Family Camp Diary 2018

Notes from an annual “vacation”

My wife and children enjoy camping. I do not. By a 3–1 vote, we have, apparently, decided to make it an annual tradition. This is my survival journal from last year’s trip.

DAY 1

Morning. On the road. Just not the road we should be on.

Wife believes that Google Maps’ constant rerouting is a bug NOT a feature. It is made clear to me that the detour IS NOT HER FAULT and since there is a better-than-average chance I will need her to suck out rattler venom, slather Benadryl on my poison oak, or splint a broken-something, I’m not going to argue with her.

Afternoon. We have arrived. The cheery counselors greet us, hand us our welcome packets, and warn us to never remove our wrist bands which identify us as CAMP GOLD CAMPER. I tell my wife that if I die during the week, please cut off the wrist band before my funeral; God forbid I get stuck in the camping section of heaven for all eternity.

There it is. Our cabin for the week. Hello darkness, my old friend.

I forgot about the dirt. Camping = dirt. It gets everywhere. My nose. How did I forget about the nose? So. Many. Brown. Boogers.

Oh, and the bugs. Bring on the ticks! If I get north of 20 attached to my body, will they send me home?

Pray for me.

DAY 2

Pulled my groin playing Uno. Not a euphemism. (But it sure should be.) Camp medic did not have a prescription for card game injuries.

(Camp medic can’t be older than 19 and seems have ingested plenty of “medicine” over the summer, if you know what I mean.)

Off to a great start, you guys!

DAY 3

The fact that “The Time of My Life” is, ostensibly, about a stint at family camp makes it the most ironic #1 hit of all time. You lie, Dirty Dancers. You lie.

DAY 4

Really enjoying the long, treacherous, middle-of-the-night nature walks every time I have to go pee, you guys. When we get back to SF, I’m gonna find a neighbor four or five houses away, scatter a million rocks and pine cones between our two homes, and ask if I can use their toilet a few times a night, just to recreate the magic!

No, I will not pee right outside my cabin! Camping can rob me of sleep, comfort and cleanliness but not my dignity.

Also loving the hygiene Sophie’s Choice that we’re confronted with: wash you’re hands a million times a day to stave off norovirus or MRSA or whatever these virile college-aged camp counselors are trafficking this week OR let your cracked and bloody hands heal from the relentless hand washing.

DAY 5

Kids having an amazing time. Starting to have doubts they are mine.

DAY 6

The squirrels here have no fear. Every time we return to the cabin, they’re having a party, searching for food. They look at you like, “What do YOU want? We go where we like!” Today I whispered, “If one of those places is San Francisco, take me with you.”

A very sweet counselor told us a story that the other day, she woke up from a nap and a squirrel was sitting on her chest. I told her that she was within her rights to go on a murder spree as a result. She laughed and then I told her I was dead serious. (I may be on a camper watch-list as a result, but I stand by my statement.)

A bat flew into our cabin last night. I can only assume that it bit me in my sleep. Hoping the rabies kills me quickly, but knowing my luck, it was probably a vampire bat and I’ll be stuck at Family Camp for all eternity.

DAY 7

A word to far too many dads here — I’m sure it was very exciting 20 years ago when you and your fraternity bros were runners-up at the Greek games, but the cut-throat seriousness with which you take Family Camp intramural competition is embarrassing.

The Gold vs Blue men’s softball finals this afternoon was the nadir. Grown men over-invested in a truly meaningless contest. One 40-year-old dude hit a homerun and told somebody, un-ironically, “That was seriously the highlight of my life.” Then he told his kid to go get him another beer from the keg. The final score: 30–6. That seems…fun?

DAY 8

It is finished. I survived-ish. (For a clean-freak , nature-phobic introvert, that’s really all you can hope for.) “Next year” has been uttered by the children. I am broken: parenthood is letting your nightmares become annual traditions.

Walking to the Lodge 30 times a day to access spotty WiFi most definitely kept me alive. (Just like Krakauer, right?) I leave this place filthy, exhausted, sunburned, and Uno-injured…but alive. Now, we drive home, clean our bodies, and burn all of the underwear that made the trip.

Once we get home, what’s the formula? Nine minutes in the shower for every day in the woods?

Also, as soon as we leave, I am the furthest possible point from my next family camp experience. There is some peace in that.

Overheard on the last day: one college-aged counselor to another, both of whom have been here 10 weeks and are also leaving today, “As soon as I get home, I’m going on antibiotics.” Me too, sister. Me too.

John Kovacevich is a writer and creative director based in San Francisco. He’s working on a billion dollar start-up idea where family camp general stores adopt dynamic pricing and Benadryl is $100 an ounce by the end of the week.

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