Cloth-napkin Camping

 

 

My mother tried to kill me.

 

I doubt it was with malicious intent, but with mom in graduate school full-time and having no job while attempting to keep four young mouths fed, the idea may have crossed her mind that I could be easy prey to familial budget cuts.

 

When I was about 11 and a green-horned member of Boy Scout Troop 506 – on my mother’s urging to join - I went on my first overnight camp-out. In the mountains. In the winter. With snow on the ground. All the while cocooned in a sleeping bag designed more for an indoor slumber party than for the wholly inadequate task of keeping a skinny-assed kid warm in sub-arctic conditions.

 

When I got back home and complained about how cold I'd been, several days later I was gifted with an early birthday present of a new down-filled sleeping bag to keep my tootsies toasty.

 

Now, this doesn’t prove that mom wasn’t out to kill me. She probably got cold feet (as I had just suffered through) and became racked with guilt over offing her favorite son. But I did accept the warm bag with open and welcoming arms. After all, having one felonious parent was enough.

 

As I got older, Mary and I went tent camping on a regular basis. Whether it was to the desert, the mountains or the beach, it was an activity we both enjoyed. We’d load up our car in a fashion similar to the Clampett’s, with a small spot reserved for whatever four-legged child we had at the time and head out for a weekend adventure.

 

As we progressed through life amassing more and more candles on our individual birthday cakes, our priorities changed. No longer was sleeping on a mat only suitable for downward facing dog vs. the sublime comfort of a pillow-topped, gel-infused, memory-foam, Posturepedic, sleep-numbered bed appealing to us, so camping became a lost activity. Our tents and sleeping bags were relegated to our disaster-preparedness kit.

 

Fast-forward 20 years and the introduction of an RV into our lives.

 

Clattering north on I-5 at the helm of our rented 25’ self-contained home on wheels, with Mary and our two dogs in the car caravanning behind me, I pull into South Carlsbad State Park campgrounds. Space #23, our designated spot for the next few days, is perched no more than a few feet from the edge of an 85’ cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the remnants of a rusted chain-link fence keeping us from tumbling headlong over the side. Our friends Tom and Caroline are next door in space #24, settled into their own RV.

 

During the final arrangements of this trip with Tom and Caroline, it was agreed that we’d cook dinner the first two nights and they would cook the final two nights. We were on our own for breakfast and lunch. Chris, Mary’s sister joined the four of us for dinner that first night.

 

As the entre’ approached plating time, and while watching a small pod of dolphins play in the surf below, I hit the <start> button on the generator followed by a similar button on the microwave in an attempt to put the final touch on the broccoli.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Shit!

 

Now what?

 

“Chris! Run this over to Caroline and have her nuke it. Dinner’s almost ready,” I commanded, handing her the bowl of room temperature broccoli.

 

Shortly after handing it to her, Chris came back from Caroline’s trailer with the still uncooked broccoli.

 

“They’re microwave doesn’t work without their generator running.”

 

“Oh well, it is what it is,” I commented. “Let’s eat dinner without the vegetable.” (I secretly think Chris heaved an internal sigh of relief at not having to eat a vegetable that night).

 

Gathered around our graffiti-engraved wooden picnic table, replete with a tablecloth, wine glasses, silverware and cloth napkins, the five of us toasted our good fortune and dined on the diminished amount of food that now resides in front of us. After dinner, we spend the evening assembled around a campfire courtesy of Tom, while munching on Mary’s secret recipe of brownies for dessert. The smell of the burning logs brings back fond and distant memories of past camping trips.

 

After a night of surprisingly good sleep on a non-pillow-topped, gel-infused, memory-foam, Posturepedic, sleep-numbered bed, the simple task of preparing a salmon and asparagus omelet the next morning became a multi-stepped ballet. A pirouette here, a plié there, Mary and I dance our way through the kitchen preparing breakfast in our cramped quarters. Our smallest of cutting boards overwhelms the tiny counter space we have available.

 

However, one of the features of this efficient floor plan is the foot of the bed butts up against the kitchen counter making for a very short commute for that morning cup-o-Joe. If I were a bit taller or had longer arms, I could operate the stove and microwave while technically still in bed.

 

As I sauté the asparagus for the omelets, the smoke detector bleats out a shrill warning - twice - despite the lack of anything remotely charred nearby. Meanwhile, Lahni is on a constant lookout for any of the 1000's of squirrels that have taken up free residency in the state park's campgrounds.

 

While finishing off the last bite of my omelet, the morning fog and haze burns off to reveal a coastline dotted with surfers and surf-casters alike, each in their own way hoping to catch an early morning prize. Overhead, flocks of pelicans diligently patrol the cliff, their wings stationary as they use the updraft to float by mere feet from us. Several hundred yards offshore a huge school of dolphins disturb the glassy seas. They’re either in a feeding frenzy or just being dolphins – running, jumping, skipping and playing in the ocean, as only they can.

 

Later, as Mary and I walk our dogs through the campground, we check out the wide array of campers. Small pop-up tents can be found sandwiched between the rounded and gleaming silver-skinned Airstreams on one side, with the latest sumptuousness of a satellite dish equipped, 45’ behemoth, half-a-million dollar wheeled mansion on the other side. Each enjoying camping in their own comfort and affordability level.

 

So here we are now with the generator humming in the background recharging our array of electronic gizmos and gadgets as the sun sinks into the Pacific, and with dolphins again playing in the surf zone below.

 

Sure beats the hell outta' freezing in the mountains as a skinny-assed kid.

 

PS - As I ran through the final edit of this story, Mary had a rare sighting of a northbound migrating mother and calf gray whale a few hundred yards offshore. Seeing whales here is not rare in itself, but the fact that Mary can see them is. Even with glasses on, her vision rivals that of Stevie Wonder.

 

PPS – Thanks, Tom & Caroline for prodding us into our holiday on wheels, but for also being there with answers to our myriad of questions.

 

See you on the road!