My kid went camping last night. I was kind of hoping he would like it so much that he’d consider doing it for the next six months until college graduation and moving day. There are some real nice campgrounds around here, and I’m sure he would be quite comfortable.
But it sounds like that’s not going to happen. Who would take out the trash?
Regardless, I had a pleasant evening chasing the Nordic Warrior Queen around the house naked for five or six minutes, and then playing Scrabble and drinking beer for the rest of the night.
He came home this morning, tired and dirty, tossed a pickup truck’s worth of camping shit in the entryway and headed for the refrigerator. Welcome back!
The next three hours were spent cleaning, folding, organizing, stacking, and repacking enough camping equipment to tackle Mount Everest. The picture above represents maybe one-tenth of what he had stuffed into his Steve Austin-like jet-powered backpack; surely there was enough gear there to handle any emergency he might have encountered in the state park where he spent the night, five minutes drive from home.
I half-expected him to ask where he could store the Sherpa trailguide until the next journey.