On Camping, Nightmares and How I Almost had a Mental Breakdown in the Woods

Now that summer is quickly approaching, people are making very important vacation plans. Some people will be heading to beaches. Some will be heading to see family or friends. Some will even need to bust out the old passport. And some will be going camping.

Yes, camping is quite the popular pastime. For some reason, millions of people enjoy sleeping on the ground amongst nature and not bathing on a regular basis. I certainly do not see the appeal, but I’m not one to judge those who enjoy uncivilized recreation. I am also, however, not one to crawl my fat butt into a musty old tent.

I went camping once. It was a long time ago. It was a nightmare. In fact, it may have been the worst thirteen hours of my life.

For some ungodly reason, my family decided it would be a hoot to pack up the minivan and join another family at some disturbing campsite in the middle of nowhere where bugs and raccoons reigned supreme. I was in high school at the time, but was apparently not old enough to worm my way out of a weekend of slumming it in the woods with my family. I put up a good fight, but in the end I found myself sulking in the back of the minivan praying a massive forest fire would force us home.

My praying, as usual, was fruitless. We arrived at the campsite to find a patch of dirt that we would call home for the next two nights. Upon stepping from the van, my body was greeted by the deadly combination of heat, humidity and dirt. Within seconds I was dirty. I hate to be dirty.

My father informed me that the campsite had a shower room and bathroom, and I made my way along the road in search of this sign on civilization. When I found it, I was not exactly overjoyed. A huge brick building with showerheads sticking out of the walls is hardly the lap of luxury.

I showered only to find that showering made the humidity worse. That, in turn, made the dirtiness worse. That, in turn, made me want to run screaming into the nearest city.

I returned to our site to find that tents had been erected in my absence. In the spirit of appeasing me, my family had decided I could have my own tent. It was a nice gesture, but it did not make me feel any better about my role as the dirty mountain man.

The day wore on and I became less and less enthused about my situation. By dinner time, I was on the verge of tears. By the time we crawled into our tents, I was suicidal. I wanted out of there more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.

I was soon to get my wish.

There was no way I could sleep. First of all, the humidity was multiplying by the second inside my tiny little tent. On top of that, the crickets were insane. My head was throbbing due to the racket those little buggers were creating. It was like we were surrounded by billions upon billions of crickets. I could have sworn they were chirping inside my head.

And then I was attacked. I was trying my best to fall asleep, when some creature started pawing at my tent. I freaked out. I screamed. I beat at the wall of the tent until my mom finally came to see what the trouble was.

I told her I could not take it any longer. I was fine with being a prissy spoiled sport, but I was not fine with being eaten alive in my sleep. I demanded the keys to the van. I was going home and I would be back to pick them up in two days.

And that is exactly what I did. There was some resistance in the end, but it soon became clear that I was dangerously close to a mental breakdown. My parents relented, and I was allowed to leave the hellish nightmare that was that campsite.

As I drove back to my bed, I vowed that I would never return to the scene of that most heinous crime against all that is good and holy, and I have kept my promise to this day.