HAPPY CAMPERS - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


     I got lost recently and wandered into an RV show.  I immediately saw why there has been such an increase in happy campers.  They’re living in forty feet of luxury-on-wheels, parked in a luxurious resort in a sun-drenched oasis.  They’re also enjoying all the amenities I’m dreaming about in the new game, “Fantasy Retirement”: pool, golf, shuffleboard, spas, and roaming those pesky flea markets.  

     Now there is something called “glamping.”  Glamping is a blend of glamour and camping, with a heavy emphasis on glamour.  When you’re glamping, you sleep in a luxurious tent with carpet, a fireplace, TV, and fine food.  Even the mosquitoes are high end.  They never land on you.  They just fly by and wave, like a mosquito pageant. 

     Okay, I’ll admit, the mosquitoes are the same mosquitoes that will suck you dry, and then throw your body over a cliff.  But the rest is true!  I’m not making it up.

     Before forty feet of luxury on wheels, and glamping, our campgrounds were littered with miserable wretches shivering in their sleeping bags, on a pile of sharp rocks and pine needles.  Of course, they probably wouldn’t have been so miserable if they’d taken the sharp rocks and pine needles out of their bags.  Still, it wasn’t easy finding a happy camper. 

     As a boy, I loved the lure of the great outdoors, especially if there were bedrooms to clean or homework to complete.  There were several of us who spent many nights camping in backyards and vacant lots close to home, in case we heard rustling in the night, and suspected high school seniors nearby, who were especially skilled at rustling up underclassmen and using them for fish bait. 

     Sprinting at cheetah-like speed, dodging in between parked cars, jumping six-foot fences, and standing for long periods of time, disguised as shrubbery, were crucial for survival. 

     Everyone who camped had to be fleet afoot.  If you didn’t make it to the house of refuge, you could be nabbed by an upperclassman and never seen again.  And you would never learn happy camping skills as fish bait. 

     Having survived numerous raids, I’ve learned several very important truths to becoming a happy camper.  First, you can’t let classified information, such as your camping plans, leak out during school.  This is a magnet for upperclassmen.  Next, you need to have a secure campsite.  This can be done by digging a moat around your camp, and stocking it with alligators.  If there are no alligators, you’ll have to find something else for your moat, preferably something that likes to dine on upperclassmen.   

     An absolute necessity for camping is a campfire.  There is no reason to camp if you’re not going to have a campfire.  And I mean a reasonable campfire; not backdraft 2.  This means you must know how to build a campfire.  A safe location is of the utmost importance.  A barn full of hay is not a safe location.  If you try this, you won’t be a happy camper.  And you may have to apply for asylum in a foreign country, such as San Diego.  

     It’s also important that you be in control of your fire.  This means you should build your fire next to a fire truck.  Being in control is critical to your well-being, along with the well-being of those around you, including all the animals in the forest. 

    Finally, after you have learned how to control a campfire, you must learn how to tame the smoke.  This may be more difficult than controlling the fire.  Personally, I’ve found it’s more difficult than riding a deranged Brahma bull.  Smoke attacks me like a hungry lioness.  It gets an adrenaline rush if it finds me sitting anywhere near a campfire.  I’m immediately welcomed with a full frontal assault.  This probably explains why I’ve never been able to roast a complete marshmallow.  As soon as I get my marshmallow perfectly positioned on the end of my stick, I’m assaulted.  If there is other smoke in the area, it will rush over and join in the assault.  It apparently senses when there is gagging and choking nearby.

     Refusing to admit defeat, I circle the campfire.  The smoke follows me, continuing its relentless assault. Choking and flailing my arms, I peer through the cloud with reddened, watery eyes, looking for the flame.  At the sight of the flame, I joust at it with my stick and marshmallow.  I keep jousting at the flame as I continue circling the campfire.  By the time my marshmallow is half roasted, I’ve fled to the car, seeking refuge.      

     It’s not easy becoming a happy camper.  

 

 

To be continued...check back soon