A couple of months ago Tara and I took a drive to Yellowstone Lake and were so impressed, I made a camping reservation as soon as we got home.
Maybe this time we’ll actually go camping instead of cancelling our reservation, I wrote. This had become sort of a running joke, because at the time, we’d planned three separate camping trips since moving to Wisconsin, and for various reasons, bailed on them all. Surely, this time – the last weekend in May – would be different!
Now we are 0 for 4. And don’t call me Shirley.
The conversation went something like this:
Mark: Say, we’ve got a “camping trip” coming up in a few weeks.
Tara: Why did you put air quotes around “camping trip”?
Mark: Babe, this is a verbal conversation! I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Tara: I can hear the air quotes in your voice! Are you having second thoughts?
Mark: Of course not. I’m looking forward to “camping!”
Tara: There they are again! Are you sure about that?
Mark: Absolutely! Well, mostly.
Tara: What are you thinking?
Mark: How uncomfortable sleeping on the ground is.
Tara: There are bugs too.
Mark: Ugh. The mosquitoes are relentless this time of year. But nothing beats drinking beer around a campfire.
Tara: I should point out that we have a fire pit in the backyard and beer in the fridge.
Mark: This is true. We could recreate the experience, but with a king bed and pillow-top mattress instead of the hard ground.
Tara: Do you still want to go?
Mark: I dunno. Do you still want to go?
Tara: I’m okay with going or not going.
Mark: I could go either way myself. They’re both solid options.
And back and forth it went, neither of us wanting to cave first and pull the plug on yet another planned camping trip. But finally I decided to take one for the team and admit I just didn’t want to go.
“I’ll cancel the reservation,” I said.
“Yay!” Tara replied. “I mean, as long as you’re sure you don’t want to go…”
I told her I was sure, mainly to prevent another conversation from going ’round and ’round in circles.
Look, I love camping. In theory. I just don’t really look forward to doing it in a tent anymore. I guess I’ve become too – sacre bleu! – “soft” in the autumn late summer of my life. “Roughing it” sounds too rough. I’d rather smooth it at this stage of my life, ya know? Setting up and disassembling the tent, sleeping on a lumpy air mattress, constantly swatting at bugs, finding a tree to do your business behind at 2 a.m. and hoping you don’t get mauled by a bear mid-stream…those things sound even less appealing the older I get. And they were never that appealing to begin with.
I’m not saying I’m Team Marriott and need a hot tub and free continental breakfast to be happy (although, those don’t sound terrible); the Great Outdoors are still great – just not 24/7. Maybe there’s a compromise. I would love a little travel trailer, nothing fancy, maybe a Scamp (or even a pop-up camper like we had in the ’70s), something that offers just a little comfort and protection from the elements.
Tara says we have bigger fish to fry these days, but I say we can’t fry those fish unless we’re catching them while camping, so we’re at an impasse for now. All I know is, we are not going camping this weekend as planned, but since we both took Friday off in anticipation of this getaway, we’re planning a day trip exploring the Driftless Area. That’ll be a lot of fun – Team MarTar always turns these little getaways into epic adventures – and at the end of the day, we’ll crawl into our king bed with the pillow-top mattress and sleep like babies.
That’s a win-win.
If I happen to mention making a fifth “camping” reservation at some point in the future, please talk me out of it, okay? I’m only deluding myself.
Close Encounters of the Fawn Kind
Nature has a wicked sense of humor. Remember how I was ready to mount a deer head to the living room wall on Sunday after the damn things ate Tara’s tomato plants?
Well, yesterday morning, after returning from my walk, I saw a brown paper bag in the driveway, so I went to fetch it and toss it in the trash. Only this paper bag had four legs, large floppy ears, and was covered with white spots. It turned out to be a fawn, curled up against the garage, sleeping. When it saw me – I was only a yard or two away at this point – it scrambled to its feet and bolted away. I think I was just as surprised as it was.
This reminded me of another close encounter with a fawn a couple of summers ago. That lil’ guy was so innocent, so trusting, so damn cute, it actually approached me before deciding that wasn’t such a smart idea after all.
My little anti-deer Grinch heart grew three sizes that day, I swear. And while I still don’t want them anywhere near the garden (it occurs to me that this very fawn, now two years older, could even be the same deer that munched on Tara’s tomatoes – unlikely, sure, but not impossible), perhaps I’m not quite ready for grilled venison just yet.
The deer have been decapitating our lilies and hostas and other plants left and right, but these irises and alliums have so far escaped their jaws. Good thing; look how colorful they are!
I just love our yard this time of year.
When was the last time you went camping? Do you love the Great Outdoors or would you rather hang a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and order room service? Wanna buy a brand new, unopened, still-in-its-original box tent?
Mark My Words 
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