Camping on Hunting Island State Park: Part Two

We hit a stroke of good fortune that evening; the souped-up camper next to us had giant spotlights they kept shining in our direction throughout the tent-pitching process.

The tent pitching went well for the people involved (I was self-elected to food sanitation duty); in short order, we were campers with the best canvas money could buy fifty years ago standing between us and nature. It wasn’t long, however, before my younger son’s eyes began moving around the campground, taking note of the hedonistic temples camping palaces all around us. You know, the ones where they pitch a pup tent off to the side for the dog or for effect?

He turned back toward us, and offered up his commentary: “We’re like the poor campers here.”

Indeed.

In the Island Family, we build character any way we can.

In furtherance of this goal, after the tent was deemed habitable we whipped out our camp stove, also fiftyish years old, and the best dogs two bucks can buy.

Y’all, I have no idea when I’ve last had a hot dog. I’m not a food snob; I can sling back certain types of fast food like nobody’s business if I’m hungry enough, and I’m proud to report that I can eat more than one piece of frozen pizza at a time, when circumstances require.

But I rarely do hot dogs. I’m not going to say never, because it’s within the realm of possibility that I’ve eaten one at some point in my adult life and just don’t recall, but if so, it’s been a rare circumstance.

So we cooked the dogs over the campfire. Here’s my secret when it comes to food I’m apprehensive about: Cook the livin’ heck out of it. Why? Because at a certain point, it’s hardly even food anymore anyway, so what’s the harm? The only problem is, it’s hard to ascertain when you’ve reached the it-doesn’t-matter-what-it-was-anymore point in the dark. I did my best, however, and then doused it with seven layers of ketchup.

As an additive measure, I ate fast and tried to think distracting thoughts. 

My success was moderate.

Then we roasted s’mores, a taleless venture, and made the family trek to the bathroom. I can’t really talk about that part, except to say that it was a night filled with adventure.

After refreshing ourselves, we retired to the pauper’s tent for a few card games. This, naturally, led to another need for a trek to the bathroom, after which we officially retired for the evening.

Our retirement was short-lived, however, as we were awoken by the sounds of snarling right outside our tent. Some undesignated person in our party, apparently, had forgotten to properly dispose of a bag of garbage, and thus, the ‘coons were upon us.

That’s not a good feeling, when fifty-year-old canvas is the only thing that separates you and your offspring from large coons in a fight over your hot dog wrappers. Always in character, my younger son thought this was hilarious, and sat up belly-laughing, all ready to practice his spinjitzu on the raccoons. His father beat him to the punch.

Armed with his dollar store flashlight, LCB beamed the coons and stepped out of the tent.

The small people were thrilled; in their minds, the adventure had finally begun.

I tried not to point out that at any second they might be orphaned by rabid ‘coons. Instead, I faked a laugh and threatened to impale their favorite toys if they stepped foot from the tent. Historically, this has proved effective. Then I grabbed my dollar store flashlight for added protection, silently wondering where my bazooka was when I really needed it.

Seriously.

Okay, maybe not, but a girl can dream.

Anyhow, LCB walked around acting manly and put the garbage in the minivan, and then returned to the tent. Much to the small people’s disappointment, the coons circled the campsite for a few minutes and then retreated, presumably to more food-laden sites.

So here’s the thing. There’s really no other way to put this: Y’all, on my honor, when I first sat down to write this, I was envisioning just one post.

My vision was clearly not prophetic.