Our Camping Trip That Didn't Happen

Kathy and I began talking about beach trips and how nice it would be to have a tan before the first one. Since the next day was going to be warm and sunny, I said, “I’ll go to Publix in the morning and get some fried chicken. We’ll take the dogs to the top of the mountain where the sun shines most of the day, and we will begin working on our beach tans.” It sounded good to Kathy, so the next day was set.

After our usual pot of coffee in bed and small bowls of cereal to tide us over until the fried chicken, I went to Publix and bought chicken, potato chips, bottled water, suntan lotion, bug spray, Benadryl in case one of the dogs got snake bit, and other fun things.

Kathy was packed and ready to go when I got home. We loaded the dogs and all the picnic and sun tanning stuff in the truck and went to the top of the mountain to begin our two-mile hike to the camping spot we had chosen.

We ate our chicken on the rock cliffs and then spread the blanket for the sun tanning. Gosh, that sun felt good.

As usual, we got deep into conversation while watching the clouds and planes. Kathy and I have had this discussion quite a few times in similar circumstances: “Don’t worry, Kathy. If we can’t see the pilot, he can’t see us. We’re just little spots on the ground to him.”

At some point I became philosophical: “We couldn’t be enjoying ourselves anymore if we were billionaires. Another thousand million dollars might buy us a few more trips, but that is about it. We are just as happy looking at these clouds and feeling this sun as we would be with a billion dollars.” Kathy replied, “Money doesn’t buy happiness. Yes, we are happy.”

It felt like Nirvana on that mountain. The sun felt so comforting. Kathy has beautiful, olive skin that rarely burns, so she did not bother with suntan lotion. I almost always use it, but the sun felt so soothing on that mountain, I did not use any either; I did not want oil between me and the sun, and it really did not feel that hot.

After a couple of hours on the mountain, we packed everything up and began our two-mile hike back to the truck. It was a good walk, so relaxing after the sun tanning.

After a couple of hours at home, Kathy said, “Why don’t we spend the night there some time? “I replied, “When?” “Like tonight?” she answered. How could I have said no, even had a wanted to?

I love the outdoors, and I am typically outside every day for at least a few hours, regardless of weather. Kathy and I have spent many, many days hiking all day long. I am talking serious hiking-- climbing bluffs, walking down the middle of creeks, sliding down steep ravines while grabbing whatever tree is there, and about everything else you might do on a hike in rough terrain. Kathy has little scars on her body to prove it. I think they are beautiful because they are souvenirs of good times.

But even though I love almost everything about the outdoors, I am not a fan of camping. When it gets dark, I want to be in the most comfortable nearby place-- and that is never outdoors on the ground. The few times Kathy and I have been camping I was bored when it got dark and all the food was gone. I cannot think of anything else after dark but “Why am I in a tent when there’s a comfortable bed just down the road a piece?”

The point of that digression is to explain why we do not have any camping supplies. If civilization breaks down and we have to bug out to a rock shelter somewhere, we’ll have to do it with the things that make us comfortable at home. And that is what we did for our camping trip.

While Kathy took care of an errand, I drove to BP to get a pizza for our camping trip. When Kathy got home, she packed three bags with bedding and supplies. We loaded coats, bags, our air mattress, and our four dogs in the truck and headed to the top of the mountain.

I dragged the air mattress the two miles down the trail and Kathy carried the bags. I got so hot, I took my shirt off, which I have never done in the woods. It was that hot!

After reaching the camping spot, I gathered wood for a fire and Kathy lit some candles. She began looking for the water and said, “You forgot the bag with the water and some other things we need!”

I replied, “Why am I the one who left it when you were the last one out the door?” “I can’t carry everything,” she replied. “So, you want me to go back and get it,” I asked, even though I knew the answer. By that time, she was putting bedding on the air mattress and she asked, “What’s happening to the air?” I replied, “I don’t know, but it’s almost dark. If I have to get the bag, I better get going.” We swapped phones so she could listen to Pandora on the Bluetooth speaker, and then I took off down the trail. It got dark in a hurry, and I was glad the flashlight was not in the bag at home.

An hour later, after returning from home, I was back on the trail with the bag. It was pitch dark. I turned the flashlight off so that I could experience the darkness. I could not see my hand two inches from my face. Even with the flashlight, the trail was dark. I saw about fifteen or twenty sticks that looked like snakes, and a couple times I heard some slithering through the leaves.

After forty-five minutes and two more miles, I was back at the camp site. I did not want any of the pizza Kathy had saved for me. It did not sound appealing after the almost two-hour journey. I was hot and tired, and I just wanted to get my hot clothing off and cover myself with a sheet on the still-deflating mattress.

We had nothing to lay our heads on except my coat. Twenty minutes later, we did not have that because I was freezing. I got dressed, put my coat on, and got under the blanket. With the addition of our bodies, the mattress eventually deflated to the point where we were just sleeping on the ground, and it was not comfortable.

I asked Kathy if she thought it might make sense for us to use the sheet that she had spread on the ground for our four dogs. “No, they have to have it. That is what they are used to at home,” she predictably replied. About every three minutes, she would raise up to count the dogs. “I don’t see Foster,” she said after one head count.” I replied, “He’s a dog, Kathy. He is not going to get lost. He does not want to get lost. We could not lose him if we wanted to. Anyway, what would you do if he left? Go looking in the woods in the dark?” “Well, I’d just be worried,” she softly said.

It was very dark on the trail and in the woods, but at the clearing where we camped, it was a clear, star-filled night. The ground was not comfortable, but the sky was beautiful. We saw several shooting stars.

About thirty minutes later, I looked at Kathy and asked her, “You're not going to sleep tonight, are you? You want me to take you home?" The answer was “yes,” so we began packing to leave.

Kathy asked, “How are we going to take this big pizza box and the air mattress back with this other stuff and hold a flashlight?” “We can’t, so we’ll leave it,” I replied. Kathy then said, “We can’t be litterbugs. We just can’t.” I looked at her and said, “Kathy we’ll come back tomorrow and clean it up. I can guarantee you no one is going to be here tomorrow before we get here. No one will be here in the next month and maybe not until this time next year and maybe not even then. No one does this kind of stuff but us.”

In the dark it took us over an hour to walk the two miles. For the day, the total miles I walked was twelve, half of it in the dark. Kathy walked eight. By the time I got to our driveway, I was feeling a little nauseous, which I could not understand. Twelve miles should not wipe me out. I made my way to bed, without taking the shower that I had thought about while walking home. After lying on the bedspread for a while, I took my shirt off.

“Kathy pointed at me and said, “That is why you’re feeling the way you do. You’re beet red, all over.”

That sunshine was still worth the pain, and we went to sleep talking about how much fun we had that day.