured the smartest thing I could do was just get the hell out of there.
Snitches get stitches.
I retreated to the shelter of my trailer, grateful to have survived such a harrowing ordeal.
Still with no way to cook meals, temperatures climbing back into the hundreds, and the wine supply growing desperately low, I decided that, as the man in charge, I needed to find a way to provide for my family. I mentally reviewed all the survival training I had ever undergone and then made the tough decision. If we were going to make it through the week, there was only one way it was going to happen.
After a leisurely lunch in the nearby town of Sonora, we did some shopping at Walmart then caught a movie. Theatres have amazing air conditioning and Walmart has ice and quite an extensive assortment of junk food.
Dad: 1
Wilderness: 0
Apparently, some of the best camping trips involve very little actual camping.