The Great Outdoors

Ah, camping. The great outdoors, fresh air, the smell of wood smoke and the relaxation of waking up to the twittering of birds as you gaze out the window of your tent to see a light mist hanging over the lake. Well, that’s one way of seeing it. Here’s another: Ah, camping. A long weekend spent chasing two little boys who were constantly running off into the woods in opposite directions when they weren’t sticking their hands in the fire or screaming because they grabbed a molten marshmallow off a smoldering stick.

When I conceptualized parenting, pre-child, the principal visual my mind would conjure up was me sitting next to a lake teaching my son (or daughter) to fish and build a fire. The reality of the camping experience is rather different from my idyllic fantasies. I was prepared for a few challenges but not the constant vigilance required to keep Jack and Dimitri from inadvertently killing themselves with the variety of potentially lethal situations that arise in the woods. Mind you, we spent the week-end not bushwacking through the primordial wilderness but at the Kenneth L. Wilson DEC Campground in the Catskills. The campground was voted one of the most “family friendly” campgrounds in the United States, apparently by people who have neither gone camping nor have a family. There was a lake, to be sure, but it was completely devoid of any fish and the nice expanse of grass leading up to the waters edge which initially appeared like a pleasant place for a picnic was, upon closer inspection, covered with the shit of innumerable Canada Geese.

Have you ever tried to teach a 3.5 year old how to fish? Let’s just say that fishing requires both patience and concentration, traits which are not present in great quantities in toddlers who require immediate and constant stimulation. Not to mention that while I was trying to explain the difference between artificial bait and live worms to Dimitri, Jack was doing his best to hurl himself from the dock into the water, despite the fact that he doesn’t know how to swim.

Then, of course, there were the bears. We were walking back from the lake when I head some rustling in the bushes to my left. Thinking we might stumble upon a few deer, I stopped and peered around a tree only to be confronted with what looked to me like a veritable herd of bears foraging for food. They spooked and ran off in the general direction of the lake. Dimitri was loudly protesting some perceived slight at the time and thus failed to see the bears, as did Jack who was busily trying to reach a branch to gnaw on from his position in the baby carrier, but Erin and I saw them, oh yes we did. Visions of two little boys being dragged off into the woods and eaten filled my thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. That night I made sure everyone took off the clothes they ate in and put them in the trunk of the car along with the cooler and all the food and garbage. Erin and I then spent a restless night on a slowly deflating air mattress thinking every noise we heard was the hungry bear family come to rip open the tent in search for the pack of cookies I had inadvertently left in the front pocket of my pack.

It got better when we could confine them in strollers and back-packs. We spent all day Saturday walking around Woodstock and Kingston and even managed to find an animal farm so the boys could see animals that were in cages rather than ones strolling through the campground. That part was more fun than trying to corral the kids, which was very much like herding cats who suffer from ADD. I think I’ll wait a few years before doing the tent camping thing again. Cabins may be more expensive but you cannot put a price on peace of mind.