Camping "Fun:" Part IV

I've been circling the drain on this particular topic for some time as it isn't what you would call polite, appealing, pleasing, or pure. But it's time to let a little fresh air on the subject. Traumatized, Sydney and I had sought counseling until our therapist told us that the reason you can't hear a psychiatrist in the restroom is because the "p" is silent. This was not the compassionate shoulder that we needed. 

When one thinks of Adventure Camping, things like hiking trails, wildlife encounters, beach combing, and water sports may come to mind. Well...now that I think about it, if forced, I would have to place my topic...reluctantly...under water sports. But this was a sport with no decisive winner. 

Pulling up to our reserved camping spot, I was initially pleased to see the restrooms were within easy walking distance. The square building housed four stalls with water spigots accessible from the outside. I was perfectly fine with this. I'm not the Queen, for goodness sake, and do not require a palace to perform my royal duties. 

Sydney and I immediately proclaimed ourselves "bathroom buddies." Brad is a man. 'nuff said. Savannah pretends that she can handle any and all situations effortlessly and without complaint. Sydney and I have elevated complaining to an art form. 

How innocent we were...on that first encounter. Don't get me wrong...we'd experienced our share of porta-potty problems...ran from many a toxic travel restroom site...layered a mattress-worth of tp as a barrier against unsanitary seats of shame. We'd long-honed Olympic-level skills of balance and breath-holding that would have easily made us contenders for tight-rope walking or oyster diving. But NOTHING prepared us for this.

I wasn't in the stall...cell...putrid petri dish...for three seconds before I had make my assessment. While I obviously envied the ability of the scorpions, Argentinian ants, and coyotes to be able to utilize nature's bathroom, I was not in the position (muscular/modest/mutilated) to emulate their wild ways. I would have to make due with my current accommodations. 

Imagine the bottom of a well. The lighting. The dampness. The closed-in, slimy quarters. Dripping. Stunted sound. Ewww...your shoes. Ewww....you want me to sit WHERE? I mean hover. Questionable pre-moistened toilet paper.

"Sydney," I gasped, re-emerging from this hell backwards as it lacked the negotiability for me to turn around without touching SOMETHING. "I need you to hold the door one third of the way open. Stand in the gap, facing outwards. Hold your phone behind your back with flashlight mode on. If I fail to successfully complete my mission in less than a minute...call the authorities." Rolling her eyes a bit, my daughter followed my instructions and I dove out of that dump in 14.7 seconds. I offered to reciprocate for my potty partner but she was confident of her capabilities. I heard whimpering before the door completely closed...like a coffin. "Sydney," I shouted. "This is NOT okay," I heard her whimper. My potty protocols were then immediately put in place for Sydney. 

My obligatory 2 am visit was the most bearable because at least, at that time, I could safely have the door completely open. "Is this even legal?" Sydney asked as we clung to each other on the short walk back to our campsite. "What's that Geneva Convention even for, if not for situations like this?" We prayed for sleep to take us as we were living in a nightmare.

Morning arrived...bringing with it...unexpected hope. "Mom! The park's maintenance crew has arrived to clean the restrooms." This was a sight that could not be missed. It was tantamount to viewing the Northern Lights or witnessing the migration of the wildebeests across Kenya. One might be forgiven for missing the birth of a first child but I cannot imagine the regret felt if you missed the transformative cleaning and sanitation of this sh*thole. Hair disheveled, rumbled pajamas. out-of-breath...we ran as both witness and to be first-in-line, stopping short at the sight that greeted us.

Steering a small water truck (Sydney and I paused in supplicant prayer that the truck was filled with either pure bleach or hand sanitizer), a park employee pulled up in front of the building. He unfurled a fireman's hose, propped open one door before bodily bracing himself and blasting away at the interior. Where were the sponges? The mops? The disinfectants? "At least light a match," Sydney begged as he proceeded to sand-blast the remaining rooms. Mortified, we peeked in as he drove away. You could have wrung out the rolls of toilet paper (if you were brave enough to touch them in the first place). 

There was only one option left. 

Naturally, we spent the bulk of our time in the ocean. "Of all the things in the world to be afraid of," I told my bathroom buddy as we floated like buoyant bobbers, "who knew I'd rank a shart over a shark?" 

Liking Hiking: It's a thing

Take 3

My friend Deb and I really enjoy hiking together. We are extremely like-minded in our love for adventure and in our desire to strenuously challenge ourselves physically. Yesterday, we implemented what I like to call "Phase One" of our pilgrimage plan. Departing at the crack of 9 am, we scoured the horizon like the seasoned outdoors-women that we are. "I sense rain," I remarked, pointing out the subtle shades of gray cloaking the sky. As personal safety is the number one criteria of any experienced trekker, we decided to slightly alter our daunting plans and re-route our hike to a near-by breakfast place. 

"Slow down," my friend cautioned as I raced to shovel down my Belgian waffle topped with fresh-cut strawberries and whipped cream. "Remember to pace yourself. You don't want to get a cramp. Think of it as a marathon rather than a sprint." Very wise. One does not wish to over-exert one's self.

Today marked "Phase Two" and 9 am greeted us bright and early with blue skies and a blinding sun. With the limitless hiking opportunities available to us here in Wyoming County, we decided to combine our love of local history with exercise. With a little digging, our research unearthed a bounty of biographies waiting to be discovered at the cemetery. 

We parked beneath a magnificent maple. "I don't think that's a maple," Deb said, squinting up into the branches. Before I could launch into a passionate rebuttal, she pointed. "Look at that spiky-ball-y thing." She had me. Maple trees do not sprout spiky-ball-y things. We took a sample so that we could research the type of tree later, walking away while congratulating ourselves for our intellectual curiosity and botanical interest. 

The layout of the cemetery was split down the middle by a well-trafficked road. This division caused us some confusion as our research did not factor in the halves. Bad enough that we were instructed to go to the southeastern side ("Do you have a compass?" I asked Deb as she tried to orient herself to the sun like she was Davy Crockett.) but we didn't know if they meant the southeastern side of one of the halves or the cemetery as a whole. Lost but hopeful, we wandered, having lively debates about font, the sometimes unscrupulous measures of the stone cutters who allowed mourners who were paying, by the letter, to include obvious/unnecessary information ("...who died..." I read, "Pretty sure everyone knows the "who" and the ultimate outcome of the situation."), agonized over those who died too young, expressed delight and sometimes confusion over the old-fashioned names, and discovered that reverse, raised etching really stands the test of time rather than embedded etching. Our search for the infant son of the town's earliest settlers who was the first occupant of this historic resting place was unsuccessful. "Due to the lack of lumber," I read to Debbie, "he was buried in the wood constructed from a wagon box." Confused, we looked at the large trees that surrounded the cemetery as we returned to the truck. Deb plucked the spiky-bally-y thing up off the seat, reminding us that we had some more research in which to delve. Happily, we spotted a sign (that must have been posted while we were walking the grounds) that helpfully labeled the tree as a "Washington Sycamore." 

To reward ourselves for that exhausting research, we headed to the most popular coffee shop in town. Having tirelessly worked my way through an impressive frappe menu board in San Diego, I was eager to see if my local place could measure up. My friend Shanna works there and she immediately set to work creating a Milky Way frappe for me and OH MY STARS!!! It was scrumptious! Cool, creamy, smooth, intergalactic goodness. Exploring the shop, we discovered a super-secret conference room where my friend Peggy was leading some sort of meeting about world domination. Some time later, as Deb and I finished our drinks outside, Shanna and Peggy joined us for a fun round of "Let's Make Fun of Amy." I do not understand, with the infinite number of intelligent conversational topics out there, we invariably return to mocking me. "It's common ground," Shanna told me.

And, to commemorate when friends gather together, we decided to take some pictures. My friend Peggy, as it turns out, is QUITE the talented photographer. "Take One," I said, smiling for the camera. Peg looked doubtfully at me as I approached to admire her work. "Take Two," I announced as Peg took a very artistic picture of the chairs next to us. "Take Three," I prayed.  Whew! Success! "That's a wrap," I exclaimed. "We serve pastries and paninis too," Shanna shouted. 

It is said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. When it comes to hiking, Deb and I really embrace that philosophy of a single step. But how much better is it, when along our arduous journey, we encounter fine food and good friends! Don't you just love hiking!?!

Take 2

 

Camping "Fun:" Part III

In case you missed it...

 Camping "Fun:" Part 1

Camping "Fun:" Part II

Savannah had carefully planned out our packing supplies to the nearest detail (Okay...as a non-coffee drinker, she overlooked the creamer and sugar but, really, how important are THEY? Quick on his feet, Brad tried to improvise by offering us butter and a marshmallow as substitutions. Horrified, Sydney and I checked our calendars to make sure it wasn't April 1st.). For my comfort, she had blown up an air mattress that would've given "The Princess and The Pea" a run for its money. So lovely except with the (slight...minimal...barely worth mentioning) weight differential between Brad and I, our bed doubled as a see-saw. Imagine Colonial American pan scales. Yeah. A slight shift in movement from me could cause Brad to rocket through the roof of our tent. For herself and Sydney, Savannah had procured inflatable floor mats that resembled oversized bubble wrap. Unfortunately, Savannah's had a small leak but she fixed that problem by secretly switching with Sydney the next night. "How was it?" I asked Sydney on our first morning. "Fine on my back or stomach but side-sleeping was the worst," she reported. "So the secret is distribution of weight," I nodded, "like laying on a bed of nails." After her second night, Sydney would have considered a bed of nails an upgrade.

Despite my comfortable accommodations, I had difficulty sleeping. Cradled as we were, tucked between LA and San Diego, the two cities cast an illuminated glow as cozy as any nightlight. The rhythmic roar of the Los Angeles freeway drowned out the annoying sound of the Pacific Ocean. A fleet of naval cruisers filled the horizon like gentle fireflies. The thrumming of passing helicopters was a soothing experience similar to that of a baby who can both feel and hear her mother's heart in the womb. Ahhh...and those fifteen minute intervals of the high-speed passenger train! Who needs the subtle sounds of a grandfather clock? And to be so close to nature! As a poet, I wasn't sure what to make of the half dozen crows crammed onto the skeletal remains of a dead tree, eyeing Sydney and I as we walked wearily along the desolate trail. I wasn't sure how to process the story of Brad and Savannah's hiking expedition whereupon they encountered a coyote. "He'll run off as we get closer," Brad reassured Savannah. "Dad...he's not running off." "He'll run off if we make a lot of noise," Brad said, clapping his hands. "Dad...he's not running off." "Never mind," Brad said, "this trail over here looks good." 

I read the infestation of posted signs about the infestation of Argentinian ants and learned, by their extensive list of which environmentally-aggressive products NOT to use to get rid of them,  exactly HOW to get rid of them. I handed my husband a list. "What's this?" Brad had asked before leaving for his hiking trip where he was almost killed in a vicious coyote attack. "Comet. Ajax. Draino," he read. "What about a Brillo pad?" he asked. I frowned. "Why would I need that?" "For your brill-ant plan."

So I was disappointed to discover that, during my three hours of deep, restful sleep, I missed the magic. 

Rising in the morning, Sydney and I were channeling our inner pioneers, gamely sipping our piping hot black coffee. "It hurts my hand," I whimpered. "The silicone wrap around the cup is supposed to protect your hand," my daughter informed me. Brad wordlessly traded his mug with my camping cup. Wide-eyed with wonder, Sydney suddenly gestured to us, directing our gaze to a neighboring tent. We watched, incredulously, as a little gray rabbit rose up on its back legs and scratched at the tent entrance with its furry little front paw. "This. Cannot. Be. Real." I whispered, turning to Savannah. "Did you order US a wake-up bunny?"  "That explains it," Brad said nodding. "Explains what?" I asked, still stunned by what I'd witnessed. "Last night there was a scratching on our tent but I didn't dare investigate because you'd finally fallen asleep and I didn't want to freak you out." 

I stared at him, horrified. I'd heard the campfire story of The Hook more times than I could count. I saw Brad's picture of the coyote. I knew, deep in my heart, what those ravens represented. I watch the news.  My husband opted to just LIE THERE while our very lived hinged on the balance?  While some unknown entity lurked nearly? "Besides," he said, "if I had attempted to evacuate the air mattress, I risked having you capsize and possibly crush Sydney." "If only," Sydney muttered, discreetly dumping her coffee near a sand mound which may or may not have been the starter home of an Argentinian ant colony. Savannah held up her still-hot pot. "More coffee, anyone?" "Is there rabbit room service, too?" I wondered.

Camping "Fun:" Part II

Hufflepuff II

Hufflepuff I

Team Gryff-erin

 

In case you missed it...Camping "Fun:" Part I

I love the ocean. Or I thought I did. Apparently, for all these years, I have loved the kiddie-ride portion of ocean of which I had been exposed. The ocean with soft, exfoliating sand. With gentle waves that wrap around your ankles and tug upon your heartstrings. The ocean boarded by ice cream stands, souvenir stalls, and restrooms with working illumination and soap. The ocean I could reach within a block's walk. Looking back now, I could slap myself for my petty complaints. "The sand is too hot." "My ice cream is dripping." "I had to wait in line to use a scorpion-free/Argentinian ant-free/coyote-free/bobcat-free/rattlesnake-free potty."

But here I was. Looking at the mile-long, dusty, dirt trail surrounded by thorny scrub-brush that offered little shade but effectively hid every Amy-eating animal known to man.  Standing in the scorching heat, looking at the mile-long, dusty, dirt trail that led to a Pacific I had never known. This was the big-kid part of the ocean. This was not an ocean that offered friendly waves. This was an ocean that flipped you the middle finger while pounding you into its stony surf. Oh yeah. You read that right. Ankle-turning, back-biting, unforgiving ROCK. I had to use my "beach" chair as a walker to make my way to the water and then discovered, as I shakily stood there, that each outgoing tide would attempt to dislodge me like a magician pulling a tablecloth from under a flower vase. And that each trick would be accompanied by a sound similar to fire crackers...ground sparklers...going off. A villainous chuckle from the sea. "Rock"-ous laughter.

The surfers were in heaven. My boogie-boarding family was bruised, but delighted. I spent my time trying to find my balance. As I gazed, fearfully, from the cliff's edge (before being tugged back to a more secure vantage point by my husband who called me "Stumble-grumkin"), I noticed, for the first time, the triangular formation made by the in-coming waves. How had I never known this before? "Maybe because this is the first time you've seen it from this vantage point," Brad said, bending to tie my loose shoelace. With a strong foundation of 4th grade geometry, I marveled at the wonders of nature. I considered the triangular wave of an echocardiogram. Sound waves. The use of triangles in architecture. The Great Pyramid of Giza. The Bermuda Triangle. The three sides of the Trinity. The Deathly Hallows symbol. This was profound. A revelation. A passing helicopter shook me out of my revelry. 

As my family frolic-ed and played, trying not to get crushed to death by the enormous waves that hammered them against the boulders, I was carefully collecting the materials for my stone sculpture tower. This was different from my usual stone/shell collecting method of which my family insists, annoyingly, of "helping" me with (Sorry for ending with a preposition). Annoying only because they get their noses so out of joint if I don't like theirselections. Generally, I look for traits such as smooth, translucent, eroded holes. I am picky about sparkle. It has to be the right kind of sparkle. For example, I found a small, tan disc that had just the right kind. "It looks like a snickerdoodle!" I squealed, snatching it up. 

I found the perfect rock for Savannah's house. "I don't want it," she said flatly (and rather ungratefully, if you asked me). Undeterred, I showed her all the reasons why this was the perfect addition to her home. "It's the size of a small cat," she pointed out (like that was a bad thing). "Look how its been bleached white by doubtless hundreds of years of sun exposure." I explained, "See the way the water has bored tunnels through its rocky core." "I don't want it," she repeated. No worries. I had Sydney lug it the mile-long, vertical climb back to our campsite, smuggled it in Savannah's car, and secreted it into her house, placing it in her bay window where it was immediately spotted by Lisa who squealed happily, "What a beautiful rock! And that is the perfect place to keep it!" I smiled happily at my daughter.

Sculpture rocks collected, I returned to my chair (the "special" one my ample rear end does NOT get stuck in) and began the zen-like process of creating art OF nature FROM nature while IN nature. It was, in a word, sublime. 

Until.

Until, my family, surrendering to the sea, came and collapsed by me. "Whatcha doin'?" Savannah asked, with her usual engineer-like eliteness. Surveying my simple design, she, of course, offered some suggestions. "Stop it," I snapped, "I am being one with nature here." "Here," her father said, "we can make our own. Why don't we make it a competition?" Oh my gosh! This was about meditation. Balance. Harmony with the earth. "Yeah!" Savannah agreed, "We'll have teams!" Sydney and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. That darn Harry Potter House Sorting quiz always comes back to haunt us. Team Hufflepuff against a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. Sydney rested peacefully back on her boogie board and let the sun warm her while encouraging her mother with gentle compliments. Brad and Savannah went furiously to work while systematically trash-talking my efforts. Within seconds, they had constructed a

design eighteen rocks tall.  "You need nineteen to win," they crowed. "There are no winners or losers," I murmured like a magi. Sydney offered a sleepy "Amen." Team Gryff-erin was having none of that nonsense. A time limit was suddenly, without warning, imposed. Ridiculously arbitrary rules were made up and implemented. "Stability stones don't count," Brad told me as I slipped a pebble beneath the edge of a wobbly rock. "Decorator rocks don't count either," Savannah said, watching me perch a pretty rock off a jutting edge. "Only rocks that add to height will be included in the final total." Sydney's sleepy head lifted a bit. "I think it's pretty," she declared before returning to her nap. 

I admit it. The pressure was starting to get to me. I almost hit rock bottom when my tower tumbled but I looked at it as an opportunity to start with a clean slate. Rather than seek the psychological id of each stone...instead of connecting to each rock's chi...I harnessed my energies into Darwin's theory of natural selection. Nineteen towering stones later, I was there. Breathless as my cry of victory rang out across the water, I raised my arms to the heavens. I had attained my (a) goal. No...I had not achieved enlightenment. No...I was not one with nature. No...I had not improved, even remotely, as a human being. But Team Hufflepuff CRUSHED Team Gryff-erin! "Go us," Sydney muttered sleepily.

Movement to my side caught my attention as Brad and Savannah began adding to their sculpture. "No fair," I cried, "the contest is done!" They laughed as their tower now trumped twenty stones tall. "Mom, you shouldn't have taken that for granite," Savannah grinned. Dam it!

Camping "Fun:" Part I

By now, we are all VERY well acquainted with my profound love of the great outdoors. So it was no great surprise that, after three leisurely, fun-filled weeks in San Diego, Savannah would conclude my visit with a camping trip. Because...you know...my profound love of the great outdoors and all that. It sounded so exciting. No cell service. Hour long ferry ride on the ocean (How many blogs have been devoted to my extreme motion sickness?). Carry my own water. Hiking. Savannah showed me her pouch of dried egg powder. Fun. Couldn't wait.

But...oh no! Two days before departure, as I was sipping the coffee that Lisa had made me  as I sat on the patio, debating watching another four or five episodes of Downton Abby or taking a dip in the pool, Savannah shared the devastating news she'd just received from the ferry service warning of high water swells. Passengers ten years old or younger were banned from transport (lucky devils) and those who were prone to motion sickness (Me! Me! Me-Me-Me-Me!) were strongly encouraged to postpone. After some discussion, our group decided to pull the plug on our great adventure. I was devastated. 

Unbeknownst to me, while I was busy drowning my sorrows by doing backwards somersaults in the pool, Lisa was busy researching alternative camping adventures. My opinion of her, rather high up to this point, plummeted. Soon the car was packed and I was stuffed, unceremoniously, into the front seat, waving good-bye to Lisa who couldn't come because of work obligations. Liar.

This isn't possible, I thought to myself, staring blindly at on-coming traffic. I have NEVER, in my life, pretended to even remotely love camping. Why was I being punished this way? But wait!!! Maybe it was a ruse! Maybe my family was just pulling a funny little prank on me and we were ACTUALLY driving to The Del...the beautiful beachfront hotel located in Coronado, featured in the movie Some Like It Hot. I closed my eyes, imagining myself sipping a colorful cocktail delivered to me in my cabana, scampering along the soft, gold-flecked sand, discovering shells, listening to the band play in the evening. Pure heaven.

I opened my eyes. An hour or more had passed. "What are those large round buildings?" I asked as Savannah flicked on her turn signal. "Nuclear reactors," Savannah replied, as she pulled the car into the park entrance. Gingerly, I extricated myself from the vehicle, flinching as a helicopter flew fifty feet above my head. Turns out, we were also next-door neighbors of Camp Pendleton, which, by the way, is NOT a 4-H or YMCA camp. Brad was delighted, happily identifying each type of chopper as it flew by (every ten minutes).  Across from parking lot, a passenger train roared by. I could tell by the expressions of the riders that they felt sorry for me. How I longed for the old days, when one could run gamely alongside a boxcar and jump inside.

You know me, no matter the situation, I am going to make the best of things. But let me state, inequitably, that it is NOT A VACATION if you have to construct your own shelter!!! Now, I'm not saying that I ACTUALLY did that myself...

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PHILOSOPHICAL THOUGHT:

It's funny...no matter the time or distance, whenever a family reunites, each person seems to lapse back into their original roles. Sydney and I realized this immediately when, on the precipice of hiking down the steep, one mile path to the ocean, Brad and Savannah said it would be easier if they ran back to camp to gather supplies while Syd and I began our trek. "We'll catch up to you before you're even a quarter of the way down," they reassured us. "You know," I told Sydney in disgust, as we carefully made our way down, pausing at each shade opportunity offered, "In this scenario, they think we're Shaggy and Scooby-Doo." "It's insulting, really," Sydney agreed, pausing to take a sip of water as we watched Brad and Savannah juggling chairs, fins, and coolers in the distance. "I'm hungry," she admitted, smiling in thanks as I pulled a package of gummies, a string cheese, and a snack-sized bag of chips from my hoodie pocket. 

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Speaking of trains, I watched dispassionately as my two engineer-minded family members sprang into action, assembling the tent. Assigned the important duty of holding on to one of the poles ("Don't lose it," my husband warned.), I sighed to Sydney who had just lost her job of banging in tent stakes with a rock because she angled them the wrong way. "If Officer Ivan were here, he would balance this pole on his nose," I informed my daughter knowingly. We looked at each other. Game on!

Some time later, Brad asked for the pole. I looked around, confused. "You were just balancing it on your nose," he reminded me. "Yeah...I know," I stammered, mentally re-tracing my footsteps. "I wrote our names in the dirt with it," I said, showing him the heart. He nodded. Of course. "Then I flicked an Argentinian ant off part of the tent." "How did you know its nationality?" Brad wondered. "Was it carrying its country's flag?" I explained how I had read the notices of an Argentinian ant invasion posted on what the state park delusionally called the restrooms.  "Is that anything like the British invasion?" Brad inquired. "Oh!" I remembered, "I thought I saw a scorpion over there by those scraggly weeds." We walked over to investigate. Sure enough, the tent pole was there. "Did you actually see anything?" Brad asked, picking up the abandoned investigation tool/possible weapon. "No," I admitted, "I got scared and ran away." 

Brad spent some time reassuring me that scorpions prefer a desert habitat and the likelihood of an insect infestation was minimal. As he walked away to finish constructing my shelter to ensure my survival on my vacation, I looked sullenly over at Sydney. "Isn't MOST of California considered a desert climate?" She nodded sadly, peering suspiciously into the undergrowth. Standing, I carefully picked up a stick and walked over to the now-erected tent, my new home, and flicked another ant off of it. "That's two," I whispered, "What number constitutes an invasion?" Realizing that nature was soon certain to come a'calling, Sydney Lynn voiced the terror that truly lay within our hearts. "Never mind the scorpions or Argentinian ants. Forget that we could stumble to our deaths off the ocean cliffs. Don't worry about riptides, jellyfish stings, sharks, or even a good old fashioned drowning. We still have to face those bathrooms." 

Cue screaming.

This was pure hell.