I went camping last weekend, and I think I had fun. But the older I get, the more exhausting camping becomes. So it’s usually now—in the post-forest aftermath—that I start swearing off any more camping trips for the rest of my life.
In my mind, camping should be a return to the bare essentials. A return to the basic elements of food, water, and shelter that tie us to our primordial progenitors. A chance to mimic the experiences of very distant ancestors by donning a Patagonia insulated bomber hoodie, and shoving an REI 4-season sleeping bag, a Marmot half-dome tent, and an MSR stove kit into an ultralight, powder-blue Osprey backpack. (Yes, name brands can be pricey. But let’s be honest: you can’t really have a minimalist experience for any less than a thousand dollars, right?)
But frontcountry camping is something entirely different. When the ability to haul gear is no longer constrained by the force of muscle and bone, minimalism truly flies out the car window. Suddenly getting “back to nature” means filling the back end of a mid-size SUV with a three-room nylon mansion, a tabletop propane grill, an inflatable mattress, a triple-insulated Yeti cooler filled with Coronas, three full cords of firewood, and an action-packer full of dried meats, pop tarts, and potato chips. All the other necessities, of course, go in the supplemental car topper straddling the roof rack.
Somehow two nights of camping is inevitably a week-long ordeal. It takes me a full day just to work my way down my packing checklist and shoehorn everything we absolutely “need” into the car.
The two days at camp are an endless cycle of work: a blur of pitching tents, cooking, cleaning, and constantly searching every bag and plastic tub for every little thing you need. Hour after hour, you ply your body with a volatile mélange of trail mix, chips, pasta, hot chocolate, and s’mores. And with every passing snack, you squeeze your sphincter ever tighter in the hopes you can avoid using the horrific vault toilet shared by every diarrhetic derelict in the campground. And what’s your nightly reward for all your prepping, pitching, and puckering? Curling up in the fetal position on top of a tree root for a sleepless night in the cold.
And returning home at the end of the trip provides only a slight measure of bleary-eyed relief, since the next two days are spent cleaning and storing the gear, detailing the car, and desperately running multiple washes to exorcise the relentless stench of smoke.
Hence my yearly proclamation that, “I am RETIRED from camping!” And yet, I seem to relapse on the regular. Admittedly, the burdens of camping fade steadily with the passage of time, and earlier experiences are recalled through something of a rose-colored filter. But manipulations of the mind aren’t the only reason I repeatedly backtrack on my resolution. In fact, there are three solid reasons why I keep spending good time and money to be miserable.
A Frugal Change of Scenery
During the summer of 2020—after several months of being homebound due to the coronavirus—we made a snap decision to camp near Devil’s Tower National Monument. While social distancing was the order of the day, we got to have our own “close encounter” with that incredibly massive monolith. It was wonderful, and a much-needed break from the pandemic norm.
But global outbreaks aside, there’s always value in exploring new horizons. The promise of a break from your day-to-day is incentivizing, and helps punctuate the run-on nature of our regular routines. Time spent in new locales is always enriching, though—ironically—travel can leave you far less rich.
Among travel options, camping is highly immersive, relatively low-carbon, and comparatively inexpensive. For a few paltry dollars and a bit of hardship, camping stretches your travel budget significantly. Not only can you travel more often if you’re willing to pop a tent, but you also unlock access to spectacular places too far off the beaten path for those less inclined.
Rare Rituals
I really, really love to watch my wife wide-eyed enjoying the stars whenever we find ourselves beneath an inky-black sky. Each night—weather permitting—we sit by the campfire, hold hands, and wait eagerly as the last light of sunset slowly wanes. In the still darkness, we spot twinkling constellations, search for passing satellites, and hope for shooting stars. “They’re gorgeous,” she’ll gush again and again as the celestial kaleidoscope unfurls. Our stargazing is part custom, part ceremony, and part sacrament.
Although the location always changes, camping perpetuates numerous familiar rituals. Pitching our well-worn tents, foraging for firewood, feasting on smoky mac and cheese, playing endless rounds of UNO, and roasting marshmallows. The sights, smells, and activities associated with camping occur just frequently enough to feel customary, yet infrequently enough to seem novel. Since we only camp around once a year, the experience somewhat carries the weight of Halloween, Christmas, or Easter. And like those holidays, its an occasion to relive a few time-honored traditions.
A Grateful Return to the Familiar
I dare say most of us easily fall victim to the hedonistic treadmill—the constantly accelerating acquisition of wealth and technology in the vain pursuit of incremental gains in happiness. Upgrading from a 50-inch projection television to a 70-inch LED Smart TV will make you only marginally more happy—and only for a short while. In no time, you’ll be eyeing the 85-inch 4K ultra HD models at Costco.
A powerful antidote to diminishing returns from hedonistic excess is the occasional fast. Nothing makes you more grateful for what you already have, than simply spending time without. You’ll never appreciate the simple pleasures of a warm shower as much as when you’ve amassed a three-day-thick film of sunscreen, dirt, mosquito repellent, and ash. You’ll also never appreciate a warm, soft mattress quite like after you’ve spent two sleepless nights on a patch of sloped earth with a jagged piece of cold, hard granite lodged squarely in the small of your back. And you will never fully appreciate a flush toilet and bottle of Febreeze until you’ve spent at least three days crouching over a communal hole in a fetid vortex of ammonia and flies.
Parting Thought: The ROI from REI
So therein lies the odd paradox of camping. I undertake the exercise in the hopes of temporarily escaping my routine, which only reinforces my preference for the routine from which I initially sought relief! The rare rituals we practice along the way—though highly ephemeral in time—take up very long residence in my memories. They eventually take center stage as nostalgia sets in, beckoning me to repeat the cycle again and again and again.
I recognize the pattern, and acknowledge the faulty logic. But somehow, my wistful camping memories seem more valuable than my short-lived discomforts, or my investments in time, money, and effort. So I know I’ll soon be packing a ridiculous amount of gear into a precariously filled SUV to spend a few more sleepless nights in the woods.
I.C.Y.M.I.
In case you missed it, this month I also published a piece featuring both the picturesque location above and a concrete naked lady, and a book review on the ground-breaking work of two dimetrically different Israeli psychologists.
Guess I like odd couples!
My oyster-like noggin produces priceless pearls for your complimentary consumption. But if you’re inclined, here are a few ways to show some support:
If you liked this post share it with your friends with a kind word using the button below, or
connect with Noon at the Park on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or
Buy yourself something nice on Amazon. Here’s your monthly recommendation for September, but feel free to put whatever you want in your cart and hit “Buy Now”, or…
you can just buy me a beer.