My National Lampoon Style Family Camping Trip

a covey of quail
a cast of hawks
a gang of turkey
a murder of crows

These my friends, were only a few of the cast of characters from last weekend's camping trip. We might add to that list: Swedish Death Metal couple, Frisbee golf throwing enthusiasts, poker-playing-while-Classic-Rock-listening-and-Jack-Daniels-drinking neighbors, angry fisherpeoples without any fish and exactly one meandering tarantula.

This was a camping trip 35 years in the making for never had the entire family camped together. I arrived two hours after my dad who was in the process of thoroughly staking down his tent. Even though he had gotten explicit directions from my sister not to stake down his tent until she had arrived and even though the ground was hard enough to tap dance on, none of this deterred him from battening down the hatches. He excitedly showed me all his new and unnecessary purchases: an Eddie Bauer blanket, a shiny red hatchet, a foldable cot, an inflatable mattress, a suitcase-sized bag of batteries, enough snacks to feed the local middle school, an assortment of lures, rods and bait and, most importantly, a tent purchased for my birthday. In the flurry of product and the disposal of packaging I asked him where his sleeping bag was. Oops! I could tell from the way he was ignoring me that he was starting to have one of his panic attacks. We better call my sister before she leaves. Dad, are you gonna call her? Dad? He continued to stand face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. I stopped bothering him and sat down to wade it out.

No sooner had I collapsed into the collapsible Sports Mega Chair™ recently purchased from REI, than I recieved a sharp blow to the knee. What the? A fluorescent Frisbee lay on the ground beside me, it's owner conspicuously absent. As I sat rubbing my knee and writhing in pain and as my dad, now awoken to his senses, dialed my sister, the Frisbee-wielding maniac jogged over to apologize. Yeah, your site's right next to the course. Come tomorrow this place is gonna be a sea of Frisbee golf players. It's a pretty serious sport. He jogged off from whence he came, a backback full of colored Frisbees whats significance remained a mystery to me, in tow.

Within minutes our neighbors cranked up their radio. Man, I love this song! a voice barked. To one of Classic Rock's unarguably most shining moments, our neighbors sang along to some Lynrd Skynrd: Ooooh that smell. Can't you smell that smell. They were well into the Coors and, at four, were beginning elaborate 'cue preparations. Case, hey, there's a tarantula. My dad voice was calm. What? He pointed to the ground—the ground right next to our tents—as the biggest and hairiest arachnid I have ever seen ambled by. As the tarantula rounded the corner, I noticed a series of holes in the ground. Another Frisbee-wielding maniac, backpack hanging off his shoulder, jogged by. Oh, yeah, a tarantula. He's early. They usually don't come out until October. I inquired if the hillside holes had perhaps anything to do with their housing. Yeah, they burrow in holes just like those. But don't worry, they're harmless. Not only was our campsite in the middle of a treacherous Frisbee fly zone, but we had parked it on top of a row of tarantula condominiums. We better not tell my sister.

We were, as it turns out, camping not only with our family but with about a hundred other families, many of them in recreational vehicles, some of them with generators, all of them with way too much stuff and most hoping to have the kind of outdoor experience where neither they nor their offspring were ever bored, remained relatively clean, and were always safe from danger. Danger being any experience in nature without the right Coleman endorsed product.

The thing is that my family is fun. We crack jokes. We out-crass one another. We make do with what the good lord has pawned off on us. When my sister and brother-in-law arrive, dinner is well into the making. Although it takes over an hour for our kabobs cook, and although the spicy papadums I brought make everyone choke, we sit by the fire and season our coats with the smell that proves we have been "camping".

Our neighbors smoke a bong and begin a game of cards. Steve Miller. Joe Cocker. And of course Fleetwood Mac. They argue about the hands: two pair totally beats three-of-a-kind, they incorrectly call games: dude, let's play texas hold up. And then, they get really really mad at each other. Scary mad.

Quit calling my hand.
You got a flush and you don't even see it.
This is my hand. I'll play it how I want to play it.
You can't even count your cards. You have a flush!
Do YOU wanna play this hand?

This goes on forever. The smart or smart-er one keep calling the dumber one's hands. At least, we think, they are entertaining.

How long have you been playing this game?!
I play every Friday. For five years.

It's a shocking discovery. They seem to barely know the rules. Midnight fast approaches and they show no sign of retiring. My sister has brought earplugs enough for everyone and, at this point, we eagerly accept her handouts like free posters at a BoysIIMen concert. Earplugs in place, Thermarest underneath me, and flashlight beside me, I sleep though the night. The following night, however, will make this night look like a relaxing day at Burke Williams.