Hell in the Forest (The Truth About Camping)

Last weekend, I came to the conclusion that camping was invented by a masochist.

The hubster and I got invited to go on a little hiking/camping expedition with a couple we recently met.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I have to admit the closest I had ever come to real camping was pitching a tent in the backyard when I was 8 and I've always kinda wondered why a perfectly sane person would choose to spend their vacation sleeping on the ground in the middle of the forest.  Running water, indoor toilets:  GOOD.   Biting insects, peeing in the woods:  BAD.

The hike to our campsite was about 5 miles and was some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever laid eyes on.  The hiking wasn't too strenuous, and the the company was engaging, but 3 miles into our trek we ran into insects whose only fun in life comes from flying around and biting anything with skin.  Because of the biting flies and mosquitos, the final two miles of the hike were absolutely brutal.   I was slapping myself so much I felt like I belonged in a mental ward somewhere in restraints drugged to the eyeballs.

It was only 3 in the afternoon when we reached our campsite but we all hurriedly rolled out our sleeping bags, climbed into them fully clothed and zipped them up over our heads.  Had anyone been perched in the trees above us, they would have wondered if a pyramid had exploded nearby and mummies had rained down in the forest.  

Yes, we were finally free of the clouds of blood sucking bugs but if you've ever tried to have a conversation while lying flat on your back, yelling through layers of down with three other grown people, you know it isn't the optimal way to spend your Saturday afternoon.

Every so often, I'd peek out of my bag to check the status of the air around us which was surprisingly free of flying demons for about two minutes when they'd catch scent of human skin and start dive bombing.

Around dusk, the hubster decided enough was enough.  He got out of his sleeping bag, collected some twigs, wood and dry moss and started a campfire which seemed to scare off several battalions of insects while we cooked a delicious dinner of canned baked beans and burned hot dogs.

It was about that time that I literally had nature calling and crept off to find a place to pee with dignity.  It was dark, my flashlight was dim and the first small area I found without too much brush, I called good.

I could feel the plants brushing against my bum while I squatted, but they didn't look like poison oak, so I did my thing keeping my hawk ear on my surroundings for any inkling of animalish rustling.  I've never had to run with my pants around my ankles, but I could probably give a bear a run for its money if I had to.

Ten minutes later, while we were all chatting around the campfire and contemplating retiring to our mummy encasements for the night, I began to feel an all consuming stinging on my backside and decided it probably hadn't been the best idea to grab the nearest foliage and wipe.  I was too embarrassed to say anything to anyone, so I agonized in private and scratched in the dark.  

I looked through my backpack for something to relieve the agony and just in case you've ever wondered, chapstick DOES NOT help stinging, itching or burning in the south 40.  Needless to say, I learned that even though they don't look like poison oak, stinging nettles have been aptly named.

If you think that's funny, try making it through a night of sleeping on a concrete slab-like surface with a sleeping bag zipped over your head while sweating like a monkey and trying not to scratch the itching butt rash from hell.

Despite a stiff neck, a lot of creepy scampering, scraping and twittering sounds nearby, an odd "Blair Witch" cracking of big trees all around us, and a strange howling a few miles away, I got a really good night's sleep of, oh.... say.... an hour.

We woke in the morning to an extinguished campfire, abundant insects emitting shrill dentist drill-like skin seeking radar and several holes chewed in our backpacks with our food strewn everywhere.  

There was no arm twisting required when I suggested we backpack immediately out of Hell, rent rooms at the nearest hotel, have a swim in the pool and a decent meal.  Did I mention the baked beans on the menu the night before?  I'm sure that little detail didn't make us any more invisible to the bugs.

I've decided that one single super fun camping excursion was so fulfilling it will last me a lifetime -- The woods can carry on just fine without me.  I'll be here in the suburbs with my head to toe calamine-lotioned body,  covertly scratching my nettled butt on anything stationary until my rash heals... and then I'm recommending a do-over at the beach in a nice hotel.

The Diva