Quota Reached

I have officially reached my camping quota for the year. Yes, that is correct. The grand total for my camping endeavors this 2010 is... two. And with the weekend at gorgeous Lake Chelan behind me, I bid farewell to the following:

1. state park toilets and showers
2. dusty, grimy feet and footwear
3. charcoal briquets that take forever to get hot
4. rhetorical debates as to whether peeing at this very moment is necessary
which lead to:
5. flashlight-lit walks to item no. 1
6. dismantling tents
7. creepy mullet-haired drivers scouting campsites
8. "Monsters Inside Me" inspired fears (Thanks a lot Animal Planet)

Without naming any names or pointing any fingers, here are some words that were thrown around amongst us campers over the weekend:

"If I get cancer in a few years I'll know it's from your burnt chicken."
"Score my burp."
"Why won't anyone score my farts?"
"We need to perform an exorcism on your butt."
"What is the point of showering?"
"I brought my make-up."
"She wanted to bring curlers and a hair dryer."
"Let's tie our tent to the dock and pretend we have a boat."
"The six-year old in the next campsite might steal our liquor."
"KATOL!"

And before I sound like the whiniest most annoying camping-hater, I must say I will also miss camping. There's nothing quite like long meandering conversations around a bonfire with stars like you will never see in the city skies. Getting 'Smore-debris all over your clothes, sipping hot coffee in the morning while looking out at nature and not knowing what time it is and having an excuse to eat because we can't possibly bring all that food back because there's no room in the car. And getting 85 degree weather and a whole lot of sun when you know it's raining on the poor city-folk!

Nature's Finest

Went camping with the family and family friends this Fourth of July weekend. I'm not an outdoorsy or athletic person but camping can be fun, in increments, preferably no more than once a year.

It was quite a challenge. OH MY GOD. One of our neighbors is yapping as I type. Why are there graduates from the School of Speaking with an Audience everywhere? I don't want to hear about your life. I don't want to hear about your boyfriend bailing on you. I don't want to hear that he gave you a backpack for your anniversary. In fact, if I were you I would keep that information to myself. Anniversary present? BACKPACK?!? Did you get a Trapper Keeper on your birthday? A set of 5 logbooks on Christmas. A pencil case for Valentine's?!?

Okay. I have now calmed down. So... camping trip. Eating was my activity of choice, which again, was a challenge. The campsite had no running water and thanks to this weekend, I now know that a vault toilet, is basically a port-a-potty with concrete walls. I gave my digestive system a pep talk to please hold the BM until I get back home. It did. However (gross alert), I did unleash some mighty fumes... within the confines of our lovely, watertight tent. Forgive. Please.

Our biggest adventure sent most of us scrambling for higher ground and screaming. One of the tents in our group had a snake inside! A snake! My Dad whacked it with an umbrella and threw it in the lake. It was slim and probably a little over a foot long. And it opened a gateway into a fairly long discussion on snake stories and myths. Have you heard the one about the snake whose eyes retain the image of its human killer? That's right. Its family will then memorize this image and will act all snake-like and go after the killer and all the members of his or her family.




Our group had a number of kids with the oldest at, say, 12. And they went nuts. Hiking, mucking around on the inflatable boat just going in circles, playing charades and bamboozling the adults to pay them upwards of $5. You know you're starting to get old when you no longer jump on the, let's be the last to sleep bandwagon. Except, I'm not really getting old because technically I didn't get any sleep on the two nights we camped. Therefore, that alone makes me young, by default. Sort of. Kind of? Right?