Have you ever been camping?
At this point, I should be given an honorary park ranger badge—preferably one that comes with a coupon for a free chiropractor visit.
I’ve camped in many places: the sun-scorched dunes of Michigan, where sand somehow found its way into my socks, sandwich, and soul… the rocky highs of Colorado, where the altitude made me question whether oxygen was just a rumor… California national parks where raccoons once held a strategy meeting under my tent flap at 2 A.M.
And, of course, the granddaddy of them all—I’ve camped the airshow at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, many times. Tents and RVs as far as the eye could see. Airplanes overhead day and night. It was like camping at a rock concert, except everyone smelled faintly of jet fuel and sunscreen.
There was even that one winter in the mountains of Pennsylvania—sleeping in a lean-to shelter during a snowstorm. Just me, two friends, some sticks, and a healthy dose of questionable decision-making. Since we couldn’t start a fire, I spent the night wondering whether frostbite would hit before the coyotes decided I looked like a frozen burrito sleeping in my mummy bag.
Yep, I’ve pitched tents in rain, sand, snow, and what was probably a suspiciously aggressive colony of mosquitoes plotting a full-scale assault.
But these days? Well… let’s just say my idea of “roughing it” now involves a hotel suite with slightly slow Wi-Fi.
Give me a cozy bed, a deck overlooking the ocean, and a room service menu longer than my last camping checklist. Let someone else worry about whether or not a bear thinks my granola bar is an invitation to hang out.
Still, despite the slightly more refined tastes I’ve developed, I wouldn’t trade those wild, muddy, mosquito-buzzing, adrenaline-charged memories for anything. Because somewhere deep down—underneath the love for fluffy pillows and hot coffee delivered to my room—there’s still a scrappy camper who once thought duct tape, beef jerky, and stubborn optimism could solve any problem.
Crock’s Thoughts 