Making Peace with the Wilderness

  CONFESSION: I don't like to camp. 

There. It's off my chest and now you know the truth.

But why must it be a confession? Why is it whenever the subject is broached, I always feel guilt mingled with shame? Is it wrong not to enjoy such a popular, wholesome activity?

Because here are my honest thoughts: I love nature. I love the smell of the campfire, roasting marshmallows, and the idea of sleeping under the stars. It's beautiful and romantic. But my, how I hate bugs. Especially ones that bite, suck blood, or big ones that crawl into my tent. And tents...I find them inferior to houses, and never sleep well in their care. Probably because I'm lying on the ground covered with my own sweat.

Pioneer I am not. I love running water, hot showers and clean toilets flanked with fresh, soft toilet paper. I love my warm, cushy bed. And admitting this makes me feel like a fussy princess, but hey - I gotta be me! 

I'm bringing all this up because camping has been on my mind quite a LOT lately...Andrew was called to be Young Men's president earlier this year, which entails a good deal of scouting and camping. His first activity was a January campout called "The Freeze," wherein the boys camp WITHOUT  TENTS to help learn survival skills. What??? Sounds like sadism to me. 

Andrew loves to camp, and seemed to welcome the opportunity, but as he set off for what was sure to be hell (minus the benefit of heat), I wanted to cry. Would I ever see him again?

 

Andrew and I on our first camping trip together, before he realized what a priss he was marrying.

Then I was assigned to be our ward's Camp Director for Girl's Camp. In July. Eight months pregnant. Yikes. Should I have told them I have mild to moderate camping anxiety?

To be fair to myself, I think my distaste for temporary outdoor living is rooted in childhood experiences. My dad often took us camping as girls, but not normal camping. Civil War reenactment camping. That's right. Everything had to be period, which translates to uncomfortable. The smell of mildewing canvas is burnt into my memory, as is waking up shivering under damp quilts surrounded by daddy long legs.

Painful memories aside, I keep thinking about my aversion to spending a week in the wilderness, and wonder if it's okay, or if I need to readjust what's important to me. Again, the question: is disliking camping somehow wrong? Maybe, if it means you are too stuck up (or neurotic) to get outside and really enjoy God's green earth. 

But maybe not. Maybe it really is just a simple matter of like versus dislike. 

While Andrew and I were hanging out with another couple a few weeks ago, I confided all this slightly personal information. To my surprise, they shared my sentiment! They said not liking to camp was something they had to "confess" to each other too. Then they showed us the following Jim Gaffigan clip, which made me double over laughing and feel somehow vindicated.

Hilarious, right?

 My sister just told me her friend from Ghana is completely confused by the idea of camping as a hobby. "Why would you do that? That is what poor people do."

So I'm starting to feel a little better. Still, I envy you women who are rugged, "cool" girls. Women whose husbands take them seriously as wilderness equals. Women who don't miss make up and face wash. Who are able to endure a few days of bad hygiene and really enjoy outdoor adventure. I want to be like you.

But can it be done? Is there time? Aside from our outdoorsy callings, the Steele Family Campout is just two weeks away. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I can get over myself, get a little dirty and learn to love this highly regarded pastime. 

Maybe.