Camping Trip: Part 0: Maneuvered Into Glamping

Why do I start a series at zero? Because of course I do!

It was mid-morning during my most recent camping trip when I thought “nothing has worked out but everything has been more or less drama free, that’s odd.” Five minutes later I saw the Dodge’s tire. Flatter than a pancake. I was screwed! Everything clicked into place and I relaxed; “That’s more like it…”

The story of my recent camping trip begins long before the flat tire denouement. It begins weeks prior when Mrs. Curmudgeon outwitted me like a chess grand-master outwitting a rabbit. (All hail the crafty lady that can steer her Curmudgeon so subtly he hardly notices. Nudging my grumpy supertanker of a blogger’s mind back and forth can’t be easy, but she’s damn good at it.)

The fall weather was gorgeous. I had a mind to go “frolic”. (Of course I’m of the age where I ought not be “frolicking”. In fact, such a verb never officially applied to me. Even in my youth I wasn’t a bouncy frivolous thing… that’s reserved for dipshits and hippies.) Also, I do not go (or admit to) “hiking”. “Hiking” has been marketed to death. It has become a word firmly under the thumb of the manbun and spandex crowd. Even when I’m hiking I don’t say I’m hiking; for fear an REI catalog will spontaneously generate in my hand and I’ll wind up buying a $80 set of whimsical titanium bear bells. When I’m in the forest “not-hiking” I’m often carrying a shotgun but I take it easy while small game hunting. Also, I’m forever scouting for places to spend a night under the stars. Thus, I intended to go not quite hunting, not quite camping, and definitely not hiking; which is close enough to “frolic”.

As the leaves changed and became more glorious, my desire to frolic became undeniable. Unfortunately, I’d had a mild injury. Nothing too serious but I’d missed a few day’s work and I’d been taken down a peg. I was in no condition to be rambling far and solo (which is the only rambling I know). This made no difference. I’d do it anyway.

I made preparations for the upcoming weekend. Toward the end of the week, Mrs. Curmudgeon announced “I’m going too”. This was a surprise! In her youth, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I camped as a couple but now it’s a solo thing. Some years ago she announced there would be no more sleeping in tents for her. Furthermore, if I was to tromp aimlessly through swamp and over mountain that was my madness. It had nothing to do with sane people like her. She’d read a book and monitor my satellite communications in case the Mounties needed to be alerted. For her, scenery is a thing to look at, not roll in.

Um… OK. So what did this mean? Plans were changed. Before I knew it, Mrs. Curmudgeon had me packed in the passenger side of her car. Our rambunctious puppy (a huge white Great Pyrnees) was in the back seat. The only acknowledgment of my initial backwoods exploratory intent was that I was holding a map and I’d crammed the cargo area with food, camping gear, and a shotgun. (I was hoping to see a game bird.)

Clutching the map, I guided us through one of my favorite locations. I kept us carefully on tame-ish roads that wouldn’t annoy Mrs. Curmudgeon or hazard her adequate but mild vehicle. I sunk into the seat a little. I was more worn out than I’d expected. I was enjoying being chauffeured around.

Every now and then I’d announce “good bird habitat”. Mrs. Curmudgeon would stop the car and sit patiently enjoying the scenery or reading a book. I’d tromp around for 45 minutes while every bird hid or flushed a hundred yards away. Or maybe I’d see nice scenery and take the dog on a leash to go explore; trips which the dog enjoyed immensely. The dog isn’t particularly well trained or forest wise. It dragged my ass through the undergrowth like I was the plow hooked to a John Deere.

Our new dog is very much my wife’s baby which made me nervous. I’m more or less unkillable and my wife knows it. If I came back all torn up that wouldn’t bother her much. But if the dog got lost or injured I’d be better off shooting myself with the bird gun than coming back to the car with an empty leash.

We eventually stopped at an informal camping area I remembered from earlier outings. Usually it’s abandoned. This season there were a fair number of bird hunters setup to camp/hunt from that base. By mid-day the place was only partially “staffed”. Camping trailers and tents remained but UTVs and trucks had been dispatched with most of the populace. They were either chasing birds or driving around pretending to. A smattering of campfires were maintained by the older cohorts and a few “retired” dogs; all of whom happily soaked up the late fall sunshine.

I insisted on making a fire of my own; on which I brewed a pot of coffee. It was delicious (as always). Then I made bratwurst. They were tasty for us and orgasmic to the dog which received a ridiculously large treat from the Mrs.

When Mrs. Curmudgeon walked out of view to use the outhouse. Our puppy (which is huge) whined and carried on like it was going down with the Titanic. “Calm down ya’ big baby!” I complained. But it was pretty cute seeing the big dog fret over its master.

As soon as Mrs. Curmudgeon returned, the dog was all bounces and smiles; knocking over coffee cups and trampling my daypack in her eagerness to get to the “cool parent”. Am I jealous of a dog? Maybe… a little.

A good time was had by all but, as the sun approached the horizon, Mrs. Curmudgeon announced she’d had enough fun. She’d made reservations at a hunting/fishing “resort” and it was time to check in. At the main office she swiped our card, making sure I didn’t see the price. This is one of those magic ways long married couples compromise. We’ve been together forever and prettily happily. Part of this is my cheapskate self pretending I don’t know how much we spent on a cabin or trying to talk her into a pup tent. Her end of the deal is drinking fire percolated coffee instead of Starbucks and not complaining when I get the dog’s beautiful fur filled with brush and dirt. We’re a team!

The cabin was much nicer than I’d rent for myself… which isn’t saying much because I’m pretty comfortable “slumming”. In fact, feel wasteful when I drop $25 on an official park campsite when there’s perfectly good (and free) “dispersed camping” to be had. I’m sure we paid ten times that much to rent a sweet little cabin… but I don’t want to know. I consoled myself that next time I’d camp in the weeds somewhere for free.

The cabin was friendly and warm (the air was already cold and getting colder as evening wore on). I insisted on cooking kebabs. The cabin had a full kitchen but I was still in “outdoorsman mode”. I elected to use the outside BBQ.

As it was dark out, the dog had no desire to join me. (I think the dog is halfway afraid of the dark!) The dog had discovered the gas fireplace and stretched out in front; soaking up the heat. Mrs. Curmudgeon was happily parked on the couch with her book. Neither one would move for hours.

Outside, I faffed about. The BBQ was somewhat the worse for wear. It didn’t have a proper ignition button. One thing led to another and a small pocket of trapped propane went off like a campsite IED. Fooomp! I burned the hair off one hand and singed my beard. Yowza!

These things happen. Anyway the kebabs were delicious.

After dinner I began to drift off while the dog eagerly wolfed down it’s share of “secret treats” from it’s indulgent “mom”. My singed hand was chilled with a slab of frozen bacon wrapped in a plastic bag. I’m classy like that!

Suddenly, it dawned on me… I was exhausted. I’d done nothing much, mostly riding passenger and occasional short hikes, yet the ebbing effects of injuries in the previous week (plus nearly blowing my face off at the BBQ) had me plum tuckered out. Had I gone solo, I’d be a wreck!

I sagged on the couch and then staggered to a bed that was nicer than the one we have at home. “You planned this!” I announced. “You knew I was worn out. So you connived to get me into a safe comfortable cabin.”

She grinned.

“I… I’d usually be laying in the dirt, my head on a log instead of a pillow, shivering next to a sooty fire.” I was rambling happily. “Bugs and stuff… ants climbing on my food… maybe cook a bird on a stick… wolves prowling the dark…” At the mention of wolves, our dog began to snore. Outside it had started to rain. Soon the rain picked up and the wind began to whistle through the trees. It was a bad night to be out! Mrs. Curmudgeon had probably checked the weather reports!

Scandalous! I’d fallen for a comfortable outcome without even knowing it. I intended to complain further but the bed was sooooooo soft. The pillows were extra fluffy. The dog rolled on its back while my wife scratched it’s belly.

Damn she’s smart; my wife, not the dog. If she’d said “don’t go camping, you’re too worn out” I’d have ignored her sage advice. Instead, she’d connived to tuck me into a comfy bed in a sturdy warm cabin. I’d hardly noticed. Well played!

She’s a keeper! This was just another of her long term gambits to keep her idiot husband safe. The dog ripped a fart, I giggled because every fart is always funny… and then fell asleep so hard it was like I’d never slept before.

All night the rain pounded on the cabin roof. It rained cats and dogs. The wind was brutal and the temperatures were chilly. Inside, the gas fireplace was warm and glowed cherry red. I couldn’t have had a better place to rest if I’d spent a million dollars. I’m definitely too stupid to think of such things myself.

Glamping! I could get used to it!

I’m only just getting started, stay tuned…