WHAT’S POSSIBLE WHEN WI-FI IS IN MORE PLACES?
Hovering like some creepy cyber miasma just above the tent are the words:
FRONT ROW IN THE BACKYARD
What is wrong with this picture?
Let me be clear. First, I am not a fan of camping, and have been known to long for creature comforts (like beds, let alone wi-fi) when forced to spend time in a tent. Second, I am not above the judicious use of TV, DVDs, and other more modern forms of screen bribery when raising children, particularly before dinner during what a friend refers to as the Suicide Hour. Many a meal has appeared on the table, and many a death has been prevented, thanks to Mother’s Little Electronic Helpers.
But seriously, Comcast’s invasion of childhood strikes even me as going a bit too far. Kids should be out traipsing around the woods looking for ET, not streaming him or his Despicable cousins on a laptop while hermetically zipped inside of a tent.
So I have only this to say to despicable Comcast:
WHY? FIE!
]]>Since it was 105 degrees in Bishop, we lucked out with balmy nights 4,000 feet higher up. So I was able to use my sleeping bag as a quilt after all. I was so grateful, I barely minded the cheek-to-flocked-vinyl sleeping experience afforded by Jonathan’s ban on sheets (which, after all, add a couple of extra ounces to the weight of the two-ton car).
True, hot weather meant hot hiking, but since the Sierra Club trip leaders, like time and tide, wait for no man (or woman), we were on the trails before 8:00 a.m. every day. It was good to beat the heat, since all the hikes were 12+ miles long with 2,300+ feet of elevation gain. With a group of 24 hyper-competitive hikers, it was a bit like the running of the bulls in Pamplona: Stopping for a sip of water meant being trampled to death.
But did I mention how beautiful it was? There’s a drought on, but the wildflowers were still good, if a month earlier and not as profuse as they would be in wet years. The mosquitoes, however, seemed to think there was sufficient moisture.
So a good time was had by all, especially the mosquitoes. Also, important research was conducted:
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My husband, Jonathan, and I are about to embark for a week in the eastern Sierra. The first three nights involve camping with a group of fanatical hikers who think nothing of day after day of 13+ mile hikes with 3,000+ foot elevation gains. But despite our aging knees, it’s not the hiking that gives me pause. It’s the camping.
I loved backpacking in my youth, but I was never that keen on camping. With backpacking you know you’ve abandoned all comfort at the trailhead, so you quickly stop dreaming about high thread count sheets. With camping, though, it’s always in the back of your mind that you could just jump in the car and drive to a motel for a good night’s sleep. We had a lot of fun when our kids were younger camping with the Girl Scouts. But that’s because we stood around “watching the kids” while our friends did all the work. Basically, I’m like my friend Roberta, whose idea of acceptable camping is a hotel without room service.
But it seemed like a good idea at the time when Jonathan asked if I’d like to try camping again. Now that we’re going, we’re getting our gear ready. Trouble has set in even before we’ve gotten to where the oxygen is thin.
Like in our living room, as we try to remember how to set up our tent. As the scent of mildew permeates the house and we nearly knock over the lamp with the fully extended aluminum poles, we argue about whether or not we’ll need the fly.
“It might be cold,” I point out, as Jonathan frowns.
Then it’s time to see if the air mattress has a slow leak. At least we are persuaded it doesn’t have a fast leak, so we are happy. Until I propose getting a sheet to cover it.
“We don’t need a sheet,” Jonathan says. “I am not bringing a bunch of blankets and sheets. You’ll be in a sleeping bag.”
Did I mention how much I HATE being confined in a sleeping bag, and like to spread one out under me, one on top, my legs akimbo in a sensible sprawl?
“This is not lightweight backpacking,” I counter. “Can’t we go for comfort?”
Apparently not. Meanwhile, Jonathan starts to talk about how nice it would be just to slip into his bivvy sack and sleep under the stars. He looks longingly at his one-person tent.
Our last decision involves water shoes. You can guess who is pro and who is con, and who is welcome to bring them as long as she is willing to carry them.
Luckily, the last three nights of our trip will involve sleeping inside on mattresses, so I think our marriage will survive.
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Camping trials and joys? How compatible are you and your sweetie’s vacation and/or packing preferences?
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