I’ve always thought of myself as an “indoorsy” person. I like air conditioning, beds with actual mattresses, and food that doesn’t require me to set anything on fire. But last summer, I decided to step outside my comfort zone and try camping for the first time. Spoiler alert: it didn’t go well.
It all started when I borrowed a tent from a friend who swore it was “super easy” to set up. Now, I don’t know what their definition of “easy” is, but this tent came with more poles and strings than a circus. I might as well have been setting up a trapeze. After 30 minutes of what can only be described as an elaborate game of Twister, the tent finally went up—or so I thought. As soon as I stepped back to admire my work, it collapsed like a cheap lawn chair. Not once. Not twice. But three times. By the end, I was sweating, swearing, and seriously considering just sleeping under the stars, which sounded romantic until I remembered mosquitos exist.
Speaking of mosquitos, the ones at this campground were straight out of a horror movie. I’m talking mosquitos the size of hummingbirds. I went in armed with the strongest bug spray I could find, but they laughed in the face of DEET. I was swatting so furiously I could’ve been mistaken for someone trying to send out a distress signal through interpretive dance. I’m pretty sure the bugs here had been bred in some sort of mosquito military training camp because they were relentless.
After fighting the tent and the bugs, I was ready to settle down and cook some dinner over the campfire. And by “cook,” I mean throw sausages on a stick and hope for the best. What I didn’t realize was that my fire-starting skills were about as useful as a chocolate teapot. It took me about an hour and half a bottle of lighter fluid to get anything resembling a flame. When I finally had something going, I tossed the sausages on. I don’t know what happened after that, but by the time I checked them, they were burnt beyond recognition. I’m talking so charred that they could’ve been mistaken for something you’d use to filter water. Even the raccoons wouldn’t touch them.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, the campground ranger wandered over to check on me. He looked at my charred remains of dinner, raised an eyebrow, and said, “First time camping?” I nodded sheepishly. He glanced at the tent, which was once again deflated on the ground, then back at the sausages, and said, “Well, looks like the fire won.” I laughed, but deep down, I was questioning all my life choices.
But here’s the thing—I didn’t give up. Sure, my first camping trip was a disaster, but I survived. I learned a few things, like how to laugh at myself and roll with the punches. In the end, it’s these moments that make for the best stories and memories. So, will I go camping again? Maybe. But next time, I’ll bring extra bug spray and precooked meals.