I had a delightful childhood primarily because of the thick layers of love that were spread around my family’s home like warm butter, but also due to the spiritual adventures we experienced together. We camped.
Our most frequent campground was the Indiana Dunes State Park on Lake Michigan. They have a dune there they actually call Mount Tom that would provoke guffaws from we West Slopers. It has an elevation gain of all of 250 feet.
The mother of all camping trips was a six-week venture to the southwest United States. We hit Carlsbad Caverns, Glen Canyon before it was Lake Powell, Zion, Bryce and Grand canyons, Death Valley and Yosemite.
No motels or restaurants. We camped out every night, rain or shine, and had picnic lunches on the way. My father and older sister set up the tent while Mom and I handled the Coleman stove and got the vittles ready. We were a well-oiled machine. After the Great Southwest Tour, we moved north and did the Black Hills, the Tetons, Yellowstone and Glacier National Park when it still had plenty of glaciers.
The stories that came out of these camping trips are so much a part of our family’s tradition. Many involved bears. While we were traveling with my aunt, uncle and cousin, Aunt Marie was startled by a bear when we were having a picnic and hurriedly put the food away in our Plymouth station wagon.
She pushed the button to raise the rear window and got her arm stuck with the bear right behind her. My mother jumped in the front seat to use the control to lower the window. It was a toggle switch that went side to side. Which way was up and which way was down? Mother guessed right and my aunt was saved from the bear and her arm wasn’t crushed.
On another occasion, that same aunt was exiting a campground bathroom when she encountered a bear dining in a nearby garbage can. Born and raised a Catholic, Aunt Marie exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Why does the National Park Service put trash cans next to the outhouses?
In another bathroom story, my father, who was a male model in college posing nude for an art class and was very proud of his Greek god body, liked to strip down to his altogether and take a sink bath in the campground restroom.
He was doing just that when a boy had to go and wandered into the commode. The lad dashed out and called, “Come out, man!” After that, whenever my father would go to a campground bathroom to cleanse himself, we’d shout, “Come out, man!”
Camping at Yellowstone, we befriended an elderly German couple who were traveling with a miniature dachshund. One night, the pooch went off into the woods and scared up a bear. Annoyed by the incessant yapping, the bear took off after the hound and it ran for its life.
Where did the dog go? You guessed it. Back to the tent. In goes the dog. In goes the bear. Down goes the tent. The bear, the dog and two old people all bundled up in a canvas wrapping. Soon, the bear figures that’s enough and a mighty claw rips a hole in the tent. He escapes and the old-timers and the dog are unharmed.
We were traveling down the road behind a car that had its trunk lid bouncing up and down. My mother was driving and as she passed the car in front of us my father rolled down the window and shouted, “Your trunk lid’s up.”
They obviously couldn’t hear him, so my father thrust his index finger up into the air. “Dad,” I said, “I hope he knows what finger you’re using.” From then on, whenever a family member wanted to flip off another, they’d say, “Your trunk lid’s up.”
Without a doubt the most perilous adventure was when we were traveling from Laramie to Cheyenne, Wyoming over the Snowy Range which lived up to its name. It was Aug. 15, but we got hit by a major snowstorm, dumping feet of snow in minutes.
We slipped and slided all over the road until we finally slid off to the side and got stuck. It wasn’t encouraging when a road grader came to our rescue and got stuck itself. My parents took off on foot to find help, leaving me with my aunt, uncle and cousin.
On their journey, my parents encountered others buried in the snow and helped them dig out. When they encountered a terrified group of New Yorkers cowering inside their car, my mother, no shrinking violet, called out, “Get out here and grab a shovel.”
It was 12 hours before a 10-foot-tall snowplow blade from Laramie saved us. That was a glorious sight. Years later, we returned to the spot where we were snowbound and realized to our horror we were inches from a cliff that fell about 500 feet.
My aunt and uncle never ventured west of the Mississippi again. They’d had enough of the Wild, Wild West.
Sadly, I don’t camp anymore. I don’t even own a tent or a sleeping bag. I’m at the point in my life where I need my C-Pap, nebulizer and a full-service bathroom. But I have those memories of reducing the necessities of life down to their bare essentials and being at one with nature.