Can We Go Camping?
Like the idealization of sleeping on the beach and living on raw potatoes, I loved the idea of camping. Camping was something that I imagined I could do forever: a cozy tent in the woods, cooking hot dogs and marshmallows over a roaring fire, staring at the stars.
As a girl, camping usually involved a camper – five of us shoved into fold-out beds, eating burgers cooked on a little grill, using a shower somewhere down the street. It was probably more “glamping” then camping. We camped at the beach, too, which made it that much more exciting. Sometimes I would nap on the hammock outside, which was delightful.
All of my camping memories were fond ones.
So I dreamed about camping. A case of beer and a bag of marshmallows seemed like all we would need, and those glorious summer nights would re-materialize in front of me.
We’d be sitting in Barry’s Bar and I’d say: “Can we go camping?”
“Camping?!?” Larry said the first time I asked. “We have everything we need right here!”
But after awhile, he started to realize I wasn’t giving up on the idea. He’d say: “Nah, not tonight. Maybe next week.” He said it over and over until I started to believe we would never go.
One night, on an atypical winter day, when the weather was nice enough that we’d ridden the motorcycle to a bar far from home, I mentioned camping again.
Larry said: “Okay! Let’s go!” And Larry meant now.
He got up off the bar stool, put on his leather jacket, and we hopped on the bike. I was so excited I could scream. It was gorgeous outside – unseasonably warm – so I rode with my arms outstretched in the wind, imagining sitting by a roaring fire pulling apart those gooey marshmallows.
Neither of us had any idea where the nearest campground might be. We were already far from Pitcairn, and we drove at least an hour before we saw a sign for a campground.
We pulled in; nobody was at the check-in booth. It was winter; nobody was anywhere. In fact, we never saw a human.
We drove through the grounds and found a campsite far from the gate – the perfect spot. “There’s a good one!” Larry said.
He turned off the bike, making it pitch black and deathly silent. I was standing on a patch of gravel but could see nothing.
Flicking lighters randomly, we searched for sticks to build a fire, which Larry tried to burn with his lighter. The handfuls of grass Larry found did nothing to help our cause, but he kept trying.
As my eyes adjusted, I looked around. This is the moment I realized we didn’t have a tent.
Then I realized we didn’t have a sleeping bag or a pillow. The roaring fire was in my imagination, too, as was the bag of marshmallows. We didn’t even have beer; we surely didn’t have food.
Larry gave up on building a fire. He said, “I guess we should just get some sleep!” He threw his helmet on the ground, tossed his leather jacket over it, and laid down in the gravel.
I stared at him for a minute. This was not the dream.
“C’mon, Baby, I’ll keep ya warm!” he said. He didn’t seem to know the dream at all.
It was painful sleeping in gravel. And it was very much not warm.
The next morning, we woke up when the sun rose, frost all around us, freezing beyond frozen.
“Well!” Larry said. “Let’s get goin’!”
So we left.