Charles Dickens penned the perfect description: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” \u00a0He was talking about the tumultuous years of the French Revolution. \u00a0I am talking about camping<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Some of my friends joke that they “camp” at the Holiday Inn. \u00a0Pshaw. \u00a0That’s another humdrum hotel stay. \u00a0Pack more gear for a weekend than a family of twelve stuffed in their covered wagon to travel the Oregon Trail- and head out. There will be a story to tell when everybody gets home.<\/p>\n

The first time I went camping was a family trip to Vogel State Park in 1967. \u00a0I don’t remember why my parents chose to spend our vacation in the mountains instead of at the beach- (unless my dad got to pick that year)- but I do remember the trip. We had a big blue tent that had a lot of poles and stakes- and was hard to set up. \u00a0Luckily, I had only to steer clear during the process and remember not to touch the sides if it rained. \u00a0I refused to get out of the lake until I<\/em>\u00a0turned blue. There was a tall, rickety metal slide in the water that insurance companies and lawyers have since removed, but I went down it a thousand times before they got to it. It was fun. \u00a0I had the best of times<\/em>– and learned to swim. \u00a0Mother said she had never worked so hard in her life.<\/p>\n

The Girl Scouts of Troop 1210 were not only cheerful, thrifty,<\/em> and clean in thought, word, and deed-<\/em> but were badge-worthy campers. \u00a0I remember riding to camp-outs in a caravan of station wagons, with flashlights, sit-upons, sleeping bags, dunking bags, ponchos, mess kits, and hobo suppers- and everybody looking forward to banana boats around the campfire. We could always count on s’mores, playing “sardines,” and terrifying tales of “the chicken lady”- “Step… drag. \u00a0Step… drag.”<\/em>\u00a0 \u00a0Nobody wanted to sleep next to the tent canvas where the chicken lady might rip through with her chicken-foot and…get you! Once our troop camped in platform tents in slumber party sleeping bags when the temperature unexpectedly dropped below minus fifty, with a stiff north wind. That miserable experience happened at Camp Maynard.<\/p>\n

Camp Maynard- more than one miserable experience happened there- but we had a lot of fun, too. \u00a0A steep bank fell into the creek and everybody liked to scramble up and slide down- so the seat of almost every camper’s shorts stayed dirty and our Keds were always wet. \u00a0Inside the lodge, big glass jars filled with snakes suspended in formaldehyde lined a shelf. (Memorable, but why)? S<\/em>ummers, we went to day camp at Camp Maynard. \u00a0We rode a bus, belting out either “Found a Peanut”\u00a0<\/em>or “I’m Leaving on the Midnight Train, La-ti-da, Uh-huh, Oh Boy.” \u00a0<\/em>We went on\u00a0bird walks\u00a0<\/em>around the lake with Mrs. R.E. Hamilton (a remarkable denizen of another time). \u00a0We painted sticks and clacked them together in a Hawaiian song I am still able to sing, and we played in the creek. \u00a0I liked day camp- but the summer after sixth grade, we were old enough to stay overnight- all week.<\/p>\n

We set up floorless pup tents on a hillside beneath tall loblolly pines, under the direction of our leaders, hard-nosed sisters who had recently been kicked out of the Marines for being too tough. \u00a0We had come to earn the Campcraft badge, and earn it we would. \u00a0We hiked with packs and compasses. \u00a0We tied knots and lashed sticks together. \u00a0We identified flora, fauna, and insects. \u00a0We individually built a regular fire in three minutes with two matches, and together we built a ceremonial fire. \u00a0We cooked inedible food using various methods. \u00a0We safely used pocket knives. \u00a0We lay on the ground at night, hoping all the snakes had made it into the jars of formaldehyde. \u00a0All this was nothing.<\/p>\n

One hot, muggy night, we huddled in our pup tents- filthy, sunburned, chigger-riddled, and hungry. \u00a0Thunder rumbled. \u00a0While our leaders were absent, gone to shower in the lodge, a terrific thunderstorm exploded around us. \u00a0Heavy winds whipped up the ceremonial fire, spreading it to pine straw between the tents. Tall pines above us bent and tossed. Lightning flashed and cracked- and thunder boomed. Girls were screaming and crying- one fainted- (we got to practice our first aid skills), and torrents of rain rushed down the hillside- through our tents. \u00a0We fled toward the lodge. \u00a0Our leaders met us along the way. “Good Scouts are not afraid of a storm!” they shouted, herding us back to the campsite, where we spent the night- filthy, sunburned, chigger-riddled, hungry,\u00a0and<\/em> drenched. \u00a0It was the worst of times-<\/em>\u00a0almost. \u00a0<\/em>Our method of cooking breakfast the next morning was to wrap a canned biscuit around a stick and toast it over the fire- except there was<\/em> no fire- only smoke from thoroughly soaked wood.<\/p>\n

Incredibly, I kept on camping.<\/p>\n

Tent technology improved and it became possible to set up a tent in a few minutes without instruction booklets, awkward pole configurations, and frustrated outbursts. \u00a0In our young couple days, we often met friends near the Nantahala River, set up our nifty domed tents, built a fire, roasted hot dogs, pulled out the guitar and sang\u00a0Country Road, Take Me Home,<\/em>\u00a0rehashed our river adventures, solved the problems of the world, and made s’mores. \u00a0For ten years, it was the best of times.<\/em><\/p>\n

Then there came a night beside the Toccoa River when I was done with tent camping- and perilously close to being done with all<\/em> camping. \u00a0Enough rain fell that night to float the ark and overflow the nearby “comfort station.” \u00a0An angry, pregnant woman who cannot abide unpleasant odors, two small children, and all the family’s wet camping gear is a tight squeeze in the back of a Datsun pickup with a camper top.<\/p>\n

Our next trip was in a brand-new pop-up camper.<\/p>\n

The best of times <\/em>returned. \u00a0We camped frequently- in a mob of friends where children outnumbered adults- and we collected stories: of bikes and bears, hikes where we lost a kid or two (we got them back), tubing (some had better tubing stories than others), rafting (mostly right-side-up), skits and games and hickory nuts falling so hard and fast everyone wore bike helmets in the campsite. \u00a0We laughed, sang, made s’mores, and dropped buzz bombs into a roaring fire.<\/p>\n

During those years I loaded a new generation of courteous, loyal<\/em>\u00a0Girl Scouts, with their flashlights, sleeping bags, sit-upons, dunking bags, ponchos, mess kits, and hobo suppers- into a caravan of minivans, and took them camping. \u00a0(Happily, they didn’t know about the chicken lady- and I didn’t tell them).<\/p>\n

Sure, there have been a few mishaps- But a good Scout isn’t afraid of bats in the camper, yellow jackets in the t-shirt, tornado warnings, or sharing the shower with flying woodland insects the size of small dogs. \u00a0Some of our favorite “sayings” come from camp-outs: our friend Chuck, whose words are few, speaking up while eating his dinner beside a sputtering fire in driving rain on a trip he advised against: “This was a bad idea,”…<\/em> \u00a0Little Kristen, who had never heard a bullfrog, calling out in the dark: “Mrs. Debbie…Is that a bear?”<\/em> \u00a0And the ranger, dramatically pronouncing sentence on a rabid skunk: “You know what this means, girls, I’m gonna have to eliminate him.” \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

The pop-up is no longer new, and we need a fresh log book- but we’re still good to go. Pack your flashlight, sleeping bag, sit-upon, mess kit, dunking bag, and poncho, and let’s go. \u00a0You may never work so hard in your life- but you’ll come home with a story. \u00a0It will be the best of times<\/em>– unless it rains. \u00a0Be a good Scout- and don’t forget the marshmallows!<\/p>\n

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