The Reluctant Camper, Final Third: Camping with The Gays

Tensions were running high. The air was electric with panic. The time was nigh when I’d be asked to urinate outdoors. The pugs–no doubt fearing abandonment,  but simultaneously fearing their involvement in whatever the hell was going on– were attached at our heels, crying and whining and basically trying to kill us by getting underfoot. There was no way we would be leaving the house on our first joint camping adventure without someone (me) shedding a few tears. Of course, I think it’s safe to say that most of the times I cry it’s not so much from sadness as it is from frustration (or hunger), and I was getting seriously frustrated (or hungry).

Let me just preface this (minor) incident with some background info: I don’t have much of a problem with destroying shit.  I drove my ex-husband crazy because I compulsively changed things around the house, which involved me moving furniture up and down stairwells (unwilling to wait for help), gouging the walls and scratching up wood floors (not to mention risking death all in the name of better living, which I’m fairly certain is the motto for Better Homes and Gardens).  Or, after returning from my first solo-trip in our new car, I backed into the driveway and onto the rockery, ripping off the rear mudflap. Of course, I didn’t know that there was evidence of this until Chad returned from work, bringing in the mudflap he found in our yard (I swear I did a walk-around once all four wheels were safely on earth, and found nothing condemnable).  I’m just saying that I usually don’t feel too bad about these things, so it was more stressful to me that Michael was stressed about the hole I ripped in our freezer than I was about my act of ripping a hole in the freezer.

See, Michael, being the expert camper, was in charge of our meals for the weekend, which was just fine because he’s also a pretty good cook. In fact, on our second or third date, Michael made a dinner, complete with a roasted chicken (stuffed with onion and lemon for flavor) and homemade gravy (it was a jaw-dropping moment for me, realizing that a boy could make gravy). So I really had no issue with him cooking up a green chili to take with us on our trip. To help the chili keep longer in the cooler, Michael poured it into a Ziploc bag and tossed it into the freezer, which is super clever,  except that he tossed the bag onto the mesh-wire shelf and it pooled and drooped between the rungs, freezing into immovable, bulbous chili-filled udders, to be discovered the morning we were leaving.  So, we’re packing the cooler and Michael was trying to gently remove the bag, which I’m telling you, was not going to work without defrosting the freezer.

After patiently/ anxiously watching him, I stepped in with the master plan to remove the whole fucking shelf, which I would then soak in a bath of hot water until the chili was freed. My attempts to gently lift the shelf up and out were not working, so I tried a little force, using the palm of my hand to smack that fucker loose, which did indeed unlodge the shelf, or at least unlodged one side of the shelf, so that if we thought it were stuck before, we were mistaken because now it was seriously jammed in at a weird and unforgiving angle that refused to budge. Not that I didn’t try! I kept whacking at it with my angry-hands, determined to demonstrate that MY WAY WOULD WORK.  And meanwhile, Michael was like, “maybe you should stop, I don’t think your idea is working.”  But, see, we already had a few tense minutes of packing the car, because apparently there are right ways and wrong ways to do this (shoving shit in is wrong). And so I was feeling defiant, like, “goddamnit, I can work a fucking freezer,” and with all my misguided strength, I yanked out the shelf, and ripped a hole in the freezer wall (this, by the way, is not an easy task, given that it’s a mother fucking appliance; really, go try this out on the appliance of your choosing).

From my point of view, this was a rental house and our landlady was pretty much high all the time, or possibly just old and flighty and always taking art classes (so, high) at the local community college or showing up in our yard to trim bamboo (seriously, this happened a lot; I mean, like, A LOT), and I knew (some might say “assumed”) that she wouldn’t check the freezer before we moved out, and in my mind, so as long as the freezer still functioned (yet to be determined), no harm was done. Michael disagreed, as expressed by his hair and eyes and eyebrows and hand-gestures and timbre of his voice. But, see, I’m not good when my life partners have feelings other than sheer joy, because when I was growing up, we bartered with love, so I always assume that anger translates into “I don’t love you anymore.” And seriously, first the car, then the freezer, it seemed our life together was doomed, so naturally I sneaked into our bedroom for a tension-releasing cry, and to document this interaction that fell neatly into the category I like to call “journal-worthy.” We hadn’t even made it out of the door and already camping was deteriorating to the point that I needed to document the events for the likely court trial looming in my future. Because our relationship was still somewhat new, I’m fairly certain Michael wasn’t aware of the drama in my head, because he seems to get upset and get over it, whereas I get upset in secret and therefore never get over it, and so my tears + journaling went unnoticed, and we were able to get out of the house and on the road somewhat expediently once the chili was freed.

For our first excursion, Michael picked a smallish campground by Ida Creek. Or possibly Icicle Creek (it started with an “I” and a water source was identified).  Anyway, it’s east of Seattle, which is really as geographically detailed as I can get because basically I equate Washington State to Seattle: there’s Vancouver, BC (North Seattle), Portland (South Seattle), and the rest of the United State (East Seattle).  West is tricky for me because I forget that there is land to the west of Seattle, except when I recall that there are places to go “just north of mom’s beach cabin” which is on the southwestern Pacific Coast of…Seattle. It is also a stand-alone cardinal direction: north, south, east, mom’s cabin.

Anyway, after an unknown amount of time, we arrived, except not really. I mean, when we turned off the highway, I thought that we had arrived, but that was not the case, but of course, I was getting amped up which the dogs totally sensed, so they started to whine (which quickly deteriorated into full-on crying, like they were being beaten) knowing that something was about to happen. But the road just kept going, until it disintegrated into gravel, and then into dirt, and then I’m lost in the 19th century with Percy Shelley–

First our pleasures die–and then

Our hopes, and then our fears–and when

These are dead, the debt is due,

Dust claims dust — and we die too

We were driving on dust: not only had the road washed away, but so did the upper campground (and, update, a year later the lower campground burned down in a forest fire—can god’s message to stay the fuck away be any clearer?).  (Also, that pretentious poetry-quoting type of shit? that’s why we have one dog named Atticus, from To Kill a Mockingbird, and another dog named after Magnum PI… gotta keep my pets feng shui-ed).  

Of the eight or so campsites, only a couple were occupied, what with it still being really fucking cold out (or, if you are a camper, you would say “early in the season,”). Michael let me pick the site, but gave me some pros and cons to consider, such as proximity of other campers and, umm, some other stuff that wasn’t memorable. Although we could have selected a riverside locale, we went with the site that was on a small rise, granting us a little more privacy.  Privacy to do what, exactly? Well, I guess just to get down to the business of camping, which included unpacking my main source of hydration (and dehydration): my pre-mixed bag of tropical punch and vodka; looking for firewood; looking for the perfect stick to poke the fire; and then, poking the fire (not a euphemism). Surprisingly, there were no “journal-worthy” events during our two or three day tenure. Even the toilet was unremarkable. Again, this is a reflection of it being “early in the season,” and the toilet having been recently cleaned and mostly unused. I don’t remember much else, other than stopping at Starbucks on our way back home. I think this haze is all for the best, because had it played out like our next camping trip, I’m not sure there would have been a ‘next’ trip.

The next trip went down in August. It was me and Michael, Michael’s friend and business partner Alvin, and Alvin’s friend Greg (The Gays). The pugs were there, as was Milo, Alvin’s Rhodesian Ridgeback, and a giant watermelon. I don’t actually remember where we went, but it involved a ferry ride, so ostensibly it was to the WEST of Seattle. Given that it was the Height of the Season, Michael and I got there early to snag the best spot (or really, a spot).  The campground was again by a river, except unlike the Ida-or-Icicle Creek trip, we selected the site closest to the water, and there was a lot more water here, and it thus a lot more noise here, too. More to come on this point.

By the afternoon, the park was filled. Our site was situated in a way that we only had to worry about one neighbor, who was a 60- or 70-something year old woman in a little trailer with her cat, which makes me think that the trailer was her home because otherwise, why bring the cat? To be eaten by coyotes? Ravaged by raccoons (those dicks!)? Of course, she was quiet and didn’t complain about us being noisy so she was fine (although she did pack up and take off the next morning).

We had quite the wait for The Gays, and debated about eating dinner or waiting, unsure of what the fuck was going on because of the lack of cell reception (it’s like god didn’t want me to get more candy crush lives from my friends). I will say that, like the Jeffersons, we were movin’ on up, at least in terms of camping furniture: for Michael’s July birthday, I got him a deluxe, rocking camp-chair. Actually, I got him a trip to Vegas, but then he felt obligated to pay, which meant I had to get another gift, so in the end, it was super expensive for everyone. Anyway, this rocking chair is nicer than most of our real furniture, so I had to get one, as well. Except that in all my online researching, I kept running across zero-gravity recliners. Now, I had no idea what that meant, and honestly, I still don’t, but I wanted it. But seriously, what makes it zero gravity? It has a fixed leg/back position which tilts, but I’m not sure why that is the equivalent of traveling in space (and if it is, I’m no longer impressed by anything NASA-related). (Also, these two bulky chairs? They were major players in the Packing of The Car Debacle, because there was no fucking room for them).

Time marched on. It was getting dark, and although theoretically we are talking about an August-night-dark of about 9pm, I think it’s fair to say that in the campground the sun was gone by 7pm.  The fun and excitement of debating about when to eat dinner had worn off, and I was just tired from driving all day, and the packing and unpacking, and also I was really fucking bored, and so by the time The Gays arrived, I was already in the tent with my portable DVD player and pugs, just waiting for the day to end.  So, in terms of suicide-prevention, the timing of their arrival was perfect.  Alvin and Greg were stuck on The Other Side of the water in a crazy-long line to get on the ferry. It’s a grand Pacific Northwest experience: the beautiful weekend and desire to do something different, something fun–just like everyone else in Seattle with a car–and the subsequent multi-hour-wait at the ferry terminal. No matter, because with The Gays came supplemental inebriants. Oh, and also a watermelon.  I’m going to let you guess which I consumed that night, but helpful hint: I don’t really remember much, at least until bedtime.

My bedtime rituals: peeing (me and the dogs), brushing my teeth (just me), climb into bed (with the pugs) and turn on the TV for what I like to call “sleepy-time sitcoms,” which include Mary Tyler Moore, Golden Girls, Bob Newhart—anything innocuous to lull me to sleep. I don’t know when I last slept through the night, and listening to Bob distracts me from ruminating over every single decision I’ve ever made that led to that particular moment.

Tooth brushing. It was a little weird to spit frothy paste into the bushes and no doubt into the home of some poor unsuspecting mountain-rat, but other than that I guess it was fine. I’m not sure if anyone else was doing this. 

Peeing. Even though it was clearly bedtime, the entire campsite was still awake. They would ALL regret this in the morning when the sun blasted into their tent at 4am (not sure if I simply thought this, or if I was placing a curse on everyone).  With so many folks out and about,  I was unwilling to sneak into the bushes and use my J-P or P-Stream or whatever the fuck it’s called (for full review, see my earlier post, The Reluctant Camper, Part II: Tooling Around the Pacific Northwest) for fear of  either being seen urinating by other campers (go to bed!!!), or being unseen by other campers, and subsequently urinated on, which is not okay under any circumstances, ladies.  So, yet another trip to the Vault Toilet.

I trudged along what I would call a “deer path” in daylight, but re-christen as a “rape-path” in the dark.  Because, to me, camping is like setting a hillbilly rape-trap, and I’m the bait (see Part One of this camping trilogy in which I review the safety features of tents. Spoiler alert: there are none). Luckily, I had my pugs, who move with such cacophonous…grace (?) (i.e., crashing through the bushes in sheer terror of being outdoors) that the Gang Rape Gang gave pause, and chose not to attack an already noisy target. Not that leaving the pugs behind was an option; with Atticus, being left is never okay.  But see, taking the pugs means leashing them up, because although staying-close is a general rule, sometimes they need to investigate potential food-sources, and then you got yourself a deaf pug bolting across a park, hopping onto a bench and shoving their snout into the hands of an unsuspecting fool who is eating in public. Luckily most people think it’s cute when they are attacked by pugs.

[The reverse of this situation is NOT TRUE, though. Our cat-lady neighbor was replaced on day two by hooligans with giant, untethered, mean dogs, one of whom saw Magnum as either a threat or maybe dinner, and attacked! But here’s the part that still makes me a little teary-eyed, like—beyond just swooning– Michael leapt out of his awesome rocking chair with speed that even I, obsessive pug-owner, could not match, intercepted a dog fight, and pulled Magnum to safety by grabbing his harness just as the other dog was lifting him off the ground by Maggie’s scruff with his stupid vicious teeth.  Pause here. Now, there are so many wonderful layers to this–how Michael responds in an emergency, how Michael feels about my pugs, or maybe just any small animal (but even that says something), how fast Michael can move… on and on– that I obviously had to marry him].  

We, me and the pugs, enter the vault toilet. First, it’s dark so I have a flashlight. But then, I have a leash and two dogs clawing at me because what the fuck is happening to them? I don’t dare put either leash or flashlight on the ground, so I’m juggling and accidentally see into the toilet and nearly heave (the good part of using the toilet at night versus day was the reduced amount of soupy moisture on the walls. I didn’t walk out feeling sticky, like I did during the day).

Fuck. Camping.

“But Lee, wasn’t there a beautiful mountain stream?”    

“FUCK, I DON’T KNOW, DID YOU SMELL THAT FUCKING SEWAGE PIT?”

After not washing my hands, we head back to the tent. Goddamn that tent. I would say second to the toilet, climbing in and out of the tent is my least favorite part of camping. When we were little and summering at my grandparent’s tiny, studio beach house, we kids would sleep outside in an old WWII army tent. It was the kind of tent that Hawkeye and Trapper made booze in, built for living and walking, complete with cots and furniture. Oh, how I miss that tent (my sister Hattie has one of these tents, except in baby-blue; a total ‘glamping’ tent.  Knowing her (or maybe more accurately, knowing her husband), this must have been purchased at her request because it is totally impractical for any camping (LUCKY)—beyond sleeping in the backyard of mom’s beach cabin (goddamnit, me and Michael need to buy a beach house!).

Let’s talk best-practices with tents. Do you remove the shoes before you enter? Or after? And do campers really believe that a swath of tarp extending beyond the base of the tent can be considered a vestibule? I just can’t stand it, the crouching and climbing in. Maybe if I could shuffle in? Then pausing, door zipper hitting the middle of my back, the struggle with my shoes. Because I really don’t want to trudge mud (from the only source of water I’ve walked in, the fucking toilets) into the tent. And then there are the pugs–do I get in first? Or last? I’m certain that Milo entered Alvin’s tent of his own accord, and in the morning, you know, just–walked back out.  Not the pugs. Magnum entered, somewhat hesitantly, and sure, was confused about why we were doing this, although he did recognize the mattress as a bed, so who cares about the why.  Atticus, older and wiser, was freaked the fuck out by the door. First, it moves. I mean, just when you get used to the concept of a doorway being a full three or four inches off the ground, then someone like me comes along and moves it, holding the door down and altogether eliminating the 3 or 4 inch struggle. Holy fuck. What now? I mean, here he is, and the door moves, and so LET’S GO HOME. And there is no lifting of Atticus. You may think, twenty pound dog, just pick him up. Nope. His first move is to get rigid like a corpse, and then bam, jack-knifes and bucks until you drop him, and then he hides under furniture, unreachable physically and emotionally.

Besides the crawling in/ shoes/ pugs, I’m also not a fan of changing clothing in the tent, again because of the crouching. It’s not possible. The only reasonable way to change in a tent is by lying on the air mattress, legs in the air, LIKE A HOOKER, pulling on clean panties because WHAT THE FUCK, why is it okay to be nasty just because you are outdoors?  I’m not a “sit and be fit” type of person; I prefer to move my body to its fullest potential, not these amputated, flailing gestures that leave me panting after an outfit change.

I roll from my half-crouch in the doorway onto the air mattress (which was inexplicably wet). After a full 20 minutes, maybe less, maybe more, there is no time in the woods, my tailbone sunk down, touching the ground while the rest of me remained at a reasonable-mattress-grade (which is not what is happening in the photo on the air mattress packaging, because those folks look like they are buoyed on a cloud), and my little DVD player had run out of juice. No soothing sounds of Rose conferring with Blanche over a cheesecake to rock me asleep. I suppose the good news is that I also was not kept awake worrying about something stupid I said 20 years earlier because the river was making so much goddamn noise that I could think of nothing else. Do you remember being 14 and afraid to drop a tab of acid because what if you never come out of it? what if you are out of control for the rest of your life?? That’s what it’s like to sleep by a river. No, not the thought process, but the unlikely scenario where you can’t control what is happening.  What if I am camping and I can’t make the river stop? Like, it was really fucking loud! And this is true–a couple times I thought, COULD SOMEONE PLEASE TURN OFF THE RIVER? But there’s no off switch.

The next morning, I emerge, dried trails of tears on my cheeks from the previous night’s attempt to sleep.  But we were alone. Because, you see, camping with homosexuals means real coffee and french pastry. Leaving the campsite to get food seemed very much not like camping, and probably not something Michael would do. No matter; they brought back enough for everyone! ( Greg, unpacking the grocery bag: “I can’t find the k(r)w-sänts!”  Alvin: “Homo says what?”).  

So, I guess that’s about it. I’m not sure what all else happened, other than the boys being boys and me reading Harold Kushner’s “Overcoming Life’s Disappointments,” and not recognizing the irony until it was pointed out. I will go camping again. In fact, I will probably be the one to suggest it, to plan it, to lay claim for “Saturday’s Breakfast” on the spreadsheet of who-makes-which-meal.  Kushner would say this:

When Moses thought he was doing something that made a difference to people, he could bear any burden.  When he lost that sense of achievement, he became too discouraged to keep on doing the hard things.

I will bear the burden of camping because I know that it’s meaningful to Michael that I camp with him, just like it’s meaningful to me that he’s willing to dig for razor clams in the winter. I am optimistic that we will continue doing these hard things for each other.