We were truly unprepared for Colorado. Our first attempt at camping there became the family joke for years to come. In Minnesota, you camp in campgrounds. You pay a small fee and set your little tent up in a pre-arranged little area, next to a fire ring and a picnic table. So when we got to Colorado, we went looking in the yellow pages for a campground to camp in. We found only one entry in all of Denver, called Chief Hosa Campground. I was pretty surprised to find only one campground in the entire yellow pages; there were stores specializing in camping every three blocks, so I just assumed we would have a plethora of campgrounds to choose from. (Thanks, Mr. Plocker, my high school math teacher for the word "plethora"; I use it whenever I can.)
Anyway. We called Chief Hosa and reserved a tent space for the weekend.Then we moseyed on down to the local REI Outfitter, and spent a boat load of money on lots of fancy camp gear and headed on out to the campground. It was exactly what we were expecting; a small campground full of RVs and tents. Our tent space was nestled in between two campers. We marveled at the quality of our new gear, we experienced the first-timer's feeling of arrogance as we expertly set up our campsite and sat down on our special camp chairs. We drank cocoa out of our special camp mugs. We inflated our special Thermarest sleeping mats. We spent two days there and went home feeling proud of ourselves.
It wasn't until I spoke with a friend at work about the weekend that I realized our blunder. The reason there was only one campground listed in all of Denver, is because the entire National Forest is open to camping.
To anyone.
Anytime.
Pretty much anywhere.
Oh.
I felt kind of silly. I remembered with a flush that arrogant feeling I had as I was setting up our perfect little campsite. The whole set-up probably screamed tourist. Oh well.
Once we figured it out, though, it was on. We explored every twisting winding mountain road we could find. We found high mountain lakes, abandoned mining camps, rock outcroppings on the top of jagged cliffs, and we began to camp in earnest. We quickly discovered what materials we could buy to enhance the experience, and carefully whittled our camp gear down to high quality essentials. We bought a tent that withstood temperatures below zero and camped in the snow. We hiked in for miles and set up camp and left reality for days. Those days were truly blissful. I have strong memories of sitting in the perfect silence surrounded by stars and moonlight, with no sign of civilization beyond the blue and white Kelty tent staked out next to us. We had our best conversations on camp trips. I learned so much more about Aaron and we learned so much about how to be together from those trips. I think it was perhaps the single most influential activity that would eventually help strengthen the bonds of our marriage.
We moved back to Minnesota in 2007, and the camp gear box was carefully stored in an outside garage. I've given little thought to it in the last five years, honestly. We've had the whole "farm thing" to learn now, you know. But last weekend, Aaron came into the kitchen and said, "Let's take the kids camping."
Because Aaron is Aaron, going camping for a weekend was a very simple endeavor. Everything we needed was still carefully and meticulously packed away. All together, all in the same place. It was truly a matter of moving it from garage to car. We didn't open anything, just trusted it would be what we needed, and headed to the campground.
We found a nice little spot with a fire ring and picnic table. Aaron grinned at me when we pulled in and said, "Chief Hosa?" A flood of memories engulfed me and I developed a little lump in my throat.
Once we began to unpack, that little lump turned into a thickness that I could barely swallow. The blue and white Kelty tent came sliding out of it's package. The guy wires were still wrapped around the tent stakes, exactly the way we had last used them. I managed to get it up in a matter of minutes; this time, I had three sets of eager little hands helping me clip it together.
The best part, or maybe I mean the worst part, was when I opened the gear box. There, in perfect little bags and packages and containers, were living embodiments of a time long past. I realize you will think me a fool at worst, or wildly sentimental at best, but I swear when I opened up a tupperware container and saw the dish towels that I bought at a tiny little convenience store in the middle of nowhere, I got tears in my eyes. Those tears swelled to actual puddles when I opened another box and found the set of camp dishes Aaron gave me for Christmas that first year.
There was the propane lantern that Aaron tried unsuccessfully to light the first four times that we used it because we didn't understand what mantles were and that they really are as fragile as they advertise. There was the small cutting board and utensil pack that I color coordinated with our sleeping gear. There were tiny boxes of matches, a box with tea bags, a dry bag that contained a cook set that nested one inside the other to form a compact little unit. There was a wide collection of instant oatmeal packets, hot cocoa mix, and our spices and seasonings box was still neatly organized and carefully labeled. I was overcome with feeling; I could barely speak. I looked up at Aaron with this stricken look on my face. He laughed at me, and shook his head. And I know, I know...what a silly thing to cry over...but there I was, crying anyway.
But I could not dwell in the moment; I had three buzzing little bees getting into this and that and the other asking, "Mom, what's this?" and "Mom, what's this for?" and "Mom, how does this work?" When Carys pulled out the shovel and axe kit, I decided I better snap out of my reverie and take control of the unpacking.
I took great delight in cooking our supper with all the forgotten pieces of my life. I am totally serious...I really love that stainless steel spatula and cast iron skillet. Everything was in perfect working order. Even the oatmeal, I discovered the next morning. To my horror, I woke up to Cooper happily eating peaches and cream instant oatmeal out of my favorite camp mug. (It turns out Quaker Instant Oatmeal has an impressive shelf life - I bought that box more than 8 years ago.) And when we managed to (successfully!) light the lantern and play a vigorous game of Uno with cards that are older than all of my children, I decided I was going to be okay.
I just need to make a few new memories.
