Growing up, summers were punctuated by trips across the country from our home in the Pacific Northwest all the way to the rolling hills and velvety corn fields of eastern Iowa, a trek we undertook roughly every three years to bond with extended family and to delight in all the delicious meals they offered us. (Corn-fed beef is second to none. I said what I said.) In between those three-year intervals, we did vacation, but on a less-glamorous scale.
Enter camping.
At the invitation of friends, my parents would load us three kids into our Dodge Ram Van (full-sized, thank you), with our giant coolers, tents, and sleeping bags and would caravan up winding roads and into the forested mountains. The moms would cook fabulous meals, the kids would roam free among the pine needles and splash at the edges of the Payette Lake or in a hot springs, and crayons would melt into the pockets of the tents. I have zero idea what the dads were doing—Fishing? Snoozing? Chatting? It’s a mystery. As the years went on, we upgraded to staying in cabins or even travelling hours north to visit beloved friends who lived mountain-adjacent, and we abandoned the tent-sleeping and campfire-cooking for real beds and modern amenities.
My husband also grew up camping—although his parents actually liked it and planned trips on purpose, rather than on invitation. In fact, my parents-in-law and all their children still fill their summer weekends with camping trips and enjoy the chance to get away into the fresh air and mountain views.
Jim and I always assumed we would also camp with our kids: we both have great childhood memories of the simplicity of camping, and our budget was in agreement. We occasionally ventured into nearby campgrounds, and I had visions of our kids growing up, squatting along the edges of streams to catch minnows, investigating the undersides of rocks, and learning how to tell directions based on where the lichen grows on the trees. I was convinced that, unlike me, my kids would not be afraid to swim, would not be afraid to get dirty, and would not be creeped out by gutting fish.
Enter Daisy.
When Daisy was around eighteen months old, we decided it was time to take her camping. The older boys were three and four, and we took my sister-in-law, Mary Liz, along with us for moral—and practical—support.
In the beginning, it was idyllic.
We drove to one of Jim and Mary Liz’s beloved childhood campground and set up the borrowed pop-up tent-trailer. Jim fed us a quick lunch and strapped Daisy to the backpack carrier so she could join in with him and the brothers to fish off the dock. Mary and I settled in at the lake’s edge, she with headphones and music and I with a book. Later, as Jim grilled the chicken breasts I had marinated, Digit and Duke investigated the water spigot and climbed large rocks. Daisy sat in her chair at the picnic table and banged her cups and toys. We built a fire and roasted marshmallows, marveling at the stars peeking overhead through the tree boughs.
Lovely.
And then? We went to bed. Mary Liz climbed into her spot on one end of the trailer and the boys settled into their bed next to her. Daisy’s Pack-and-Play fit right in next to Jim’s and my bed and all was well. The boys fell asleep. Mary Liz fell asleep. Daisy…did not.
Daisy cried and wailed and screamed. She did not let up for hours. And hours.
Every time a camper—or collection of campers—crunched in the gravel past the trailer, Jim and I cringed, certain that the other campers were organizing a mob to send us packing. We assumed that Daisy would eventually wear herself out in our arms, but to no avail.
That girl was not having it.
The next morning, as Jim grilled pancakes and scrambled eggs, bleary-eyed and coffee in hand, he informed us that we would not be staying a second night, out of respect for the other campers’ nerves—and our own.
The following years found us camping very occasionally—even after purchasing our very own trailer!—and my dreamy visions of the kids growing up in the mountain dirt felt more and more insistent and frustrated. Serious health problems precluded regular camping trips, and we began to use our trailer as extra square-footage rather than for camping: it makes for a great study space, teenage hangout, take-out dining spot, and storage closet!
But this year? 2022 was our year.
Health crises behind us, we dusted off the trailer, emptied it of Christmas wrapping paper and board games and rosary-making supplies (as well as bibs, pull-ups, and baby wipes, long outgrown and forgotten), and we hit the road.
We gathered with Jim’s family for a glorious weekend at his brother’s mountain property and had an absolute ball. Not little kids anymore, Digit and Duke built fires and relaxed in hammocks with their older cousins. Daisy and Rooster played cards and roamed the campsite with their younger cousins. The adults relaxed in ever-rotating groups to catch up and enjoy each other’s company. There was no digging in the dirt or gutting fish (although Rooster did, confusingly, catch a bat in his fishing line), but we relaxed and relished the fresh air.
In the middle of our trip, we popped over to visit dear friends who live nearby in a town known for outdoor tourism. The kids immediately scattered to their favorite haunts, chatting with the braying donkeys, wandering down the pasture into the forest on the other side of the fence, and throwing a frisbee with their friend Roland (who happens to be a black lab rather than a human).
It suddenly dawned on me.
I had been feeling so sad that my kids were not growing up with summers filled with camping that I was blind to their memories containing other traditions I hadn’t counted on: get-aways filled with their very own vacation spot.
For nearly a decade, “Uncle” Derek and “Aunt” Penny have opened their home to us and we descend upon them like locusts, at least every summer and every winter. We fill their home with duffel bags and noise and games, and they cook for, fuss over, and hang out with us. Summer visits include afternoons at the lake or hiking among the trees, and winter visits find the kids trudging up hills and hauling sleds, or burrowing into the snow to build igloos in the yard.
How in the world can I feel sorry for my kids to not have a childhood full of camping trips when they have a childhood spent vacationing at the home of a couple who have adopted them into their hearts?!
Life is funny this way. We are often so caught up in the details of day-to-day living and the limitations we find placed upon us by health issues and work schedules, budgets and time constrictions, that we forget to step back and look at the tapestry that our opportunities have woven. If we are really lucky, we can see the blessings that God provides us when we aren’t paying attention.
And as for Iowa? We do still manage a trip there every few years to commune with family and sample their culinary specialties. And, yes, it is Heaven.
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