When I was younger, I was enchanted by the tales of pioneers, immersed in the adventures of characters like Laura Ingalls Wilder. The books and TV series captivated me with images of charming girls in braids frolicking by the riverside. I dreamt of fishing trips after school, wishing for the covered-wagon lifestyle.
But here’s the reality: romanticizing pioneer life is one thing; actually attempting to live it today, with all the comforts of air conditioning and indoor plumbing, is absurd. Camping? It’s an absolute nightmare. And camping with kids? Even worse.
I genuinely can’t fathom why anyone would willingly pack their belongings, trek into the wilderness, unpack, and then pretend to be primitive for days on end. And let’s be honest, a flimsy nylon tent is hardly adequate protection against a lurking grizzly bear. I truly despise camping.
Yet, my family thrives on it, which creates a dilemma. My husband and kids rave about the beauty of sunrise over a lake and the joy of “unplugging” while surrounded by nature. They extol the taste of hot dogs cooked over a fire—despite the fact that it took hours to gather enough firewood because no one thought to bring matches.
I suspect their fondness for camping stems from the fact that I do all the heavy lifting to ensure we don’t resort to foraging for tree bark and berries while we “bond” with nature. They have no clue about the meticulous planning required to transport our portable household into the great outdoors. They don’t realize how many marshmallows need to be packed or how essential baby wipes are to avoid all sorts of hygiene issues.
Camping is utterly exhausting. The endless folding and unfolding of gear is maddening. Upon arrival, you spend an eternity figuring out where the tent poles go, and after three days of cohabitating with a now fragrant family, you face the same tedious task of taking it down. Once home, that tent needs airing out because it reeks of sweat and smoke. In total, I waste hours managing that tent—288 minutes of my life gone forever.
The stress of camping is overwhelming, particularly when it comes to bathroom arrangements. For the record, I like to call myself a “home pooper,” and trust me, using a latrine is not my idea of comfort. Add the anxiety of midnight bathroom trips into the mix, and you have a recipe for panic. I find myself weighing the need to pee against the horrors of navigating a dark forest at 2 a.m.
Camping can also be incredibly frustrating. I have a theory that air mattress manufacturers intentionally create tiny leaks in their products. I have yet to find a single air mattress that doesn’t deflate overnight. And let’s be real—real campers sleeping on the hard ground? No thanks! If I’m confined to a tent, I expect comfort, not a rock digging into my back.
Kudos to those who genuinely enjoy camping; I simply am not one of them. I refuse to apologize for disliking the lingering smell of campfire smoke in my hair or cooking with minuscule utensils. Unless my next camping experience involves a luxury RV parked next to a Starbucks with decent Wi-Fi, you won’t find me strumming a guitar and singing around the campfire.
So, family, good luck with your camping adventures. I’ll be opting out because camping is absolutely horrendous.