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7 Steps for Making Your First Family Camping Trip Suck a Little Less

We always knew that we wanted to take our kids camping, but guilt-inducing parenting articles reminding our generation that our kids aren’t getting outside enough sealed the deal. Neither my husband nor I grew up camping, however, so we had a steep learning curve. What we’ve found is what most folks won’t tell you when they are extolling the virtues of a family camping trip: It can really suck. No, I mean really suck. Your job as a parent is to get through the suck and not let your kids see how much it sucks, so that they, too, can someday experience the suck with their own kids. Why? Because as painful as it can be, it can also be the most engaging, endearing, and memorable time you ever spend together as a family. Here’s a list of the things I wish I had known before packing up the car for the first time:

  1. Practice setting up your crap first. Never open a tent for the first time at a campsite. Just don’t. At many state parks, you can’t check into a site until late in the day. If you don’t know what the hell you are doing with all your equipment, you’ll have some pissed off kids who are wondering where their dinner is at 10:00 p.m. while you are still trying to figure out what pole goes where.
  2. Draw out a list of what you can’t live without when roughing it. I’m talking the basics. Real basic, like sleep. With four kids to wrangle at a campsite over a series of days, sleep must happen. And don’t give me that crap of the crickets and the stars lulling you to sleep under the blissfully swaying trees. Unless you regularly sleep on your hardwood floors, I would recommend an air mattress. We can fit two queen sized air mattresses and two singles into our 8-man tent. It looks a bit like a giant bouncy house, but it works.
  3. Don’t be a hero. If your idea of camping means that you emerge from the wilderness sporting a week’s worth of stubble wearing the pelts of the animals you hunted, skinned, and cooked over a roaring fire you started with two twigs and your bare hands, you might consider lowering your expectations. A lot. If it’s a first (or even a second or third) camping trip with your kids, do yourself a favor and start at your closest state park at a site that provides electricity and water. They’ll also have bathrooms. With showers. Remember that part about sleep? Now imagine that scenario with six people, a dog, and no access to showers. Not happening, folks. Not happening.
  4.  Keep your dreams of campfire culinary greatness at home. My kids know that if they see a bag of Doritos on the kitchen counter when they get home from school, we are going on a trip. Camping makes everyone hangry. For the most part, we pack healthy foods including lots of fresh fruits and veggies. Heck, we even make our own granola and trail mix, but I never regret having some crap on hand that’s quick and easy and tastes good over a fire. And sometimes that crap is refrigerator biscuits, cooked in any one of several thousand different ways. And that’s ok.
  5. Have a disaster plan. I know, a vacation shouldn’t require such a plan, but this is camping and things can go wrong. Be prepared. Talk through what you want to do if it rains. What if a kid gets hurt or stung by something that you can’t identify? What if you get split up from each other when hiking? You can’t possibly predict all that could go wrong, but you need to have an idea of how you are going to react to the most common scenarios. I have no fewer than five fully stocked first aid kits on hand when we go camping. I wish I was kidding.
  6. Prepare to entertain your kids. Read enough parenting articles related to the great outdoors and you’ll get the idea that the second your children go outside they will frolic like cute little woodland creatures, keeping themselves occupied for hours birdwatching and exploring the local flora. Hogwash. If your kids are in school, they are used to being directed by adults for 8 hours every day. Eventually, they will entertain themselves, but it might be with such wonderfully creative games as “Rock Tag” where the person who gets hit with the rock is “It.” Bring board games and cards, coloring books and crayons. Print off a camping scavenger hunt or make your own. Buy out every last glow stick Dollar General has to offer. Choose a campground that has a playground and try to pitch your tent within sight of it. You can sit back with your glass of wine while watching your kids play with all the other children whose parents are doing the exact same thing you are.
  7. Embrace the suck. Channel your inner Mary Poppins. Know going into your trip that it is going to be a lot of work, that it will probably downpour while you are trying to set up your tent, that you’ll have forgotten to pack somebody’s wubby that they just can’t possibly sleep without. Take notes on what worked and what didn’t, what gear you needed and what you wished you had. Make camping a habit. You’ll all become much more proficient at it with practice.

Accept the negative aspects of your camping adventure so that you can then shift your focus to where it needs to be – on spending uninterrupted time with your family. Work your butt off, but also play together. Tell stories. Hike the trails together, hand in hand. Your time together doesn’t last forever. Make it count.

Beware of Campsite 529

Murphey’s Law of family travel: No matter how practical, methodical, prepared, and organized you are, be prepared for a zinger that will cause your head to ache, your back to break, and your soul to whimper, if just a little.

Campsite 529 was absolutely perfect in every aspect. Flat, not too far from the bathrooms, within sight of the playground and the camp host.

Perfect.

Until it got dark.

No, that wasn’t the moment that some deranged ax murderer started stalking the campsite. Such a menace would have never stood a chance near Campsite 529. What we failed to notice during the scenic, beautifully sun-lit day was an extremely large, extremely bright lamppost towering directly over our sweet home away from home. We waited, convinced that an automatic timer would switch the beacon off as the night wore on. As the hours ticked away, however, the phosphorescent sentry continued to glow, burning its yellow haze into our corneas.

By ten o’clock, the older children were tearfully bemoaning the ineffectiveness of the 50 glow sticks that they insisted on breaking open the minute we set up camp. Our tent had become a front row seat at an insect rock concert, their seemingly gigantic skeletons plinking loudly against the hard plastic shell of the world’s biggest bug lamp. Worst of all, nothing could convince the baby that, though it looked like it was noon and therefore time to play, it was actually several hours past her (very, very, necessary) bedtime.

Whether setting up or taking down, campsite work is arduous. The thought of moving our carefully placed tent and our ten million other belongings to a new campsite filled us with dread. We listed the pros and cons of such a move. We hemmed…we hawed… As we attempted to convince the baby to sleep with yet another round of off-key lullabies, my husband looked at me, the red veins in his eyes clearly visible, and offered the dreaded “I’ll do whatever you want to do.”

I could bear it no longer. The thought of spending another night cocooned in the gruesome haze was too onerous to bear. We had to move.

Once my watch told me that the sun had risen, I searched for a new home. I found just one open site. It was on the opposite side of the campground, it was not flat, it was far away from the playground, and it was even further away from the bathrooms. The kicker: between it and the big beacon of light there were trees. Lots and lots of leaf-filled, light shielding trees.

I could feel the husband’s unspoken grumbles as I walked him to this less than idyllic location. Somehow, I channelled Mary Poppins from deep within my psyche. With “A Spoonful of Sugar” ringing in my ears, I was playful, I was entertaining, I was helpful. I was even NICE. Like, to everyone. And they ate it up.

We carelessly tossed our gear into the van. The kids became miniature sherpas, canvassing bags, clothing, towels, and sacks of food across the campground. My husband shoved the half-broken-down tent in the back of the van and drove it, back door open, to our new campsite. The entire process was complete in 30 minutes. A campsite establishment record. We grilled up a lazy man’s hot dog dinner that night, shook up another 50 glow sticks and waited. It got dark. Then, it got darker. The light from across the campground at Campsite 529 could not make it through the tree line to assault our tent. It got so dark we needed to use both our lanterns just to get the kids into their pajamas.

By the time my husband and I fell asleep that night, I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I groped blindly in the dark for the bed next to mine and touched upon the best possible payoff of changing plans on the fly:  the baby, deliciously, completely, and utterly, asleep.

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