My love/hate relationship with camping
Instead of gorging on college football Saturday night, as I like to do this time of year, I went camping with Sweets and Mervgotti. Immediately after returning from the Iowa game, I gathered my stuff and headed to our sites at Cottonwood. It was dark by the time I started setting up my tent.
Though I was reluctant to relinquish a night of primetime college football, I wanted to camp. Weather-wise, fall is the perfect time for camping. (It is still technically summer — the equinox is on Saturday — but it has felt like fall recently.) The days are cooler and comfortable and the cold nights are ideal for sitting around a campfire. I wanted to get out, enjoy the weather, and camp again before it became too cold, so I hauled my stuff up the little trail to our secluded sites and had a good time. We ate and drank, and drank and ate. Then we drank more. Good times.
Though I like camping, there is one thing I do not like about it (beside the fact it conflicts with college football in the fall): when the fire has burned down to a glowing bed of coals, the flashlights and lanterns are turned off, and everyone goes to bed. When I climb into my tent, zip the door closed, and crawl into my sleeping bag, my imagination shifts into overdrive and my ears become hyper-sensitive. My heart races and I listen intently to the night, wondering, anticipating. Whenever I hear a twig break or the underbrush rustle, I wonder, “Was that a raccoon or…?” Needless to say, I never sleep well. I always seem to be too…
Scared. Yeah, I will admit it. I know it is silly but I cannot help it. The thought of being asleep in the middle of the woods, in a little tent, makes me anxious. Exacerbating my anxiety on Saturday night was the fact I was all by my lonesome on one site while Sweets and Mervgotti were on another. However, I managed a little shut eye like I always do. It was pretty quiet, though I could hear raccoons fighting in the distance. (The next morning I learned they were pigging out on Mervgotti’s peanuts and English muffins.)
Honestly, though, my fear has nothing to do with raccoons and the other little creatures at the Rez. Instead, I am afraid of my fellow humans. They are what keep me wake.
I never used to be anxious when camping. At the end of the night I would crawl into my tent and sleep without a thought. However, that changed last October when camping at Lake MacBride. Around 4 a.m. I was awaken by a loud, metal on metal DING. The ground was covered by fallen leaves and I could hear footsteps rustling them underfoot. The footsteps wandered toward our tables and then returned to the woods. I had forgotten my flashlight at home so I could not go out to investigate in the dark. For a couple hours, until the sun began to rise, I listened and wondered if the footsteps belonged to a raccoon or a man (or woman). What kind of crazy, hillbilly shit had I gotten myself into? I stayed awake until the sky began to lighten, then dozed again for a little while. When I got up, I asked Mervgotti if he heard the footsteps, too. He had, but disregarded them; they were the “pitter-patter” of a raccoon. Pitter-patter my ass. To me it had sounded like human footsteps and they spooked me to the core. So much, in fact, I am still anxious every time I camp.
It is definitely something I need to work on because I love camping. I do. Really.
Though I was reluctant to relinquish a night of primetime college football, I wanted to camp. Weather-wise, fall is the perfect time for camping. (It is still technically summer — the equinox is on Saturday — but it has felt like fall recently.) The days are cooler and comfortable and the cold nights are ideal for sitting around a campfire. I wanted to get out, enjoy the weather, and camp again before it became too cold, so I hauled my stuff up the little trail to our secluded sites and had a good time. We ate and drank, and drank and ate. Then we drank more. Good times.
Though I like camping, there is one thing I do not like about it (beside the fact it conflicts with college football in the fall): when the fire has burned down to a glowing bed of coals, the flashlights and lanterns are turned off, and everyone goes to bed. When I climb into my tent, zip the door closed, and crawl into my sleeping bag, my imagination shifts into overdrive and my ears become hyper-sensitive. My heart races and I listen intently to the night, wondering, anticipating. Whenever I hear a twig break or the underbrush rustle, I wonder, “Was that a raccoon or…?” Needless to say, I never sleep well. I always seem to be too…
Scared. Yeah, I will admit it. I know it is silly but I cannot help it. The thought of being asleep in the middle of the woods, in a little tent, makes me anxious. Exacerbating my anxiety on Saturday night was the fact I was all by my lonesome on one site while Sweets and Mervgotti were on another. However, I managed a little shut eye like I always do. It was pretty quiet, though I could hear raccoons fighting in the distance. (The next morning I learned they were pigging out on Mervgotti’s peanuts and English muffins.)
Honestly, though, my fear has nothing to do with raccoons and the other little creatures at the Rez. Instead, I am afraid of my fellow humans. They are what keep me wake.
I never used to be anxious when camping. At the end of the night I would crawl into my tent and sleep without a thought. However, that changed last October when camping at Lake MacBride. Around 4 a.m. I was awaken by a loud, metal on metal DING. The ground was covered by fallen leaves and I could hear footsteps rustling them underfoot. The footsteps wandered toward our tables and then returned to the woods. I had forgotten my flashlight at home so I could not go out to investigate in the dark. For a couple hours, until the sun began to rise, I listened and wondered if the footsteps belonged to a raccoon or a man (or woman). What kind of crazy, hillbilly shit had I gotten myself into? I stayed awake until the sky began to lighten, then dozed again for a little while. When I got up, I asked Mervgotti if he heard the footsteps, too. He had, but disregarded them; they were the “pitter-patter” of a raccoon. Pitter-patter my ass. To me it had sounded like human footsteps and they spooked me to the core. So much, in fact, I am still anxious every time I camp.
It is definitely something I need to work on because I love camping. I do. Really.
