When a camping trip gone wrong taught me that it's okay to leave early
Otherwise known as permission granted
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself chuckling at the memory of a camping trip gone wrong.
Another lifetime ago, my friend Lizzy and I decided we should go backpacking in a rather mosquito-infested area called Lake Susan Jane.
We packed our bags for a couple of days in the woods — backpacks full of food and a sleeping bag apiece, a plastic pouch of wine and perhaps some bladders of water.
I do remember neither one of us packing a tent, likely figuring we didn’t need to pitch a tent in the middle of the forest when we could be outdoorsy and sleep under the stars.
We did make sure our dogs, a golden retriever named Bruce and a border collie named Mr. Darcy, jumped in the car before we took off. And I do remember packing a couple of textbooks, into the woods, mind you, because I figured while Lizzy hiked around the lake and the dogs played together, I would get sit in my camping chair and get some seminary reading done. As one does, I suppose.
We wound our way through the browns and greens of the Pacific Northwest, finally stumbling upon the tiny mile marker off the side of the highway. Soon enough, we were trudging up the side of the mountain, dogs racing ahead of us, nipping and chasing each other like it was the best day of their little canine lives.
Because did I mention these dogs were actually puppies? Large puppies, mind you, but eight-month-old and six-month-old puppies nonetheless.
Just as we began hiking along the trail, we were met by a large group of women who were on their way home.
“Hi there!” We probably said, utter positivity choking our words. “How was it?”
They began to tell a tale of mosquitos, of lots and lots of mosquitos at the lake.
“Huh,” we finally replied, not thinking much of it. What’s a couple of mosquitos when you’re in the woods with your dogs and your books, your wine and your people? What’s a bug of two when the glory of nature swims all around you?
Soon enough, we trudged up the trail. I suppose I should clarify: Lizzy sprinted like a mountain goat up the narrow trail, while my cement-legs clomped up at a snail’s pace behind her. I’m not the fastest kid in the woods, I never have been. But next to a former collegiate runner, I cannot keep up with the mountain goat (or the border collie, for that matter).
Meanwhile, the dogs continued to sprint up and down, back and forth, across the trail, never seeming to tire — because why would you run out of energy when you are the equivalent of a nine-year-old boy? And meanwhile, still, Lizzy and I started to swat at mosquitos, a lot.
By the time we finally got to the lake, mosquitos swarmed around us. New blood! Fresh meat! Yummy human flesh! I know not the mind of a mosquito, but there was no end to their presence. Like a camouflage net, they merely became part of the landscape.
Suffice it to say, we could not eat and, later, we could not sleep. Even though the mosquitos kept a distance of approximately half a foot when we built a small fire, it wasn’t enough to get any reading done.
And what of those damn dogs? It was the best day of their collective little lives, if you recall: sure, we could have (and should have) worked on our own recall before letting them loose in the forest, but Mr. Darcy and Bruce refused to come when called, and instead spent the most of the night chasing one another around the forest floor.
I believe we finally wrangled them into sleeping (or into being tied to their individual leashes and pinned down so they couldn’t play with one another anymore), but we humans never did fall asleep.
Because we couldn’t — not when we were in our mummy bags and the dogs were tied to our wrists, trying to wrestle one another, and the mosquitos could detect all that fresh flesh! a mile away.
So, we decided to leave. We packed up at 5:45 in the morning, utterly exhausted and also weirdly energized from the whole experience. We drove back to Lizzy’s place a couple hours later and spent the rest of the day watching reruns of The Office.
I don’t think I ever got any reading done until Mr. Darcy and I got home a day or two later, which is to say, more than okay.
The graduation diploma eventually arrived in the mail.
When I told my friend Ashley1 this story a couple of weeks ago, I just laughed. Really, it was a story of granting permission, at least in the camping sense. Sometimes the mosquitos are too much and you just have to pack up and go home. Sometimes it’s other elements — it’s wind that pulls up your tent stakes and rain that gathers in three inch puddles around your campsite. It’s all these things you don’t plan to have happen that worm and wiggle and squeeze their way in until you are left at your wit’s end.
And when that time comes, if that time comes, sometimes it also comes with a dose of permission.
It’s okay. Permission granted to trust your gut, your instincts, that knowing deep down inside you. Permission granted to pack up and leave, to not stay another night in the woods, and to tell a tale of it fifteen years later.
Permission granted to you, my friend, whatever your camping might be.
Permission granted to us all.