As a child, I was captivated by tales of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her life on the Minnesota prairies. I eagerly read her books and enjoyed the television series that portrayed a charming girl with buckteeth and braids frolicking by Plum Creek. I dreamed of fishing after school and envied their covered-wagon lifestyle.
However, let’s be real: Watching a show about a pioneer girl is one thing; actually living like one in today’s world—where we have air conditioning and indoor plumbing—is just absurd. Camping is a nightmare.
And camping with kids? That’s a whole new level of torture.
I honestly can’t fathom why anyone would willingly load up their belongings, drive into the woods, unpack everything, and then revert to living like cavemen for three days. And for the record, I refuse to accept a flimsy piece of nylon as my only shield against a massive grizzly bear.
I absolutely loathe camping.
But my family adores it, which presents a dilemma.
My husband and kids rave about the beauty of waking up to a sunrise over a lake. They talk about “unplugging” and feeling so close to nature that they could be characters in a fairy tale. Plus, they endlessly brag about how delicious hot dogs taste when roasted over a fire that took hours to build because, apparently, no one in our family remembered to pack matches.
I suspect my family loves camping because I do all the heavy lifting to ensure we don’t end up eating goji berries and tree bark while sharing the woods with Yogi Bear and his sidekick. They have no clue how much effort it takes to pack our portable home and drag it into the wilderness. They don’t understand how many marshmallows must be procured, nor do they know the exact number of baby wipes needed to stave off the dreaded crotch rot.
Camping is draining.
There’s an endless cycle of folding and unfolding. Once we arrive at our campsite, I spend what feels like an eternity figuring out where the poles go for the tent. After three days of living with my now-stinky family, I face another lengthy process of taking down our temporary wilderness abode. And when we get home, I have to air that tent out because it smells like a mix of sweat and charred remains. All in all, dealing with the tent consumes 288 minutes of my life that I can never get back.
Camping is stressful.
When my family insists on venturing into the woods, my primary concern is the bathroom situation. I’m what you might call a “home bathroom enthusiast,” and let me tell you: latrines are not where I feel comfortable. The anxiety of camping constipation is real, and I often find myself wide awake at 2 a.m., playing a game of “How badly do I need to pee?” I ask myself, on a scale from 1 to “I’m about to wet my sleeping bag,” how urgent it is to find my glasses and flashlight, trek to the bathrooms in the dead of night, and squat over something that smells worse than a water buffalo. I don’t need this kind of stress in my life, believe me.
Camping is unbelievably annoying.
I have a theory that air mattress manufacturers intentionally create tiny holes in every mattress they produce. The factories must be filled with folks giggling at the poor souls who drag their products into the woods. I have yet to purchase an air mattress that doesn’t leak, and I’ve never met anyone who has either. And please don’t give me the nonsense about “real campers” sleeping on the ground under the stars. If I’m confined to a nylon bedroom, I refuse to spend the night with a large rock digging into my back!
Kudos to those who can actually enjoy camping; I’m just not one of them. I won’t apologize for disliking hair that stinks of campfire for a week or for avoiding food cooked on tiny grills and utensils that fit in my pocket. Unless camping involves a luxury diesel bus parked next to a Starbucks with strong Wi-Fi, you can count on it not being me at the next campsite, strumming my guitar and singing Kumbaya.
Good luck, family. Because camping is absolutely dreadful.
This piece was originally published on April 2, 2016.
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In summary, camping is a grueling experience filled with stress, discomfort, and annoyance, and I firmly believe that it’s not for everyone, especially for those who prefer modern conveniences.