Behind My Door: A campin’ we will go!

By Sandra Bernhardt

This summer, 74 percent of Americans will take a domestic trip and 13 percent will travel internationally. It’s an opportunity to get away from the office, the pandemic and the neighbors. It promises exciting family fun and abundant frivolity.

Or not.

Every summer, our three young sons begged their dad to go camping at Devil’s Lake, near Baraboo. Despite knowing that it would mean hauling 47,000 pounds of food and supplies, good ol’ dad always gave in. Since he also enjoyed camping, saying yes was no great sacrifice on his part. (Wisely, no one ever asked good ol’ mom what she thought.)

Now, I’ll agree that for people who aren’t masochists, Devil’s Lake is a great place to swim, hike, eat black hotdogs and assemble yummy s’mores. Our silly bantering kept our family howling with laughter for hours.

Unfortunately, at times, our “silly bantering” morphed into screaming: 

“BOYS!  HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO STOP PLAYING IN THE FIRE!” 

After just four hours of “yummy s’mores,” we were barely speaking. So much for family fun and frivolity.

(Warning: Marshmallow generally refuses to vacate a boy’s hair in a timely manner. Think Super Glue. Once home from camping, insist that your child wear a shower cap to school.)

When it comes to “communing with nature,” I have just one question for the female sex:

What woman in her right mind yearns for the adventure of lying in a leaking tent while listening to raccoons consuming breakfast?  But, thanks to leak-proof Tupperware, I had safely packed a frosted walnut Kringle, fresh fruit and raspberry yogurt. Breakfast was the only — I say only — magical moment I eagerly anticipated.

(Helpful advice:  Despite the fact that raccoons can open anything, keep all bologna and authentic food items locked in a steel trunk.)

Have I mentioned that sleeping close to the humid ground causes sinuses to slam shut? Breathing makes everything better.

At last, we descended down the narrow, winding road leading to the campground. My sons had dubbed that precarious trail the “Topsy Curvy.” (I called it the “the descent to death.”) Undaunted, the guys began singing, “A campin’ we will go! A campin’ we will go! Hi-ho the derry-0, a campin’ we will go!”

Sadly, our happy chorus was rudely interrupted by the driver behind us who was incessantly blowing his horn. Then, in the rear view mirror, Ralph spied a chubby, red-faced fellow jump out of his Nissan and head toward the station wagon with the towering heap strapped to the roof and leaning to the left. 

The chubby fellow shoved his shaking index finger through the car window, way too close to Ralph’s left eye. Due to the large vein sticking out of his neck at least two inches, it was obvious he was out of control. All three sons were giggling and slapping each other as he repeatedly shouted the forbidden “F” word.

“I could have died at the bottom of a damn ravine!” he yelled, stomping back to the Nissan.

How were we to know that Mark was shining our HUGE red flashlight out of the rear window? 

That was last year. Now a few highlights from this year’s camping hell:

When we arrived, the forest ranger in the booth flashed an immense grin in our direction. (It’s not nice to say, but his choppers could have illuminated the entire Christmas tree in Times Square!)

After checking us in, he leaned out and peered down into our car, then upward to the “mystery mountain” strapped above and leaning to the left.  

But he didn’t need to whistle.

Soon the ranger proudly announced: “This is your lucky day!  You got the last camping site available! Get yourselves settled and have FUN! The wood truck will come around shortly.”

Our boys galloped off ahead to seek the “last available site.” After about 35 seconds, we heard them yelling, “Mom! Dad! Come look!  It’s amazing!

Silly us, we ran to “look.” 

In the fading dusk, Ralph and I were horrified to observe that we’d be pitching our tent in a pond. 

Meanwhile, our offspring were imagining little paper boats afloat in the moat!

As for us, Ralph and I discussed bedding down on our air mattresses, but there was always the danger of drifting over to the neighboring camp. Oblivious, the boys were making boats out of paper plates. 

Then, with incredible timing, the wood truck stopped by and a toothless guy called out, “Hey, you folks need wood?” He looked down at the pond, then at my face, and sped off. Thank God we hadn’t packed a gun!

For two hours, we slumped over in our plastic chairs and waited for the water to sink back into the ground. At last, we were able to set up our tent in the mud. We tried not to worry about the sound of thunder.

For history buffs, who wish to experience living like a pioneer, camping’s the ticket.

It’s a chance for suckers to do everything done at home, but in an archaic fashion: cooking on a pathetic little stove; washing dishes in a tiny basin, then storing them in a cardboard box; scrubbing grimy kids with a dish rag; and best of all, laundering dirty socks by hand and stretching them over low poison ivy to dry.

Thus ends the true, torturous tale of our “camping hell.” Best advice to my faithful readers: Get a room!

(Now I understand why Erma Bombeck once said, “The family that camps together gets cramps together!”)

For more than 30 years, Fort Atkinson’s Sandra (Sandi) Bernhardt has enjoyed humorous public speaking in Wisconsin and beyond. During her career, she served as a human resources director, as well as a customer service consultant for a healthcare company. Active in the community, Sandy is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater and the mother of three grown sons.