Camping for Feminists

One summer, my younger sister and I decided we would go camping with our small children and without our husbands. Both of our husbands worked weekends, and if we waited for them, we knew we’d never go anywhere! So, we packed up our four kids (her youngest was three months old!), and headed for Lake Tahoe in our minivans. 

Once there, we found our campsite and unloaded both the bags and the children. That took some time. But satisfied with what we had accomplished without hurting ourselves, we surveyed the bundles of canvas that were supposed to convert magically into tents. 

We looked at the lumpy bundles, then at each other, then at the bundles. I guess there are times in a woman’s life when it doesn’t hurt to have a man around. But there were no men around, or at least none that we were acquainted with, so we unfolded one bundle and managed to get the wobbly poles into the little canvas flaps. 

Unfortunately, it became evident that we were going to have to drive those yellow spikes into the ground to keep the tent from blowing away.

“Did you bring a hammer?” I asked.

“No. Did you?

“No.”

Heavy sighs all around.

“Can’t we use a shoe?”

“You would think so.”

Sandals don’t work that well, by the way, but no matter. We had to abandon our efforts because it was time for supper and the kids had to eat!

“What did you bring?” I asked.

“Granola bars. Bananas. What did you bring?”

“Cheese.”

More heavy sighs. I would never again make fun of my husband for preparing for a camping trip as though we were leaving the civilized world permanently.

We fed the kids what we had, and just in time, because it was getting dark!

“How are we going to entertain them until bedtime?” Rose mused.

Thank God I had that covered. “Don’t worry, I brought a lantern and we can read to them, or they can color until they get tired.”

With that, I brought out my fancy green lantern. Before I left home, Rob showed me how to turn the top and snap it into position to make it light up.

Well, I did that, exactly the way he showed me, again and again, and—nothing. 

“I can’t see the kids anymore,” my sister commented, dryly. 

“Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with this thing! It worked this morning. You try!”

She pulled and twisted and yanked, but still, no light. 

“Maybe only men know how to make it work. I’ll go find one.” And with that, I stumbled into the black night.

I found the next campsite, explained my dilemma to the three fairly burly men there, and they took turns trying to get it to light up. After a few minutes, they handed it back, still unlit.

“It’s broken.”

Broken—just because they couldn’t get it to work.

But by now it was completely dark. I made my way back to where I thought our campsite might be, using the plaintive cries of the baby as my guide.

“We should just make a campfire,” I suggested upon arrival.

“Yes. Do we have any wood?”

Silence. 

Keep in mind, my sister and I are professional, college-educated women, and would be considered full grown.

Collecting wood was obviously out of the question since we could not see where we were walking, and anyway, I didn’t know if it was legal to steal wood. 

Then there was the issue of “the ticks.” My husband informed me that at this altitude, and in this area, lived fairly ominous ticks that got under your skin and wreaked havoc of some sort, resulting in immediate and violent death, or at the very least, partial paralysis and a purple tongue.

Naturally, we were afraid to let the children play anywhere but in the tent, but all we had for light was one, very small flashlight that I found in the glove compartment of the car. 

So the six of us crammed into the one tent we had been able to successfully erect, and took turns shining the pinpoint of weak light onto coloring books, or onto the baby’s bottom to change his diaper, or onto the bags to scrounge around for four pairs of pajamas.

It appeared that our little venture was not going quite as well as we hoped. Oh, and it was bitterly cold (in June!). We certainly had not brought the right clothing for arctic temperatures (who knew?), nor had we brought enough blankets. 

As a result, my sister and I spent the night waking every few minutes to pull sleeping bags back up over kids who all lay in a heap, whimpering and shivering.

By morning, we were all completely drained, frozen, half starved, and very cranky. My nephew (just a baby) gave me the scare of my life. I happened to glance over at him in his carrier and let out a yelp.

His skin was a pale, milky color, and he wasn’t moving. My first thought was that he had frozen to death in the night. I know I almost had.

“Rose! Is he dead?”

She didn’t even look up from what she was doing. “No, that’s his normal color.”

I gasped for air, trying to calm myself. 

She went on, unperturbed. “Do you have any ideas for breakfast?”

I nodded. “McDonalds. A few miles back on the highway.”

“Perfect.”

So we packed up the kids, left our “camp,” and headed out. Over sausage biscuits and coffee, we discussed the situation.

“I’ve had enough,” she stated.

“Me too.”  

We felt a little guilty because we'd paid for two nights (but not guilty enough).

“I guess we should let the kids play on the beach for a while.”

“Okay. We’ll have to watch for ticks.”

“Do you think they come out during the day?”

“I don’t know. We’ll stay on the path and keep an eye out.”

Once back at the campground, we picked our way gingerly to the beach, carrying buckets and shovels. I sat in a short chair while the children played in the sand. At least I got some nice photos. 

A couple strolled by and I asked if they knew if the ticks came out during the day.

“What ticks?”

I frowned. They must not be locals. I explained.

The man raised bushy eyebrows. “This is too high an altitude for ticks.”

I closed my eyes and willed the couple to just keep walking. No ticks, and I had worried about it half the night. 

“Hurry up and play, kids,” I growled.

I was ready to go.

We were back in Sacramento by noon. 

When I handed the lantern back to my husband, accusingly, he took it from me, twisted the top, and it lit up immediately.

Needless to say, the whole excursion was a dismal failure, but frankly, I was just glad my nephew was still alive.

A baby should not lose his life because his mother and his aunt can’t survive for 24 hours, less than a mile from ten casinos and thirty restaurants.