camping – Deep Dark Thoughts

Saturday Night Fever

My wife and I decided that we were going to use the recent three-day weekend as an opportunity to take a vacation and escape the kids for a bit. Since any real travel is still a questionable proposition, we went to our old standby: camping. After loading the truck with every manner of unhealthy snacks and junk food, we hooked up to the trailer and headed out to a nearby RV park to pass a few days by ourselves and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Or so we thought.

We arrived after dark on the first night. After unpacking, settling in, and eating a dinner of cold pizza and Doritos, we crawled into bed anticipating a leisurely morning the next day of lounging in bed and listening to the birds calling out to each other in the surrounding trees.

Instead of birds, we got disco music.

At about seven o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by the not-so-gentle refrains of “Play that Funky Music, White Boy,” by Wild Cherry. This was followed by “Rock the Boat,” “That’s the Way,” and an assortment of other overly loud classics that went on all morning.

After several unsuccessful attempts to go back to sleep, I finally got up and turned on the television set in our trailer in an attempt to drown out the cacophony pretending to be music outside.

I have been to several RV parks in my days, and I have experienced many varieties of inconsiderate, loud neighbors while camping, but this was one of the worst I have encountered. Disco? Really? The song selection told me that not only was this group rude and uncaring about the people around them, but that they also had terrible taste in music, and they were all old enough that they should have known better. More than old enough, actually.

I don’t believe it was twenty somethings blaring “Boogie Oogie Oogie,” throughout the campgrounds.

Anyway, the geriatric dance party finally shut down about three o’clock in the afternoon, but it was soon replaced by a gathering of ten or so people in a campsite three trailers away from our own. This group did not play loud music, but instead elected to annoy everyone around them by shouting at the top their voices in order to be heard over their compatriots who were also shouting at the top of their voices to be heard over the two small dogs yapping their fuzzy heads off. And all the barking and shouting was periodically drowned out by one woman who kept laughing at a decibel level capable of knocking an F-14 fighter jet out of the air.

I think anyone who goes camping has experienced that gathering of people who don’t understand that being outside does not mean nobody is close enough to hear you. I’m sure we have all been sitting around a campfire, anticipating a night of quietly roasting marshmallows, when suddenly we are listening to a group of voices blaring through the trees and discussing how funny it was when Bill got so drunk he lost one of his shoes in the outhouse.

If you frequently go camping but have never been annoyed by a group like this, it is very possible that you are actually a member of that very group. If so, please do us all a favor and take up a different hobby.

The drunken discussions, barking dogs, and seemingly impossibly pitched laughter continued long into the night. It was extremely difficult to sleep, especially since every time I started to drift off, the group would initiate a new F-bomb laden argument about whose turn it was to get more beer out of the truck.

It was not a pleasant evening for either me or my wife. Although, I will admit that things did get rather interesting at about 3:30 in the morning. By this time, most of the group had finally turned in, but a few diehard drinkers were still at it. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my trailer when I heard the death throws of a struggling relationship.

I think a marriage died that night.

While listening to a male voice rambling on about how difficult things were at work and at home for him at that moment, a trailer door creaked open and slammed shut. A woman’s voice then filled the air. She spoke in a whisper that most career stage actors work for years trying to perfect. It was the kind of voice that will carry for miles and startle crows out of a tree.

“What the f**k is wrong with you?” she asked, in a kind and deeply caring manner. “You’re embarrassing yourself out here. You need to get the f**k back inside and go the f**k to sleep right f**king now!”

This was followed by the trailer door slamming again and a silence that made me believe the ordeal had finally come to an end.

Almost, but not quite.

A few minutes later, a truck door slammed. The engine of said truck roared to life and revved up several times before the vehicle headlights lit up every window in my trailer. The sound of tires chirping on pavement filled the air, and the truck sped out of the RV park at speeds that I would argue were unsuitable for the current surroundings.

This time it really was over. Both the noise, and whatever had been left of that relationship.

Still wondering what the hell had just happened, I was finally able to close my eyes and drift off to a well-deserved rest.

Until seven o’clock, which was when the disco D.J. started his next shift.

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Weekend Getaway

A week ago, the entire extended family drove up to Ice House Reservoir to spend the Labor Day weekend camping. 16 people spread out over three campsites for five days of campfires, food, drink, and loud conversations; it’s a tradition we have been following for more than 20 years.

Before driving up to the campsite for the weekend, my wife was going to work for half of the day on Thursday. I would load up the truck and trailer with firewood and enough food and supplies to keep all 16 campers fed and alive for five days, then when my wife got home in the afternoon, we would drive up into the hills to meet up with the rest of the family.

That was the plan.

As we all know, plans are only perfect on paper right before real life gets in the way.

Thursday morning, my wife woke me up from a sound sleep to tell me we had a problem. Sitting up and trying to figure out why I wasn’t still unconscious, I heard her say,

“I don’t know what happened. The garage door isn’t working. I think it’s broken. I have to go to work now. Bye!”

Then I was alone in our bedroom wondering how I was going to explain to a group of upset campers that their supplies for the weekend were all trapped in my garage with my truck.

Why is it that I only get bad news first thing in the morning? If I’m awake before my alarm goes off, it’s always because something or someone is broken, about to explode, sick, or actively on fire. Why can’t, just once, I wake up to news like:

“Honey! Get up! We just won the lottery!”

Or maybe:

“Hey dad, get up! I just rented an apartment. I need you to help me move out of your house!”

But no. I’m never that lucky.

I woke up, threw on some clothes, and wandered out into the garage. I discovered that one of the four heavy-duty springs that lifts and lowers the door had broken apart. I tried disconnecting the garage door from the opening mechanism and raising it manually, but the door is a custom-built, barn-style metal door that weighs about two-hundred and fifty pounds. It didn’t budge.

The truck – and five days-worth of food and firewood – was not going anywhere soon.

I went back in the house and found one of the cats sitting in the hallway, staring at me with a look that clearly said, “I thought you were leaving. Why are you still here?”

To be fair, I believe that is the only expression the cat is capable of making.

I ignored the cat’s rude behavior and grabbed the phone while beginning a search online for garage door repair companies. The first company I called told me they were much too busy to help before Monday morning. That was too late. By Monday morning, there would be a large group of people up in the mountains eating dirt and tree bark while planning how long they would torture me before allowing me to die.

I tried another company. This one didn’t even pick up the phone when I called. I left a message for them to call me as soon as possible, (just FYI, I still have not heard back from them two weeks later) then moved on down the list to company number 3. This time, I finally had some luck. The owner of the company picked up and said that he could be over in about an hour and would be happy to replace the garage door springs.

True to his word, less than an hour later, a work truck pulled into my driveway and a very friendly gentleman by the name of Nick stepped out. Less than two hours later, I had a working garage door and our family camping trip was saved.

I thanked Nick profusely for coming out on such short notice, and he smiled and told me it was no problem. He was glad he could help. Then he handed me a bill for seven-hundred and fifty dollars.

Apparently, garage door springs are made of gold or some other precious metal. That, or they can only be forged in the volcanic depths of Mordor. I can’t think of any other reason that four springs would cost almost a thousand bucks.

I almost told him to take his springs back and rebreak the door, but I didn’t have time to argue about the price. I was still under a deadline and needed to get myself up to Ice House. So, instead of following my first impulse of curling up in the corner in the fetal position and pretending everything would go away if I ignored it long enough, I pulled out the checkbook and wrote a check for more money than I paid for my first car.

The check may or may not have bounced by now, but that is a problem for another day.

I finished loading the truck, hooked up to the trailer and, as soon as my wife arrived at home, we took off for the campgrounds. Although it was a rocky start, the trip itself actually went pretty smoothly. Everyone had a good time, and there was plenty to eat and (more importantly) drink.

We arrived back home on Monday, dirty and tired, but in good spirits after enjoying a pleasant weekend with the whole family. It was good to get away, but it was also nice to be home.

As I walked into the house, I found the cat in the hallway staring at me with a look on her face that clearly said, “I thought you were leaving. Why are you still here?”

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Forgotten, But Not Gone

It is disheartening when you suddenly discover that you hold very little value to your family. Not just that they take you for granted, but rather that they don’t seem to notice any difference if you are there or not.

Not too long ago, I decided to take a few days to go camping on my own. I told my wife and kids about my plans weeks in advance. The trip was not a secret by any means. But on the day I packed up my gear, hooked up the trailer and got ready to leave, I said goodbye to the kids and EM2 asked me, “Where are you going?”

I’m used to being ignored by my family, so this reaction was really no surprise to me. I told her, “Never mind. Go back to sleep.” Then I left.

It was a wonderfully peaceful trip. No internet. No television. No distractions. Just me, a book, and hundreds of square miles of trees and animals to stare at.

I returned home at the end of the week to find … everything exactly the same as when I left.

The cuckoo clock had stopped running since I am apparently the only person in the house that winds it, so it was literally as if time stood completely still in the house while I was gone.

The kids were sitting on the couch where they always are during the day. (If I hadn’t actually seen them occasionally get up to pull food out of the refrigerator, I would swear they were surgically attached to the couch cushions.) There were dishes in the sink, a used pan on the stove top, and a jar of peanut butter on the kitchen counter precisely where it had been when I left the house four days earlier. And outside, on the back lawn, a mostly deflated, unused swimming pool that I had begged them to get rid of while I was gone, sagged in the overgrown grass, waiting for me to eventually throw it away.

When I walked into the house, the kids did get up and acknowledge I was home. They didn’t ask me how my trip was, or even say, “hi,” however. They just grabbed a bag of food out of my hands to see what snacks I had brought back home, and immediately started rummaging through the contents like racoons lucky enough to find an open dumpster behind their favorite restaurant. The half-eaten bag of Doritos in my bag got a better welcome home reception than I did.

While I listened to EM1 and EM2 fighting over stale chocolate chip cookies, one of the cats wandered out of the back bedroom and rubbed against my leg, demanding to be petted. I felt marginally better. At least one of the animals was glad I was home. She let me scratch her behind the ear for about five seconds before she decided she had graced me with her presence long enough and decided to go back to the bedroom.

It was at that point that I decided to text my wife to let her know I had gotten home safely. I figured at least my loving spouse would show the appropriate amount of warmth and affection to the news that I was once more with the family. I received a text back that said:

“Working late tonight. Don’t wait for me to eat dinner.”

I could feel the love radiating from the phone.

That was it. That was my greeting after four days of being gone. Maybe I should have stayed away a little longer. Perhaps if I was gone a few more days they would have actually missed me. Or they might have simply forgotten about me altogether. I’m afraid that would probably be the more likely outcome.

After about two weeks:

EM1: “Where’s Dad?”

EM2: “Who?”

EM1: “You know, the guy that used to hang around here and bother us while we watched television?”

EM2: “Quiet. I want to hear this part.”

Despite the fact my family sucks and apparently doesn’t care if I’m in the house or not, I did discover my absence hadn’t been completely unnoticed. When I arrived home, I discovered that the hummingbird feeder in the backyard was completely empty. Several hungry and pissed off hummingbirds were hanging around the empty feeder like vagrants around a closed food kitchen.

I went outside and was immediately dive bombed by a handful of the tiny moochers. While I don’t actually speak hummingbird, I’m quite certain a few of them were making unkind remarks about me not knowing who my father was. Who knew cute little hummingbirds could be so cruel?

I refilled the feeder, despite the awful things the birds had said to me, then ran for my life as a cloud of the winged opportunists swarmed in from every direction. Now that there was food available again, I was just the guy that was between them and their lunch.

I went back in the house and found the kids had returned to the couch. Their attention was once more firmly fixed on whatever foreign-language soap opera they had found that morning, and any attempt on my part at conversation would be firmly met with rolled eyes and shushing noises. The only difference was now they were surrounded by the wrappers and detritus of the pillaged snacks they had stolen from me. I shook my head, realizing that it would probably be my job later to throw away the nest of garbage they had just built around themselves. I know they can’t be bothered to do it.

Even though I was now home, I was just as alone as if I was still surrounded by miles of empty forest.

With no one to talk to and nothing better to do, I went into my den, turned on the computer, and started looking for places to go on my next camping trip.

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Not a Cruise

This past week, my wife, both daughters, and I were supposed to be on a cruise ship travelling around Alaska. We booked the cruise over a year ago and were greatly looking forward to our first vacation together on a ship with the entire family. We have never previously done anything like this with just the four of us.

In April of this year, we received an e-mail from the company that owns the cruise ship informing us that due to the recent pandemic, all of their scheduled trips were canceled until further notice. Our vacation was off.

The company told us that our money would be held in reserve so we could schedule a new trip when the ships were all back in the water, which is only reassuring if you believe the cruise company isn’t going to go out of business in the meantime. We will just have to wait and see.

Since we already had the time off scheduled for the middle of the summer, even though we couldn’t go on a cruise ship, we still wanted to take some sort of vacation. My wife and I decided that we would take our camping trailer and go on a short trip to an RV park. It’s not a cruise, but at least it was something.

It was something all right.

Instead of being on the Pacific Ocean, floating past massive glaciers and watching marine life swimming around the ship, we drove to an RV park located 45 minutes from our house with spotty Wi-Fi, 100 degree temperatures, and garbage trucks driving through at 3 o’clock in the morning. Not quite the same experience.

We left the kids at home because I didn’t want to listen to their complaining. It would interrupt my own complaining. Besides, someone had to stay home and feed the overabundance of cats that have recently collected in my home. (The kids wanted to adopt two new kittens, so I figure they can stay home and take care of them).

We originally scheduled a trip to Alaska because I thought if we went far enough away, my wife would be forced to stop thinking about work and actually enjoy her vacation. I still think it’s a good plan. However, because we ended up less than an hour’s drive from home, my workaholic spouse spent more time on Zoom meetings and phone calls than she did talking to me.

Of course, maybe finding reasons not to talk to me is her idea of a great vacation. If so, I can tell you that she had a wonderful time.

The RV park we selected was connected to the Jackson Rancheria Indian Casino. We decided on the casino for a couple of reasons. Namely, cruise ships have gambling and lots of food available, and casinos have gambling and lots of food available. It would be almost as if we were onboard the ship after all.

Except most of the casino was shut down because of Coronavirus. Half the slot machines were turned off, and the few that were still working were filled with sad-looking little old ladies trying to smoke cigarettes through tiny holes cut into their cloth masks. It felt like a scene from the Walking Dead, and I half expected at any moment for the people around me to suddenly stand up and begin shambling menacingly in my direction.

In addition to the ghost-town feel of the place, the restaurants were all closed as well. The only food available was a single food court where they expected you to line up, grab your food, then get the hell out. As far as cruises go, this was the worst one I had ever been on.

I still stuck around long enough to lose a hundred bucks in the slot machines before slinking back to the trailer park in defeat. It was not quite the dream vacation I had planned. My stomach hurt from eating like a raccoon rummaging through a garbage can, I was $100 poorer, and my wife spent most of her time sitting next to a slot machine on her phone, texting and sending e-mails.

After about two hours in the desolate remains of a once proud gambling establishment, we finally gave up and wandered outside to catch the shuttle bus back to the RV park. When I boarded the bus, the driver put on his mask for our safety and I watched as his glasses immediately fogged up.

Hmm. Coronavirus, or fiery bus crash? Decisions, decisions.

Oddly, I almost hoped that we did crash. As we careened off the road and down a steep hillside, I could pretend we had just hit an iceberg and I was going down with the ship. If we were fortunate enough to drive into a lake, even better.

No such luck. We made it back to our trailer in one piece.

Well, it wasn’t the vacation we originally booked. There was no boat, no scenery, lousy food, hot weather, and we were practically walking distance from home. On the bright side, though…

Nope. No bright side.

We wanted a cruise, and what we got was definitely not a cruise.

We are going to try again, however. We will use the money we have already spent to schedule a new cruise to Alaska for next summer. The entire family still wants to go. I only have one question about next year’s trip:

Should I wait until next year, or go ahead and book the RV park again now?

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Vacationing with a Workaholic

I am a writer. Most days, I am at home, sitting in front of my computer trying to create something both entertaining and commercially viable. This occurs with varying amounts of success. My friends and family do not see my activities in quite the same light that I do.

According to them, I am unemployed and don’t do anything all day long. My existence is just one long vacation with no responsibilities or concerns. Usually, I just smile and laugh off their comments. I can see why they would think that. My car never leaves the driveway and the only time my skin sees sunlight is when I stagger out into the open air long enough to grab the mail. However, these comments can get a little frustrating when I actually do want to take a vacation.

The stares I get when I bring up the topic are confused at best and threatening at their worst.

“What do you need a vacation for? You never leave the house.” This is the typical response I receive.

And that is exactly why I need the vacation. When most people have a day off, they are excited they don’t have to go to their place of work. They get to stay home. When I take a day off, I’m still right where I always am. Same four walls. Same view. Same everything.

When I take a day off, I want to go somewhere.

Here is where it gets a bit sticky. I am married to a workaholic. Even when I am ready to leave the house for a couple days, I have to convince my wife to go with me. Well, I don’t have to. I suppose I could go without her, but that would create a whole different set of problems that I really don’t want to deal with.

My wife is an elementary school principal, and she absolutely hates taking time off.

She works late most nights, and when she gets home, she is still checking emails and making phone calls right up until she goes to bed. On weekends, she is frequently fielding questions from parents and teachers at her school, so the time we spend together is usually me on the couch looking at a paused television screen while listening to my wife explain to a hostile parent why little Johnny is failing arts and crafts despite his surprising facility at eating paste.

If I can’t get her to pay attention to me for five minutes on a weekend, you can imagine the lack of success I have getting my wife to leave town with me for a few days.

Our last camping trip together is a perfect example.

We had a reservation at a camp site from Thursday through Monday. I asked my wife if she could take a couple days off. I told her I wanted to leave Thursday so we could have three full days at the campgrounds.

She took Friday off, but decided she still wanted to work on Thursday. She suggested I go to the campgrounds, set up our camp, then drive back into town on Friday to pick her up.

I took a hard pass on that suggestion.

She next suggested she could work a half day on Thursday, then we could leave town in the afternoon. I agreed to that one, albeit reluctantly.

Thursday arrived, and apparently there was “an incident” at school that day. While she did come home in the afternoon, my wife was writing emails and talking on the phone the entire time I was packing the truck and hooking up the trailer.

And during the hour and a half drive to the campgrounds.

And while I set up camp.

And while we ate dinner.

And … well, I’m sure you get the picture.

Friday was not much better. I sat in a folding chair in front of a campfire the following morning, while my wife wandered through the trees looking for better cell reception.

The weekend did improve slightly. I believe we had a couple five-minute conversations between emails. I finally got her settled in and got her to turn off her electronic devices about halfway through Monday morning. Of course, that was also the day we had to come home.

During the drive home, I could see her brain start to heat up again as she thought about going back to work the next day. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she started having imaginary conversations with parents and students. She could have passed for a Baptist minister at a tent revival meeting.

That was our last vacation. I did get away from the house, I suppose. But it would have been nice if there was someone to talk to while we there. Someone besides the kids, I mean. I talk to them enough already, and most of those conversations start with one of them asking for money.

The next trip we have planned isn’t until next summer. That’s about ten months away. My wife will have to miss a couple days of Summer School for us to go.

I should probably start easing her into the idea of it now. I hope there’s enough time.

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A Week in the Woods

My family and I just got back from a week in the woods. In order to escape the one-hundred-degree heat in the northern California valley, we packed up the trailer and headed for the much cooler climate of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

I know perhaps many of you are thinking to yourselves, “What? Another blog about a camping trip? Don’t you ever do anything else?”

The short answer to that is, no. No, I don’t ever do anything else. I’m stuck at home most of the time and I don’t have the money to fly around the world, so whenever I have an opportunity to get away it has to be cheap. Cheap, for me, equals camping.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah: I was camping.

My wife and I enjoy taking the trailer out and travelling into the wilderness for a few days. It’s quiet and peaceful and it’s an opportunity for the two of us to just hang out with each other with no outside interruptions. The kids claim to enjoy it as well, but I think they just like to be away from home so I can’t complain about the fact they haven’t cleaned their rooms or done any of their chores.

For the entire five days that we were gone, neither one of the girls left the trailer except for an occasional jaunt up the hill to the only spot in the campgrounds that had an active WiFi signal. Otherwise, they barricaded themselves inside our camper like they were afraid the zombie apocalypse had just jumped off and if they went outside they would be the first ones eaten.

Actually, that’s not completely true. They did come outside on the third night we were there. That was the night I built a campfire hoping to lure them outdoors. I set up the fire, burned several large logs for a few hours, then stirred them around to create hot coals. My wife pulled out a bag of marshmallows, chocolate and a box of graham crackers. She told the girls they should come out to the fire and make some s’mores. At first, they both said, no, but then my wife reminded them that it had been their idea to buy all the stuff in the first place. She suggested if they didn’t go outside and make s’mores immediately, it would not just be marshmallows that got stabbed with sharp sticks and dropped into the fire.

EM1 poked her head out of the trailer door first, sniffing around like a groundhog trying to decide if there was going to be six more weeks of winter. When she was convinced it wasn’t a trap, she beckoned to her sister and the two of them shuffled out to the fire. Each one of them picked up a stick, stabbed a marshmallow and held it out over the hot coals in the fire pit.

After they had both roasted one marshmallow, they said, “thank you,” waved at us and went back inside the trailer. That was it.

One marshmallow.

Each.

Other than the fact we couldn’t pry the kids out of the trailer with a crowbar, it was actually a very nice family trip. Because we had no WiFi reception where we were parked, we couldn’t use our phones or watch TV. We were forced to interact with one another whether we wanted to or not.

The four of us ended up playing card games and board games, and – on rare occasions – even talking to each other.

It was a lot of fun.

Electronic devices weren’t the only distraction we managed to avoid, either. During the first part of the week, we had most of the campgrounds to ourselves. Most people tend to go camping on the weekends, which is why we specifically decided to go during the week. For the first three days that we were there, the only noises we heard were the birds, animals and bugs in the forest. Well, that and the sound of our kids fighting over whose fault it was that a soda got dumped on the floor. (Personally, I blame the older one. It’s easier to randomly pick one than it is to investigate and figure out who actually did it.)

We stayed up late, slept in the following morning and nobody bothered us. No barking dogs, no loud parties, and no screaming kids (except for our own, of course). It was bliss.

On the fourth day, things began to change. A motorhome pulled into the slot next to ours. The owners brought three tiny dogs outside, tied them to a tree and then proceeded to ignore them while they barked nonstop from sunup to sundown.

A young family showed up later the same day and set up a tent near us. They had three kids, all under the age of seven, that they immediately turned loose with a collection of bikes and scooters so they could travel the campgrounds with maximum mobility. I believe the only time the kids weren’t yelling or screaming was when they were forced to pause to take a breath. The noise parade lasted all day, packed up briefly during the night, then started up again about five o’clock the following morning.

By day five, it was time to go. I was starting to fantasize about putting the yapping dogs into a pit with the screaming kids and making them fight in a no-holds-barred deathmatch. When I caught myself holding a shovel and searching for a place to put the hole, I decided the time had come to go home.

Now, we’re all back in the hundred-degree heat and getting back into to our regular routines. My wife is back at work, EM2 is getting ready to go back to school, and EM1 is doing whatever the hell it is that she usually does.

And me? I’m doing what I always do. Sitting around and trying to figure out a good time to go camping.

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