Parents often refer to them as “making memories” or “character-building” events. Kids typically look back on them as “disaster scenario <insert number>” or as “that time dad went postal”. Seems most parents are pre-wired to make these attempts at providing memorable, lifetime experiences for their children. Good, bad, or skit comedy of errors, it’s a rite of passage passed down from generation-to-generation. More appropriately, lemming-to-lemming. My parents did it, my wife’s too. So obviously we're going to swan-dive off of that cliff and follow suit with our own children.
Much like my father used to, I go into these ideas with the best of intentions for my family. Seeing nothing but the end goal of adventure, happiness, and togetherness. Conveniently, and oftentimes deliberately, looking past the dozen or so traps that lie along our harmonious path to victory. Traps that frequently turn into that psychotic, Clark Griswold “Wally World” impression. Whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” indeed…
My grand aspiration this time was to take the family camping in the mountains. An early Fall weekend of camping and hiking, all while taking in nature’s incredible, scenic backdrop. The kids were genuinely excited about going and the wife and I love it up there. It was to be an ideal weekend outdoors, away from all of life’s stresses.
The weather forecast quickly put a damper on this plan though. Ninety percent chance of rain on Friday. Forty percent the rest of the weekend. Friday was obviously out. The weekend though… With my college statistics professor vehemently shaking his head in the background and several Vegas bookies salivating nearby, the wheels began to spin.
“Forty percent is less than half, right? I’ll take those odds! We’ll just leave on Saturday.”
Nearing the mountains that morning, however, I noticed a pillowy blanket of grey covering their tops. Dense fog. In keeping with that mentality, I kicked my native realism to the curb and continued to plow forward on our memory-making mission. Stubborn and undeterred, I was certain that the fog would burn off in the afternoon sun.
But alas, there would be no afternoon sun. The fog was so thick that you couldn’t even see the next campsite. We spent the better part of that afternoon chopping wood for the warmth of a much-needed fire. Other than my in-laws, who were staying at a nearby lodge, we didn’t get many visitors stopping by to socialize. Mainly due to the fact that our enchanted campsite possessed a scary-looking bald guy standing in the mist with an eight pound axe-splitter dangling from his hands. The only things missing from this macabre vision were the gratuitous hockey mask and the screeching strings score from Hitchcock’s “Psycho” echoing in the background. A precursor, perhaps?
In time, the fog became intermittent enough for us to get a quick hike in before dinner. Once or twice, I think I actually saw the valley through a brief clearing in the clouds. Verification of this fact, however, will be oft-debated for decades to come.
Well after sunset, or at least after the fog darkened, we were finally able to collect on the moment that makes it all worthwhile. All of that packing, unpacking, and setting up. The skies cleared for that ever-so-brief moment of heavenly bliss. Sitting fireside and seeing a billion stars in the absolute darkness of the wilderness sky.
Twenty minutes and two shooting stars later, the clouds and fog meandered their way back in. Spiritually rejuvenated, and realizing that our window for star-gazing had officially closed for the evening, we retired to the tent for a wonderfully sound-slumber in the fresh air of the great outdoors.
I was awakened roughly an hour later by a dog barking from a nearby campsite…followed by low growling noise. This wasn’t your typical Lassie “Help, Timmy fell down the well” growl. This was a low and feral feline growl. I sat up and listened again carefully. Same growl followed by a loud, angry snarl. My mind raced. “Cat. Biiiiiiiiig cat. Mountain lion?”
A second vicious snarl, closer to the tent this time. Axe, hatchet, and serial-killer mask packed consciously in the van, I reached for the only weapons available next to my sleeping bag. A flashlight and a four-inch pocket knife. What luck! Perhaps I could distract it with hand shadow impressions. Or, in the final throes of a life-or-death, man-versus-nature struggle, I could blind and tickle it to death. My personal Animal Planet “I Shouldn’t Be Alive” episode was starting to read a lot like the “Airplane” movie script.
“I am serious…and don’t call me ‘Shirley’.”
My wife still laughs at the “mountain lion” reference. In all honesty, it was probably nothing more than a bobcat. But in the blackened silence of the woods, and in a tent with my wife and young children sleeping soundly nearby, the Fancy Feast cats might have sounded a lot like the Ringling Brothers main event to me. In retrospect, I guess that would have made me the bearded lady.
After fifteen agonizing minutes of “Crouching Mike, Hidden Bobcat”, the campground finally quieted enough for me to confidently stuff myself back into my sleeping bag. That’s when the rain returned. A steady, pouring rain. It started about 1:30 and never let up.
That firewood that we had been chopping all afternoon? Saturated and sitting in a full inch of mud next to the fire pit. There would be no fire that next morning. Not without a flame-thrower and the contents of our gas tank anyway. No breakfast pancakes, no breakfast sausage. Nothing but dry cereal and potato chips. Oh, and beer. For some odd reason, I suddenly became a little reminiscent of college…
At sunrise the next morning, and I was taking my watch’s word for it, we decided that it would be in the best interest of sanity to join my in-laws for breakfast at the lodge. With no conveniently scheduled Jeff Probst appearances on the docket, it was decreed that a hot meal and a chance to dry out were mental essentials prior to packing up our campsite. I’m not ashamed to admit that bit of outdoors “man-law” blasphemy. I take solace in my belief that even fellow-survivalist, Bear Grylls, would have thrown-in-the-tourniquet by that point.
After an hour of packing, our car was finally loaded with our waterlogged belongings. Relieved to be headed home, I exhaled aloud as I turned the ignition key. A buzz sound greeted me. Dead battery. The apparent result of leaving the car doors open for about an hour. My lips trembled, but I managed to mute myself. With the grace and elegance of a gorilla, I immediately leapt from the driver seat and ran to the rear of the car to unload a barrage of growls and hisses that would have put any cat to shame. Cougar, bobcat, or Meow Mix.
After the throbbing vein in my forehead had finally subsided, I wandered the campground looking for a jumpstart. Since most of the smart people had vacated their campsites early that dreary Sunday morning, there weren’t many people around to help us out. I eventually found someone who had cables and was willing to lend us a hand.
Leaving that campsite a tired, wet, and beaten man, my wife asked if we could grab a hot coffee for the ride home.
“Would you like one too,” she asked sympathetically.
“Yes, please. Irish.”
In the end, much like my ancestral lineage had before me, we managed to create a memory for our children that weekend. It was probably more Stephen King than Shel Silverstein, but a memory nonetheless.
Ironically, prior to this trip, my father reminded me of a camping trip from my childhood. An overnight outing so cold, that the liquid crystal display in his watch had actually frozen solid. Much to my children’s chagrin, character-building in this family apparently also includes a healthy dose of hypothermia.
Lemming lessons from that trip? Extra socks and a temperature-resistant watch. I’m officially adding a portable jump start system and a couple cans of Friskies to future supply lists. Potentially a couple of those BASE jumping wingsuits as well, for some much needed style points.
