Don't Camp. Ever.

I bought a tent once in August. Living in the south, this was not a good idea. It's an amazingly hot month, and August (or as we call it here: Don't-Go-Outside Month) is a time when virutally no one goes camping. You just don't do it, the temp. and humidity are oppressive. But the tent was on sale, so I bought it and mades plans to go camping at some point in September. The problem is that several people, before I could explain my plan, told me that I was loopy. "Who buys tents in August? It's way too hot to go camping." And rather than just say "Oh, this is for later", I felt defensive, like I needed to justify myself. I argued against their point, even though I secretly agreed with them. "Of course you can camp in August! All of the campsites are empty, it's the perfect time!" And to prove my point (thereby proving them wrong)...I went camping. I loaded up the tent, a cooler with beer, hot dogs, charcoal etc...and left for the Ozark mountains.

I arrived at my site at 8a.m. What I immediately learned is that other people do camp in August. Specifically, homeless people. The site I went to was essentially a vagrant camp, and thus, to mind my, not completely ideal. My goal had been to have some sort of romanticized, everything-is-perfect trip, so that was strike one. By the way, I did this completely alone because, surprisingly, no one else would go with me. Within one hour of arriving the temperature was well into the upper 90's and I had already sweated thoroughly through my clothes. I made a 9:30 a.m. attempt to hike on a nearby trail. At precisely 9:39a.m. I returned to my tent and proceeded to cry like a little girl. Although I had taken several water bottles with me, I simply sweated it all out and reverted to a leather-like, parched state within minutes. It was simply too hot to safely go hiking. And I wasn't sure, but I suspected that I was becoming delirious from the intensity of the sun. As I rested in my tent I began to see creepy spider-like shapes all over my arms. I responded to this by attempting to squeeze my eyes shut until the visuals passed, but when I felt a corresponding set of movements I realized that these weren't spider-like shapes but, in fact, spiders. This was to become strike 2, the realization that the insects of August are as overwhelming as the heat. So, with dozens of crawly tent-mates familiarizing themselves with my personal geography, I decided a bit of running and screaming might be in order. A fresh round of girlish crying ensued. Homeless people laughed. Much fun was had.

At this point, about noon, the temperature rose above the century mark. What I am about to tell you I have never told another living soul. I, determined to see my day of camping through to the end, drove to town and snuck towards the local movie theater. I was operating on the two following theories: 1. Theaters have air conditioning. 2. Theaters are not camp sites. I can't remember now what I watched, but this ate up a bit of time and the afternoon heat. (Oh, and I also went to the library, to the mall and to Sonic. Moving on.)

Around 4p.m.-ish I made it back to the site. I hadn't eaten since lunch so it seemed like a perfect time to begin my glorious camping-out, grilling extravaganza. While many campgrounds include a grill next to each site- cheap, boxy little contraptions- this particular campground did not. What I found instead was a grill's rack and nothing else, just a large flat ring to put your food on. I didn't know how most people worked it, so I began making assumptions. If, my now-unreliable mind told me, you make a large enough pile of charcoal, you could then set the rack on top of it and cook your hot dogs that way. It would be a literal charcoal grill. Brilliant. And, in order to heat this much charcoal, more lighter fluid would also be needed. How much lighter fluid? Hmmm. As I pondered this question my mind compared ratios, generated formulas, and eventually a grilling design of exquisite proportions took shape. Later, gently rubbing the bumps just above my eyes (where, until recently, eyebrows had been), my mind ran through a series of images, trying to work out where, exactly, things had gone wrong: Huge pile of charcoal....so far so good. Gallons of lighter fluid....yes. Frightening pillar of flame, perhaps 30 feet high...less good. Instantly-evaporating hot dogs....really, just an all around bad sign. Homeless people cheering quite loudly...let's put this one in the "silver lining" category; fun for them atleast. Strike three, in other words, had struck with a vengeance.

At this point my recurring baseball metaphor breaks down because, unlike the sport, my camping trip included a strike four.

The afternoon heat had been well above one hundred and by 6p.m. a cold beer seemed like the most appealing idea in the whole world. I opened the ice cooler and found beers floating in water. The ice had, apparently, melted early in the day. Still, by that point, a warm beer seemed like the second most appealing idea in the whole world. I would make due. The problem is that homeless people all over the camp site were staring at me, presumably waiting for the next highly-entertaining disaster. I felt intruded upon and retired to my tent. With the spiders. I didn't care. With four hours to burn until sundown and nothing else to do, I proceeded to drink the entire six pack, not pausing to remember that one of beer's more notable effects is dehydration. I drank happily. The beer sort of numbed my senses and made the extreme heat-induced misery go away. Also, it made consciousness go away. I slept (i.e. passed out) for 12 hours. Unfortunately, my plan had to been set up the inside of my tent after the sun went down, when it would be cooler, which meant that my sleeping bag was still in the car. So when I say I "slept" for 12 hours, what I really mean is that I remained face down, unmoving, on a gravel surface for a very long time. Sure, the tent floor was beneath me but it really wasn't designed for many hours of death-like hibernation. I awoke to a throbbing headache, but even more noticeable was the painful assortment of head-to-toe, one-inch deep gravel indentions. With my body thus affected, I briefly considered a stint with the circus freak show where, as the Human Waffle Iron, I could enthrall the masses. Anyway: strike four and (as always) girl-like crying.

So, that's it. I left immediately and did what any humbled, well-meaning person does after they've learned an important lesson: I lied my ass off. I told everyone all about the great time I'd had. "What a completely invigorating and peaceful trip, it was truly amazing", thereby proving that camping in the South during August is completely do-able. Until now I've never told anyone the true moral of the story: nature hates you, and if you camp....she will crush your soul.