The first day and night of my eldest son's first camping trip had been as close to perfect as possible. I met the dawn of the second day pleased that no one had been attacked by a wild animal and nothing had burned down.
The second day of camping ended up much like the first; we hiked, fished, shot each other with Nerf guns, and nibbled Pop Tarts (truly the modern equivalent of Lembas). As the perfect day wore on, a cloud hung over me (so to speak). Before leaving on our trip, I had carefully checked the weather and knew now that I was promised a 30% of showers overnight. Being a Chintzibobs, I didn't like those odds. For a camping Chintzibobs, a 30% chance roughly translates as, "Build an ark and stock it with two of every kind of Pop Tart."
Tragically, I elected to pluck the nose hairs of Zeus and stay another night.
After dinner we went for a round the lake walk. I was alarmed though not surprised to see clouds gathering. At the exact midpoint of our trek around the lake, rain began to fall. Fortunately, it was only a gentle Spring zephyr. We made it back to camp and hid away in the tent with some pretzels, Gold Fish, pen, and paper. The rain fell steadily but half-heartedly for an hour, grew bored of itself, and went away. We emerged from the tent, made a fire, roasted a large number of marshmallows, and chatted about word origins.
The boy is going through a phase of: why do they call it that? When I don't have an answer, he usually supplies his own answer. Example:
"Why do they call it fire?"
"I don't know son."
Thoughtful staring at the sparks and smoke rise into the sky.
"Maybe it is because the fire flies and you can roast things over it."
"Oh I see, fi=fly and re=roast. Could be."
"I think it is."
The boy grew quickly sleepy by the fire and surprised me by going off to bed by himself by about 8:00 pm. I spent the next few hours enjoying the cool night air, the starry night, and the dying fire. Growing sleepy myself, I got up to douse the sparkling embers with my son's carefully laid out fire extinguishers (he had spent much of the evening gathering things to help put out the fire: rocks, sticks soaked in water, sand, etc). With the steaming death throes of the fire swirling about me like a specter, I looked up for one last look at the stars. They were gone.
I couldn't see a single star. The clouds had gathered quickly. By the time I settled into my sleeping bag, the first rumbles of thunder could be heard echoing off of the mountains. I told myself that it was just big trucks on the road by the park entrance. The wind began to rise as flashes of lightening began illuminating the tent. The thunder grew less grumbly and more cracky as the storm crept nearer. The rain fell, the wind blew, and the thunder snapped. The first storm passed into a light drizzle by midnight, and I hoped it would be over. A quick check showed the tent to still be dry.
The next storm exploded upon me just as I was dozing off. The thunder was so loud that my son shot up out of his sleeping bag in fear. I turned on the flashlight and assured him that I was there and that it was just a little storm. He laid back down and pushed his hands into his ears without complaint. The wind buffeted each of the sides of the tent in turn. The storm took a deep breath and again led me to believe that the rain was finished.
The rain fell again, the thunder and lightening shattered the quiet darkness, and the wind blew harder that I thought possible without trees falling all around us. The rain and wind began to come in great waves. Checking the seams, I could see that the water was starting to come through the seams not by drips but by being blow sideways through the gaps formed whenever the wind stretched out the fabric of the tent.
When I saw that the water was beginning to puddle and flow on the floor of the tent, I began to prepare to evacuate. I dressed and began gathering anything that would be ruined by getting wet. In the middle of this, a powerful gust struck the front of the tent, and I heard a plastic crack and snap. Then the front wall of the tent began to rise up above my head as a new ceiling. I think I said something I have since come to regret. I threw myself against the front of the tent to bring it back to earth and told my son to put his shoes on. As calmly as I could, I told him that we going to get into the car because the water was getting into the tent. I held the tent open for him, shined the flashlight for him, and told him to run to the car and get into the back seat. He refused. He was probably right to do so. I gathered what I could, and we ran to the car together.
The clock on the car said that it was after 1am. My son attempted to get some sleep in the back seat. The storm continued to rattle the valley. I sat in the driver's seat and wondered if my son would ever trust me again. The tent was in ruins. He was stuck, slightly damp, sleeping in the crowded backseat of a car. I didn't sleep much.
The rain stopped some time after 4am. We both got up early and surveyed the damage. I saw now that the wind had snapped a fiberglass support and pulled the front-side stakes out of the ground. The tent had flipped over itself but was stopped from further destruction by the still-holding rear stakes.
I watched my son closely for signs of trauma. Surely after last night he would want to go home immediately and never go camping again. His vision of me as competent and near god-like would be shattered. As soon as breakfast was over, he wanted to go fishing. We went down to the lake and watched the sunrise. On the way back to the campsite, I reminded him that we were going home today. He looked at me and asked me when we could go camping again and if we could stay longer next time. I smiled and told him, "Soon son, soon."
Peace
..._
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