There are very few things I truly hate about camping. Doing dishes, being cold, wet, tired, and not being able to screw because there are kids in the tent? These are but mere discomforts which are manageable and something one gets used to. But the one thing that puts a bitter taste in my mouth every time I even think about it is breaking camp. Stashing all the memories from a few adventurous days in the wilderness into their appropriate camping boxes and looking back on an empty plot of earth that now holds our fond memories just stings a bit.
Then there’s the driving back to civilization with all it’s tireless noise and responsibilities. When pulling the last stake out of the tent, I can already picture that first stop light after we roll into the center of Denver. You know the one. Where Sixth Avenue smashes like a blind snake into the heart of the concrete jungle after miles of beautiful winding mountain roads and highways. It feels so abrupt. And while we’re stopped at this light I glance around at the other drivers in this gridlock wondering if they did anything fun this weekend. Or if they are impressed by the amount and diversity of stickers on our camping trailer.
In all the years we’ve planted our temporary home under the stars, the setup always fills the soul like a bowl of hot green chili on a snowy day. The tent site selection and orientation, the exploring, the anticipation of hearty camp cuisine, ice clinking in enamel mugs three fingers high with good bourbon. Even cutting a silly amount of wood for the fire is exciting. But damn that take down. Damn it all to hell. To ease the pain a little, we sometimes say, “Oh, we’ll hang out in camp all day, have another couple rounds of archery, and head out later this afternoon to miss traffic.” But we almost always finish breakfast and start doing dishes which leads to rolling up sleeping bags, then a full taking down and loading up and hitting traffic at the same time as the rest of Colorado does. Cussing internally like a sailor who disembarks too late and all the port whores are taken.
We try to keep ourselves from getting bent out of shape by every little thing but then there’s never enough coffee and we are a little hung over as a rule of thumb. The kids, even at an older age, just aren’t a huge help and argue more than necessary, and they aren’t even hung over. It seems they also know we are heading home where we have to buckle down and submit to societal expectations and ween ourselves from pissing outdoors like nature intended.
After the last gear bag is crammed into the truck bed and I suppress my dread of the drive ahead, I stand and look at the empty site in it’s natural state wishing we could stay a few more days to hike and throw dry flies in the magical outdoors. But I’m starting to smell like an old camping sock and the ice in the cooler is down to cold water and our food consists of a few bruised bananas. These are old Indian signs which urge us reluctantly back to “real life”.
So begins the bumpy crawl out of the wilderness in an ever increasing speed towards the inevitable. During the drive I reflect internally on the highlights of the trip. The views, the wild brookies and browns, the wildlife, the bourbon-enhanced conversations by fire light. Just the wonder of it all. And thankfully this adds to the excitement for the next trip and those unknown adventures. So now that I’ve thought about it, and got it out there into the universe as they say, breaking camp could be seen as a continuation into the next trip, not a full stop; if I’m straining for some optimism. Yeah, no, I hate it. Pass me a goddamned banana.
The Confluences 