Cowardly Couples Camping Catastrophe

I don’t like to camp. I write this in the full knowledge that I am some sort of cowering, indulgent, half-human city creature who is annoyed or afraid when forced to reckon with the horror that nature truly is. I also write this in the full knowledge that those who live in blissful equilibrium with the natural world are superior in every way. They are healthier and know how to actually do things. They have ruddy complexions, friendly smiles and fulfilling sex lives. But.

I don’t like to camp. I don’t like dusty feet when I try to sleep, campground showers or even s’mores. I am afraid of all things that shuffle, rustle, or crawl about. Once on a rafting trip, a completely harmless Wolf Spider got into our boat. I bellowed, flapped my arms and dove into the water. Honestly, here I am revealing too much. Really I am not even talking about truly camping-- in the wild living by pluck, hiking into the forest, clearing a campsite, lighting a fire by rubbing sticks together, and bathing in a river. I am discussing a well-tended campground where you park your car in a numbered space, attend a slideshow by a ranger in the adjacent outdoor theater, and get handed flyers about bears being gentle creatures that only want your unprotected cookies and cheetos. In many ways not camping at all; just kind of a rustic cosplay.

For years our friends Joel and Amy tried to sell us on the joys of camping. They would recite a litany of bliss. It was a seductive incantation and a summons for us to experience an other-worldly, out of body, beyond time, kind of rapture. To sleep under the stars, to wake up and smell the coffee (literally, not figuratively), to commune with our best parts and keep a small solitude forever, to truly live was what they promulgated. They were true believers and at some point their euphoria wore us down. 

We reserved three nights at the Ventana campground in Big Sur, got kitted out at REI and prepared for the awesome solemnity of the forest and our first budget-friendly vacation in quite some time.  The Ventana campground is down in a redwood grove below the resort hotel of the same name, owned by the same company, although with an entirely separate entrance and no actual access to the luxury above. If you aren’t familiar, the Ventana resort hotel offers everything in life that anyone would ever want. They have a wine and cheese hour. The quarter-mile path to dinner in their fine restaurant is lit by luminaries. They have two separate swimming pools and saunas set among the forest and rolling hills.  Professionals with fancy jobs and big salaries stay there for honeymoons or other milestone events.  It is quiet, adult, and glorious. Did I mention they have a wine and cheese hour? 

Booking at the campground gave us self satisfaction by proxy – even if the resort hotel was out of our league, those honeymooners and rich couples from Malibu should be envious of our camping adventure.  Arriving around noon after a lovely drive down the coast, we giddily prepared to share in a brand-new joy. We love to do things that refer to what normal, well-adjusted people do, so setting up our camp took on a particular significance for us as we wrestled with the tent, cleared out the fire pit, hung our shiny new coffee pot on a post, arranged the folding lounge chairs, opened the wine and kicked back, awaiting sunset and meaning for our lives. All of the camp sites were filled, and we happily nodded and waved to our new comrades.  Not super hungry, while vowing to cook the steaks we had brought tomorrow, we ate cheese, cold cuts and potato chips, clinked our glasses and retired early to the sounds of a burbling brook, to the seemingly far off, yet reassuring voices of our fellow campers and the scent of trees. Day one in the books. Thank you Joel and Amy. You have bestowed upon us a gift that we’ll gladly accept the rest of our lives.

From the start, day two offered us a different reality that we were loath to examine. I couldn’t get the right ratio of coffee grounds to the water that refused to heat over the really sad little flame that we optimistically referred to as “fire.”  We needed coffee. We were in the forest but only a couple miles from the Big Sur Bakery. There was surely no harm in forsaking our campsite for just a little while? We remained committed to “roughing it” but the croissants would be coming out of the oven about this time! Bucolic bliss was for later in the day.

After breakfast we hiked a beautiful eight-mile loop that took us out to the headlands, up the mountain and through the forest. It was glorious and refreshing. Far below we saw crashing waves. Up above we saw two condors.  On our path was a majestic, really-annoyed rattlesnake. Over a post-hike beer at a cliffside restaurant, we discussed how great it was to camp, to feel one with nature. We did not discuss that the same hike was available from the luxury hotel.

We got back to our campsite a little late in the day. The sun was setting but it was already dark in the hollow.  About half of the campsites had emptied out from the night before.  We built our fire with little success; lots of smoke and stinging embers and barely enough flame for our steaks.  The fire died down quickly, the mosquitos arrived and we retreated to our tent and retired early.  I observed that I felt sorry for all the people that come out here and stay in the hotel – but heard no response.  I slept poorly on the uneven ground, my feet were dirty (did I mention that…oh, never mind ), and we again got in the car to go find coffee in the morning.

We couldn’t quite get back to camp after breakfast.  We kept finding other errands—a drive to a scenic overlook, a late lunch back at the cliffside restaurant, a stop at a gift shop to ardently look at wind chimes, and afternoon coffee back at Big Sur Bakery that must have lasted hours.  All of the sudden it was evening.  It was pitch black as we drove up the road to our campsite.  Oddly, all of the other campers had gone.  Out of wine, alone in the forest, we quickly and without really talking got into the tent.  This was it—our final night.  Almost on budget, retired for the evening, adventure in the books.  Then came the noise.  It seemed in the middle of the night but it was barely ten o’clock. We both sat bolt upright in our sleeping bags. It was just outside; a shuffling, scratching sound punctuated with intermittent wheezes. The tent seemed to ripple and buckle. Was it a bear? The ghost of a local angered by us despoiling the land?  A cougar? Rand Paul? Whatever it was we were scared as fuck.

We bolted to the car 10 feet away and drove quickly to the main road.  Highway 1 to the right, the Ventana resort to the left.  Otherwise out of our budget, there must be a deal this late in the evening, off season?  We agreed to a $200 max price.  More than that and we would sleep in the car.  The drive up quickly produced a sense of calm and safety—well manicured plants, strategically placed ground lighting, an open field illuminated by the moon.  I think I smelled eucalyptus coming from the steam baths.  We parked and walked in with nothing but a wallet.  The nice man at the front desk sensed our plight and earnestly started typing words and codes to give us the best available deal.  The computer told him, and he told us—“I can offer you a superior fireplace guest room for $375.”  With one voice, immediately, refusing to even look at each other, we said “we’ll take it!” We found our room, got wine and cheese from reception, showered and donned the regal hotel bath robes.  A little more credit card debt could not, did not, disrupt one of the best night sleeps ever.

The next day we attended the exceptional breakfast buffet, swam and steamed at both pools until the latest available check out time, returned to our campsite and packed up, drove to the nearest thrift store and donated all of our gear. On the way home we fired off an angry email to Joel and Amy.  Did they know us at all?