Camping

I can’t say that I love to camp. (Well, I could say it, but then I’d be lying.) Camping affords me few opportunities to express my best-loved talents. It’s hard, for instance, to create a classroom community of inquiry with woodpeckers and banana slugs. Nor do the woodland creatures really appreciate a perfectly-shaken martini. And I’ve yet to see a giant redwood that responds positively to a well-turned phrase or luminous bon mot.

I’m hip to the appeal of the natural world and all, but does it always have to get stuck under your fingernails?

And then, there’s the campground wildlife, to wit, those campers over there in the double-wide Winnebego with the exterior klieg lights listening to Metallica on a boombox.

I’m amused, of course, by the pointy-faced chipmunk poking around our campsite for food; but what really adds to the bathos is that she’s sure to fail in her quest. We drove around for two hours last night searching unsuccessfully for a place to buy food; not even a 7-11 to be found. And they call this the “great” outdoors, hah!

One thing I have observed about camping, though: the more mind-altering substances you consume, the more fun it gets. After six beers, poking a campfire becomes great entertainment. Add a couple of joints to the mix and it becomes a nearly transcendent experience. (Fall asleep with your pants leg in the fire and that sublime state you’re seeking is achieved.)

Camping food leaves something to be desired; that something is flavor. They say everything tastes better outdoors, but I disagree. Many things taste better served off fine china by doting waiters wearing white gloves.

On every camping trip, though, there is that one moment when it all comes together, when the forces of nature align with the cosmos and you find yourself suddenly one with everything. For me, that moment was clear: the second the hot water hit me in my shower back home.