The Rural Voice, 2002-07, Page 34The summer of my
discontent
A camping vacation seemed like agood idea
before it all began to unravel
"Time to start packing kids," I
announced to my offspring. "Our
camping space for Lake Skeeterbitin
is confirmed."
They looked at me as if I'd just
informed them there was a
connection between last night's meat
loaf and the death of their pony.
"Camping?" Hilary was stunned.
"You mean sleeping on the ground
under one of those canvas things?"
Sharky wasn't overjoyed either.
"What'll we do all day? Sit around
and weave baskets out of dried flower
stalks?"
"If you think back," I retorted
"this vacation wasn't an arbitrary
decision. You both said last year that
you wanted to go camping this year."
"I thought you meant a cottage at
the lake like the Grangers'," protested
30 THE RURAL VOICE
Hilary, "You know — with the wide-
screen TV, the microwave and the
hot tub."
"Yeah," said Sharky, "and 1
distinctly remember all I said was
that I'd rather be staked out in the hot
sun for a week than go on another bus
trip."
We arrived at the campground
under a huge gray cloud. Within two
minutes of unpacking the car, Hilary
followed the trail of a ghetto blaster
to discover a family with four
teenagers across the back road.
Sharky wandered off to the beach to
make the joyful discovery that the
lifeguards were both girls. 1 was left
with two square miles of canvas, 12
metal poles that didn't fit into
anything and a few hundred feet of
knotted cord. It wasn't until the rain
started creeping through the tent
seams that I found the can labelled
"canvas waterproofer".
I ate a solitary dinner out of a can,
sitting cross-legged on a wet sleeping
bag. The rain let up on the third day.
By this time I'd developed an allergic
reaction to baked beans, had only
three square inches of skin left
untouched by mosquitoes and had a
curious tic in my left eye any time I
came within 10 feet of wet canvas. I
also knew by heart the top 20 heavy
metal hits.
On the fourth day, the sun and I
both made up for lost time and I
retired for the night with third-degree
burns, swathed in white clothing from
head to toe.
The fifth day we tried fishing.
Either the fish were put off by lures
coated with a mixture of sun tan
lotion and insect repellent or they
objected to the sound of heavy metal,
but we spent the day dangling our
hooks vainly in the water and
discovering the top ten things about
each other that made us nauseous.
The sixth day we finally caught
two small fish. We carried them
triumphantly back to camp. Then we
took one look at the well -used
filleting table and quickly buried the
fish under the trash can.
Our final night at Lake
Skeeterbitin, I stretched as far as my
cramped quarters would allow,
scratched one of the 105 mosquito
bites on my left forearm and pried
open chapped and burnt lips to cheer,
"We made it through the week kids,
time to start packing for home."
Two heads swivelled in protest.
"Already, Mom?" groaned Hillary. "I
can't leave now. Jason in Lot 10 is
going to let me ride his Harley and I
finally found out who belongs to the
red Corvette across the Lake."
Sharky agreed. "Marilyn's taking
me sailing this weekend, and there's
a big dance at the hall with a live
band on Saturday." He thought a
moment. "Say, do you know what I'd
like to do next year? Let's come back
here for two weeks', or maybe for the
whole summer. You were right, Mom
about this camping thing."
I did what had to be done. The
minute we arrived home, I pre-
registered them both for a summer
camp for next year — "Orienteering
for Teens in the Yukon." It's called
self-preservation.0