Camping? I just don't get it

About eight years ago, my husband’s grandfather died. He was an old man and had led a full life. It was a sad time, but expected. The unexpected part didn’t happen until the next week, when we found out we had inherited a little bit of money. Because we are experts when it comes to living large, we immediately started shopping for a beach house.

It didn’t take long to realize that beach house means different things to different people. To me? Beach house actually refers to a house, on the beach, you know, for weekend fun. But Tim interprets both the words "beach” and “house” a bit more loosely than I do. Beach? Apparently anything closer to the beach than our house qualifies. And house? Well, if it has a roof and four walls, I guess that makes it a house.

Our compromise came in the form of The Camp, two beautiful acres on a river, not the beach, about 15 miles from the beach. It’s less than two hours from home, making it easily accessible for weekend jaunts. This is a compromise I can totally live with.

But the “house” part? That’s where I’ve got issues. The dwelling on the property is a 1965 singlewide trailer, once someone’s home, but for the last 20 years or so a hunting shack. It’s not watertight. It’s musty. It smells weird. There are mice.

I’m no diva. I can hang with an occasional weekend in an old trailer. It’s called “camping,” and apparently some people enjoy it quite a bit. Or so I’ve heard.

Last summer, we took a group of girls from my daughter’s class for a weekend at The Camp. Within five minutes of arriving, we came upon three newborn baby birds in a dainty little nest built in a shrub. Not in the safe branches of a tall tree, but in a shrub that was about three feet high (evidence of mother bird’s negligence).

When I approached the nest with my camera at the ready and four little girls standing behind me gazing in wonder at the little birds, the birds opened their little bird mouths wider than imaginable, screamed horrible human-like screams and leapt to their deaths at my feet. I tried to turn it into a teachable moment with the girls, but they were too traumatized to really comprehend more than the fact that I was a bird killer.

This is but one example of the fun with nature that I have experienced at The Camp.

I’m not even going to go into the amount of medication that is required for me to spend a weekend in the woods. Because? Nature hates me. But I do it. Because camping is a fun and wholesome family activity. Or so I’ve been told.

Tim loves it there. He has projects. He fishes. It’s his domain. He heads up to The Camp every spare weekend he has, sometimes alone, sometimes taking the kids and mostly without me.

But I went last weekend. I hadn’t been to The Camp for nearly a year ago, so I was poking around, refamiliarizing myself with things. Tim laughed at me for bring fresh sheets for the bed and leaving my overnight bag in the car so my clothes wouldn't smell funny. He headed out to do whatever it is he does up there while I made up the bed, read a book, did nothing.

While Tim was out doing undisclosed man-camp activities (undisclosed meaning I did not ask and did not care because, hello, reading a book, thank you), I found the lid to a sippy cup in the kitchen. Since our “baby” is 10 years old, I took this as proof positive that Tim is obviously keeping a second family here. This explains so much. Because? Seriously? Why else would he want to go up there every weekend, if he wasn't getting a little something-something on the side? It can't possibly be for the enjoyment of camping, because I have yet to actually find anything enjoyable about camping.

I expected a barefoot countrywoman dragging a dirty toddler dressed in rags to come running out of the woods at any moment for a "he's mine" confrontation.

In all honesty, I’m not particularly opposed to the second wife scenario. Frankly, I am busy and have shit to do and am the first to acknowledge that I am a pretty horrible wife. I do not like to listen to “how was your day” type conversation. I completely suck at domestic things like cleaning house, keeping a stock of edible food and actually preparing the food for consumption. And don’t ask about the laundry situation. So, really, a second wife would be acceptable, especially if she were here to do the chores.

The second wife never did emerge from the woods, so I went back to reading my book. And playing guessing games with myself every time I heard a weird noise. (The game goes like this. Me: WTF was that? Me: A bear? Me: A giant rat? Really, it's way more fun than it sounds.) I also spent time jumping out of my skin and squealing every time I heard something that sounded remotely like mouse activity. Good times, this camping business, good times.

I started out with a high rolling plan for a weekend beach house and somehow have ended up with a moldy singlewide in Podunk, USA. Proof, once again, that we do not live in a fair and just world.

Some day, there will be a cabin on the property, and a weekend at The Cabin will be a much different experience than a weekend at The Camp. A cabin with comfy beds that don’t smell like wet dog, and a cozy fireplace and a deck overlooking the river? That’s a weekend getaway that I can get into. But for now? Camping it is.

But I must be doing it wrong. Because camping? I just don’t get it.