By Christina Breda Antoniades
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, September 24, 2006; M01
I am not a big fan of hard-core camping. You know, the kind where you hike into the woods with nothing but a backpack and sleep under the stars. I'm more fond of flush toilets, warm showers, air mattresses and a tidy little fire ring that keeps your logs where they belong. And I like having a camp ranger within shouting distance, for those times when the "neighbors" are being too noisy or a furry animal is looking at you like you might be its next meal.
That's the kind of camping I grew up with -- call it Camping Lite -- and until I got married I'd always assumed that I'd continue making occasional trips to the woods to sleep in a tent and roast marshmallows. But then I discovered that my husband, Spiro, is, well, not what you'd call a happy camper. He is a good sport, of course, and for the sake of marital harmony he tries to like camping. But deep down inside he can't understand why you would cart a carful of stuff into the woods to play house when you've got a perfectly good home at home.
And so, when I broach the subject we have exchanges like this:
Spiro: Tell me again, why do people go camping?
Me: To relax.
Spiro: I'm very relaxed when I'm working.
Me: Some people really like being out in nature.
Spiro: I really like being in our back yard.
Me: No, real nature. You're going to like this.
Spiro: Can I bring my laptop?
Still, I haven't given up on the notion that I can somehow persuade him to love camping as much as I do. And now that we have children, the stakes are even higher: I have three little minds to mold; three tiny nature-loving adults in the making.
And so it was that Spiro and I, along with Vasili, 4, Maggie, 2, and Eleni, 6 months, headed out recently for what I hoped would be an easy introduction to the outdoors. Spiro and I had camped once before as a couple but never with three kids in tow. I tried to think strategically, limiting our stay to a mere 24 hours, picking a family-friendly campground -- at Greenbrier State Park in Maryland -- and choosing a weekend that promised clear, beautiful weather.
To document for Spiro just how much fun he was having, I decided to keep a diary:
9 a.m.: Somehow, no matter how much I try to plan in advance, packing always comes down to a mad rush one hour before we're due to leave. I stuff whatever I can into my rolling suitcase, which Spiro declares "not very campy." (He opts for a giant, rugged-looking backpack.)
10 a.m.: We're off! I know I've forgotten something, but I won't remember what it is until it's crunch time. I'm slightly nervous about getting a campsite, too. The park has a two-night minimum stay on weekend reservations, so I opted to take our chances with first-come, first-served.
11 a.m.: The drive out Route 70 past Frederick is blessedly uneventful, thanks to Nemo and a portable DVD player. When we arrive, only five of the campground's 165 sites are left. If I'd taken any longer to pack we might have found ourselves sleeping on the side of the road. Spiro, not surprisingly, chooses the site closest to the exit.
11:05 a.m.: Our site is an orderly, 24-by-24-foot gravel square with a fire ring and sturdy picnic table. Looking at other sites, with their big family-style tents, I begin to worry about our accommodations. Spiro and I get to work setting up. Our American Camper three-person tent, which I've had since college, goes up without any trouble. Inside, Spiro gets the battery-operated air mattress pump going. When it's all arranged, I breathe a sigh of relief. I think we'll have enough room.
12:30 p.m.: My brother and his two teenage sons arrive just in time to help set up the screen house and hammock. This is good news, as despite the "quick setup" promised on the screen house box, it takes at least two people about 20 minutes to persuade the thing to stand upright. Spiro takes his cue from our neighbors and hangs our trash bag from a tall post, presumably to keep it away from marauding raccoons -- or would that be bears? I'm not sure, but I know I don't want to mention it to him.
12:45 p.m.: As we unpack I remember what I forgot: our two adult sleeping bags. We do have one quilt, four baby blankets (I am a mom, after all) and Vasili's moon-and-stars kiddie sleeping bag. Still, I'm nervous about it being chilly. My brother produces two ragtag blankets from the back of his car. They're not pretty, but they'll do in a pinch.
1 p.m.: Getting into the spirit of the wild, Spiro teaches Vasili to pee in the woods. I check out the bathhouse, which is just up a grassy incline behind our site. I'm happy to see that it is clean, with four toilet stalls and two showers. Outside, a sign says, "Ice Cream, 7 p.m., $1."
2 p.m.: Time to immerse ourselves in nature. We head to the lake, where Maggie splashes in the shallow water while Vasili goes fishing with his cousins. Together they catch three fish. They're too small to keep, but Vasili is so excited that we all end up applauding.
4 p.m.: Although they're serious campers, my brother's family has other plans for tonight, so Spiro and I are suddenly on our own. We decide to take a family nature hike, which ends after less than 10 minutes when Vasili and Maggie simultaneously decide that they will no longer walk and must be carried. Laden down with the three, we stagger back to camp.
4:30 p.m.: The kids are getting antsy, so I suggest we make dinner early. Spiro fires up some coals and we get cooking. This is a good manly task that he enjoys, both here and at home. I've forgotten the aluminum foil (was that even on the checklist?) so we have to brave it and go naked, so to speak, putting the hamburgers and hot dogs directly on the metal grate that sits on top of the fire ring. I try not to think about germs. In no time, we're all happily munching our meal. I tell Spiro about the $1 ice cream social at 7. He says he likes the price.
5 p.m.: Spiro and I decide that while the fire is still hot we should make s'mores. Vasili and I set to work finding good marshmallow roasting sticks, while Spiro puts a few logs on the fire and does his best to keep Maggie from toppling in. The kids can't remember ever having s'mores before, so it's an experience as good as new. And a tasty one, too.
6:30 p.m.: This is the witching hour at home, and things are no different in the woods. If there were walls here, Maggie and Vasili would be bouncing off them. Spiro and I count down the minutes and threaten "no ice cream if you don't behave," repeatedly, to no avail.
7 p.m.: Good behavior or not, we need the break, so we're off to the bathhouse. At the top of the hill park volunteers are cheerfully scooping ice cream. Spiro can't resist a good deal, so we shell out $4 for more ice cream than we can possibly eat.
7:30 p.m.: We consider chatting with some of the other campers, but Vasili and Maggie have started to take turns dashing into the woods, a game that is funny for them and nerve-racking for us. We round them up and scoot them back to our site. Number of kids lost in the woods: 0. Phew.
8:30 p.m.: Bedtime. Piling into the tent, it's pretty apparent that I have made a small misjudgment on how much space a family of five needs. We fit -- just barely -- on the air mattress, with Eleni in her portable baby bed at the foot, but there won't be any rolling over tonight.
8:45 p.m.: The kids are too riled up to fall asleep in a strange place, so we give up and resort to the oldest trick in the parental book, throwing them in the car for a sleep-inducing drive. We need gas anyway. Plus, I let Spiro talk me out of buying bacon before the trip, and now I'm deeply regretting the decision. Camping just isn't the same without breakfast meat.
9 p.m.: Success! We now have a full tank of gas, a pound of bacon and a sleeping Maggie. Still, Vasili and Eleni will have to be coaxed into slumber in the tent, and the twenty-somethings at a site nearby have just started their evening. A thrumming techno beat fills the air. Next to us is an older couple in a spiffy-looking Coachman Concord motor home. For a split second I envy them as they slip inside and shut the door.
10 p.m.: After much tossing and turning, everyone is asleep. I had pictured Spiro and I sitting around the campfire and catching up after a long week of work, but we are both too tired to move. I'm not sure we can pry ourselves out of the tent anyway.
11 p.m. to 5 a.m.: I wouldn't call what we did in our tent sleeping, exactly. It was more like napping, interrupted by occasional crying from one of the three children (not from Spiro, though, I'm glad to note). The twenty-somethings turn off their music at 11 or so and switch to loud talking punctuated with peals of laughter. Maggie wakes up yelling "stuck, stuck, STUCK," which is one of her few vocabulary words. She's not stuck, but I know what she means. I feel a little stuck myself. Sometime in the wee hours I notice that our air mattress has deflated. When Spiro gets up to use the bathroom my butt hits the ground. It is very cold. The kids have the extra blankets, so I huddle under my quilt.
6:30 a.m.: The kids are up, but I try to keep them quiet until 7 so we won't wake the other campers, who I'm pretty sure have no desire to be up at this hour. Eventually we crawl out of the tent to discover that Spiro has started a fire and rounded up what he needs to make coffee. Using last night's marshmallow sticks, he cooks some toast over the fire. I smile and think, "Now that's campy." And he quickly solves the problem of the missing coffee cups, sawing a water bottle in half and using that to drink his morning brew. I put the bacon on and revel in the smell of frying fat.
8 a.m.: I give up trying to keep the kids quiet. Pretty soon the twenty-somethings are crawling out of their tents and packing up. Vasili and Maggie decide to play quietly while Spiro and I finish our breakfast.
9 a.m.: Spiro showers while I swing with the kids on the hammock. They are chipper, despite their lack of sleep the night before. When Spiro returns, Maggie and I head to the showers, where we're rewarded with an empty bathhouse and a pleasant, hot stream of water.
9:30 a.m.: I return to our site to discover Spiro has broken down the screen house and tent and packed up almost all of our belongings, all the while lugging Eleni in a baby backpack. He is smiling, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it's the anticipation of leaving that has him in such a good mood. "What about the lake?" I ask. "What about lunch under the trees?"
"We can have lunch under the trees," he says as he tosses the last of the bags into the car. And, as it turns out, we do have lunch, about two hours later, under a big, beautiful sycamore that is six feet from the back door of our home in Baltimore. As I munch on my turkey sandwich, I ask Spiro if he'll ever go camping again. He says yes, but he's not terribly convincing. Secretly I start to wonder what it costs to buy a Coachman Concord.