a-camping we will go

I just Googled camping to get a visual aid for today, and the photo at right came up. Oookay. It was too cool to resist, though, don't you think? Only in Germany, man. Only in Germany. But only in southern Germany, where the Germans still occasionally retain a sense of humor.

I've been told by the parties in question (my family) that they're somewhat leery of what I might post on the blog here. Not because they have any embarrassing secrets, or anything -- I suspect my perspective, and/or memory, is being called into question. Which has led me to wonder just how funky a version of events my brain has recorded, especially when it comes to the childhood memories. The only things I can compare my versions to are someone else's versions, though I suppose I can grant that someone who was an adult at the time might have a slight edge in credibility where strict facts are concerned. Maybe.

This story, however, cannot possibly be a fabrication. It just can't. So, I'm going to stop waiting for Dad to get back to me with permission to tell it -- sorry, Dad! -- and seize the moment I have before me.

As I recall, we camped a fair amount when I was a kid. A time or two a year, anyway. Maybe that doesn't sound like a lot, but I remember it as a lot, okay? I don't know that I've camped at all as an adult, which is why I'm excited to go this weekend with some church folks. I have some trepidation, but it concerns the three-year-old participant. In my mind, I visualize her dropping off to sleep in our tent shortly after dusk -- an even which NEVER happens at home, but I'm hoping that being away from the artificially-lit house will confuse her -- and the adults gathering 'round the old campfire, hoisting ciders and beer and telling tall tales. Perhaps whilst roasting s'mores makings! What a mental picture it is. The reality will be quite something ... else, no doubt. Still, I will allow myself these romantic musings for now.

But -- back to the past. We lived in Oregon at this golden time of childhood camping. Those of you who know anything -- ANYTHING -- about (western) Oregon are now thinking, uh-HUH. You must've had fun sitting out in a mud puddle. And, as I recall, that's about how it usually played out. Just thinking about the dull pitter-patter of rain on canvas a few feet above my head brings it back. Slapping at the mosquitoes that found their way unbidden into the tent. Wondering why we had to buy a tent that was such a LIGHT color -- it got light at about 2:45 a.m., seemed like. It's weird now to think about sleeping in such close quarters with my family. Something we never do any more. Then again, I live about 4,321 miles from my parents (according to Mapquest. Hey! It would take only 74 hours to drive there! Interesting), so that might at least partially account for that fact. I bet it would be scenic!

My favorite place that we went tent camping was Fort Stevens, but it was rather far away (again, as I recall) from where we lived, which was just outside of Portland. We took our bikes and whizzed around on the extensive bike trail network. I'd take a notebook and try to map them out. We saw deer, rode through apple orchards, and visited the shipwreck of the Peter Iredale (which I remember being a whole lot bigger than it looks in that photo) on the beach. In general, it was really neat.

I don't remember where else we camped, or where we were on this particular occasion. I also don't remember how I got my shoes sopping wet. Jumping in mud puddles? I doubt it. Probably just sloshing around in lots of rain. Or maybe on the beach. In any case, my father -- who is generally a very bright, innovative, dependable sort of person (an engineer, what can you say) -- assured me he would take them and dry them on the fire. They'd be all set when I woke up.

Well. I woke up to find two shoes in various states of charredness. Dad was clearly embarrassed that he'd let them catch fire. He'd tried to whittle away the worst parts. One looked like a slipper, and one was mostly intact, but scratchy around the edges. I believe it was my only pair of footwear on that trip. Whoops. I remember standing in line at the campsite bathroom, inviting long looks and laughter from the women there. Ugh.

(feel free to e-mail me your own "Sunil Srettil" account, Dad -- How It Really Happened -- and I'll post it to set the record straight. Or balance the memory scales. Or whatever.)

By the way, as to prove the point: I just mapquested the distance from Warrenton, Ore., (Fort Stevens) to Beaverton, Ore. 1 hour, 44 minutes. What a wimpy kid I was. I remember it as being something like five hours in the car. Sheesh.