And We're Floating... Inside a Tent

The homestead. February 2008.

It sounds weird when the words tumble out of my mouth.

"We packed up our camping gear, drove down to Seattle from Vancouver, put all that camping stuff on a plane then camped at Walt Disney World. Yeah, Orlando in Florida. That one."

It might have been easier to have those words come out had it just been me and my wife since it reduces the gear factor to a large backpack. Two people camping after a long plane ride doesn't seem weird. (Mercifully we left all the cooking equipment in Vancouver -- we made use of the Walt Disney World "Dining Plan.") But at the time of the trip we had three kids along for the ride, which exponentially increased the amount of stuff to bring. Extra clothes, shoes, a big tent, sleeping bags, air mattresses... And none of them were really at age where they could handle more than a wheeled suitcase and a "fun size" backpack, which meant Jennifer and I were left to lug everything from place to place.

So, you might be able to imagine us arriving at Fort Wilderness Resort. Haggard from an early departure in Seattle and a 6 hour flight, arriving at our campsite in the dark, hungry, irritable. I'm pretty sure my shirt was torn but at least the cut above my right eye had finally stopped bleeding.

Comparing Fort Wilderness Resort to "real" camping is a bit of a stretch. Camping to me is marked with pit toilets, sharing the lake with sucking leeches, and hour upon hour of driving to finally reach a spot we can start to relax. (The wind-up to get "back to nature" and start "relaxing" seems counter-intuitive because it takes so much frantic energy to get there in the first place.)

The Fort Wilderness Resort is high end camping. (Hell, the word "resort" is right there in the name.) There are nearby laundry facilities, two large pools, hammocks, relatively flat campsites, small lizards, a couple of shops. Very nice! But arriving in the dark after so much travelling, there was really only one thought in my mind: My God, I hate camping.

"Point A" meet "Point B"

Whenever I take a journey, it's all about getting from point "A" to point "B." From my desk chair (A) to the kitchen (B) for a glass of water. Any maybe I'll take a moment or two to scratch the dog between the ears or pick-up some clutter, the journey I'm taking is still about getting from A to B, with no meaning in-between.

The distance between the two is of some relevance. There are all those sub-points between that offer distraction and eduction. Road trips are a good illustration of this. There are thousands of points between Vancouver and San Diego that might offer some distraction and that's exactly what my family might be getting into this summer.

Marshmallows should be eaten. They're

delicious! But not so delicious are

their offensive/defensive capabilities.

A number of years ago, we drove down to Los Angeles (E3) and Anaheim (that amusement park is there, slips my mind, the name of it) and that included all sorts of stops like the Red Wood Forest, Folsom Lake SRA (The Most Terrifying State Recreation Area in California ©), some sand dunes in Oregon, the constant wind off the ocean at Half Moon Bay outside San Francisco, and a lonely gas station on I5. All sorts of distractions to be had! It's on trips like these that the destination -- B -- becomes almost irrelevant except as it pertains to a turn-around point. It really does become about the journey and craziness that entails. Fighting two large raccoons in the middle of the night who have somehow managed to pry off the top of the Rubbermaid container with the dry goods in it. (Marshmallows make for poor raccoon repellent and even worse as thrown ammo for the line "Hey, get out of here, raccoons!") Or taking on LA traffic in a mini-van with extremely limited visibility thanks to camping gear piled to the ceiling. That particular issue was handled with white knuckles and the hope that anyone around us had seen the out-of-state, out-of-country licence plate and take pity on us. That and waves of profanity. ("Mom, what does blankity blank blank of a blank blank blank mean?")

I love those trips. In the heat of the moment it can be difficult to grasp that we were actually having fun but in remembering the events, places, and people we met, it seems that our lives are wealthier beyond measure for taking the trip. I think that's why I'm loathe to take a plane anywhere. There's no in-between. No bizarre roadside distraction, no palpable racism, no tension as we roll up to the booth on the Golden Gate Bridge as we frantically search the floor for change to pay the toll. (There's a certain level of panic too -- I mean, what do they do to out of towners that can't pay the toll? Just direct you to the a piece of road that launches you into the bay?) I don't remember flights. You sit in a tube, you get a pack of pretzels, in-flight movie, some pop, you land, life continues after seemingly being "paused" for a few hours. Road trips are an entirely different thing.

The road, it stretches out in front of you. Experience awaits!