"Roughin' It"
The spring season’s final cold front blew through about two months ago and brought with it a hospitable breeze, drier air, and an irrefutable temptation to spend a night under the stars. After the wind shifted and began to blow a little cooler on the heels of the storm, I determined the afternoon to be perfect for my four-year old son’s and my first camping trip together. When I broached the subject and asked him if he wanted to go camping with his daddy, well, I thought that boy might explode right there on the spot.
After I retrieved my tent and two sleeping bags from the attic, my son and I spent some time packing for our overnight adventure. When we were finished, our pack consisted of the following: two pillows, a couple of flashlights, his handheld lantern, two Thermacells, various snacks, two folding chairs, a Thermos full of hot chocolate, a lighter, a bag of marshmallows and a clothes hanger to roast them on.
When we entered the area where we would be camping, I asked my son where he thought we should set up our tent. He rested his little chin on his little fingers for a moment and let out an inquisitive, “Hmmm,” before pointing to a promising spot thick with grass under an old pecan tree. “Good choice, buddy,” I said, relieved that we would have a soft spot to lay on that night. A bare patch of ground near the tent would serve as the perfect spot for the fire pit. I checked the wind and positioned the tent upwind of the spot where we were going to build the fire. This way we would benefit from a nice breeze blowing into the back of the tent as well as keeping the smoke and cinders out of our faces.
After I pitched our tent and stowed the pack and sleeping bags inside, we hunted for branches and kindling with which to build our fire. The nearby pecan trees offered ample fuel, and shortly before sunset we had a magnificent fire blazing away before us. That evening as my son reenacted the pitching of the tent and otherwise explored our surroundings, I enjoyed a brilliant sunset, its hues enhanced by the quickly retreating clouds. The clouds’ plum and purple striations looked like a woman’s long and slender fingers reaching back for something she’d forgotten as the brisk wind whisked the stubborn clouds from the evening sky.
After the sun finally went all the way down and left us and the trees and the crickets cloaked in darkness, we broke out the marshmallows. I bent the clothes hanger until I’d shaped it into the quintessential marshmallow poker, and we roasted about half a bag’s worth over the open flames. Granted, an equal number of marshmallows wound up in the bottom of the fire, but we got our sticky fill just the same. When the marshmallows and hot chocolate were gone we climbed into our sleeping bags.
I have to admit that at that moment I was torn between my excitement over sleeping outside under the stars with my son for the first time and the inescapable apprehension over the prospect that he would keep us awake all night. Obviously I believed he was ready to sleep all night in a tent out of doors for the first time, but I still wondered if he would get scared at the darkness and the night noises, or whether he’d toss and turn and talk all night.
Roughly forty-five seconds after zipping us in for the night, however, my apprehensions were proven baseless. My son was snoring. Loudly. In an instant my apprehension melted away only to be replaced by a sense of disappointment that he did not stay awake longer talking and asking me questions. As I lay there listening to the trees gently swaying in the steady wind during the minutes between his falling asleep and mine, I missed him terribly.
I awoke the next morning to the woeful moans of the mourning dove countered by the chipper call of, “bob white! bob white!” coming from the ancient pecans and nearby fields all around us. It took a few moments to acclimate myself to my surroundings and remember where I was and how I’d gotten there. After watching beads of condensation and dew race down the outside of the tent for a minute or so, I turned and gazed on my son burrowed deeply in his sleeping bag, breathing peacefully.
We had made it all the way through the night without either of us waking up one time. I was so proud of my little man and how well he’d done on our first camping trip! I wanted to hug him and praise him for being such a big boy, but I could not bring myself to wake him from such obviously restful sleep. Just then I heard a startling noise outside our tent. My son must have sensed it, too, for he stirred and began to rub his eyes.
The front of the tent shook lightly and something jiggled the zipper. We both sat up, faced the front of the tent and watched the zipper circle its way around the inside of the tent as the morning light poured into the expanding opening. Moments later, the front flap of the tent whipped open. My son’s eyes grew wider and wider until he broke out into a deep grin at the sight of my wife’s hand reaching inside the tent holding a cup of hot coffee.
“Mornin’, guys! How’re my happy campers?” she asked, smiling. Our dogs milled about at her feet, jockeying for position at the tent flap trying to get a nose inside. My son exited the tent first. He wrapped his mother up in a big hug and began debriefing her on our camping trip. They sat down on the patio furniture just outside the back door of our home while he educated her on the fine art of roasting marshmallows.
It took me a little longer to unfold myself and climb out of the tent. We’d had a wonderful time, yes, but I had still spent the night on the cold, hard ground regardless, and I was pretty stiff. After stretching a bit, I soaked up the sounds of daybreak that underscored the adorable conversation my wife and son were having, and silently asked God what I’d done to be so lucky. We all then went into the house to fix breakfast.
Okay, so we weren’t really “roughing it” in the deep, dark woods on my son’s first camping trip, but you wouldn’t have known it to hear him relive it. I know he won’t carry vivid memories of our first camping adventure – I have virtually no memories of being four years old – but I believe that somewhere inside him, some memory of this first trip will be with him forever and hopefully will help instill in him a love for the outdoors. I know it helped further reinforce mine. Even if it was just in our own back yard.
(c) Roger Guilian 2008
After I retrieved my tent and two sleeping bags from the attic, my son and I spent some time packing for our overnight adventure. When we were finished, our pack consisted of the following: two pillows, a couple of flashlights, his handheld lantern, two Thermacells, various snacks, two folding chairs, a Thermos full of hot chocolate, a lighter, a bag of marshmallows and a clothes hanger to roast them on.
When we entered the area where we would be camping, I asked my son where he thought we should set up our tent. He rested his little chin on his little fingers for a moment and let out an inquisitive, “Hmmm,” before pointing to a promising spot thick with grass under an old pecan tree. “Good choice, buddy,” I said, relieved that we would have a soft spot to lay on that night. A bare patch of ground near the tent would serve as the perfect spot for the fire pit. I checked the wind and positioned the tent upwind of the spot where we were going to build the fire. This way we would benefit from a nice breeze blowing into the back of the tent as well as keeping the smoke and cinders out of our faces.
After I pitched our tent and stowed the pack and sleeping bags inside, we hunted for branches and kindling with which to build our fire. The nearby pecan trees offered ample fuel, and shortly before sunset we had a magnificent fire blazing away before us. That evening as my son reenacted the pitching of the tent and otherwise explored our surroundings, I enjoyed a brilliant sunset, its hues enhanced by the quickly retreating clouds. The clouds’ plum and purple striations looked like a woman’s long and slender fingers reaching back for something she’d forgotten as the brisk wind whisked the stubborn clouds from the evening sky.
After the sun finally went all the way down and left us and the trees and the crickets cloaked in darkness, we broke out the marshmallows. I bent the clothes hanger until I’d shaped it into the quintessential marshmallow poker, and we roasted about half a bag’s worth over the open flames. Granted, an equal number of marshmallows wound up in the bottom of the fire, but we got our sticky fill just the same. When the marshmallows and hot chocolate were gone we climbed into our sleeping bags.
I have to admit that at that moment I was torn between my excitement over sleeping outside under the stars with my son for the first time and the inescapable apprehension over the prospect that he would keep us awake all night. Obviously I believed he was ready to sleep all night in a tent out of doors for the first time, but I still wondered if he would get scared at the darkness and the night noises, or whether he’d toss and turn and talk all night.
Roughly forty-five seconds after zipping us in for the night, however, my apprehensions were proven baseless. My son was snoring. Loudly. In an instant my apprehension melted away only to be replaced by a sense of disappointment that he did not stay awake longer talking and asking me questions. As I lay there listening to the trees gently swaying in the steady wind during the minutes between his falling asleep and mine, I missed him terribly.
I awoke the next morning to the woeful moans of the mourning dove countered by the chipper call of, “bob white! bob white!” coming from the ancient pecans and nearby fields all around us. It took a few moments to acclimate myself to my surroundings and remember where I was and how I’d gotten there. After watching beads of condensation and dew race down the outside of the tent for a minute or so, I turned and gazed on my son burrowed deeply in his sleeping bag, breathing peacefully.
We had made it all the way through the night without either of us waking up one time. I was so proud of my little man and how well he’d done on our first camping trip! I wanted to hug him and praise him for being such a big boy, but I could not bring myself to wake him from such obviously restful sleep. Just then I heard a startling noise outside our tent. My son must have sensed it, too, for he stirred and began to rub his eyes.
The front of the tent shook lightly and something jiggled the zipper. We both sat up, faced the front of the tent and watched the zipper circle its way around the inside of the tent as the morning light poured into the expanding opening. Moments later, the front flap of the tent whipped open. My son’s eyes grew wider and wider until he broke out into a deep grin at the sight of my wife’s hand reaching inside the tent holding a cup of hot coffee.
“Mornin’, guys! How’re my happy campers?” she asked, smiling. Our dogs milled about at her feet, jockeying for position at the tent flap trying to get a nose inside. My son exited the tent first. He wrapped his mother up in a big hug and began debriefing her on our camping trip. They sat down on the patio furniture just outside the back door of our home while he educated her on the fine art of roasting marshmallows.
It took me a little longer to unfold myself and climb out of the tent. We’d had a wonderful time, yes, but I had still spent the night on the cold, hard ground regardless, and I was pretty stiff. After stretching a bit, I soaked up the sounds of daybreak that underscored the adorable conversation my wife and son were having, and silently asked God what I’d done to be so lucky. We all then went into the house to fix breakfast.
Okay, so we weren’t really “roughing it” in the deep, dark woods on my son’s first camping trip, but you wouldn’t have known it to hear him relive it. I know he won’t carry vivid memories of our first camping adventure – I have virtually no memories of being four years old – but I believe that somewhere inside him, some memory of this first trip will be with him forever and hopefully will help instill in him a love for the outdoors. I know it helped further reinforce mine. Even if it was just in our own back yard.
(c) Roger Guilian 2008
posted by Days Afield Host | 9:54 AM
