An Angry Hum

The boys were little, and being little, we’d put them to bed early. Not bed so much as sleeping bags in the tent. We the adults opened beers and started playing cards. We played hand after hand, drinking and talking by the light of the lantern.

We’d started camping again when our older son was about 5. I’d forgotten how much I liked being outdoors, away from my life for a few days, where it was quiet. I’d grown up camping and backpacking. Hiking and sleeping under the stars was a thing I’d once loved but hadn’t done in years. Being a young adult living in a city and having no money meant my life looked a lot different than it once had. I was a long way from the Rockies.

We started camping again, Minnesota style. That meant we traded the mountains for lakes, the wind for bugs. It meant more people, but not too many more.

So for a few years we camped in tents, and for the most part it was great. She didn’t sleep well in a tent, but She never slept well anyway. And the boys quickly took to the outdoors. I found that muscle memory kicked in and I still knew what I was doing. We’d go hiking and canoeing. We’d cook over a fire and roast marshmallows before bed.

But that night, playing cards late at night and listening to the sounds of nature, proved to be a turning point.

She had to leave early in the morning, like 5 am, to drive back to the city from west-central Minnesota to catch a plane to somewhere. But we were having fun…

…until we realized that the soft thuds and drops we heard mingled with the other night sounds were not just drops of water but bugs. June bugs. Hundreds of them. Thousands. She was wearing a hat with a broad, upturned brim. She’d taken it off and set it on the table, it’s brim full of dead and dying June bugs. Card game over.

Then the rain started. It was a hard rain, a downpour. As we lay sleepless in our sleeping bags, we could feel the water rushing under our tent, slowly soaking us from the feet up. It was miserable. There would be no more tent camping for us, at least for the next 10 years, when we started going to the Boundary Waters. But that’s a different story.

She informed me that She would no longer be tent camping, that she hoped The Boys and I would continue to go, but She would not be sleeping in a tent anymore. I may not have said it, but that night was miserable for me too, and I was not in a hurry to repeat it. So we decided to buy a camper. A pop-up camper. And it was great. We’d take it out many times a year. We were able to be out in the woods, cooking over a fire, hiking and playing cards at night. We were able to sleep off the ground, warm and dry.

Then we discovered The Boys had lives. They played soccer and had friends. They made plans and joined stuff. So no more camping. That seemed like a sad sentence, but it really wasn’t. We enjoyed the changes in our lives. We loved soccer season. We loved their friends and their friend’s families. It was great. We found a good home for our camper, where it’s cared for and well-used.

Now here we are, Empty Nesters. No soccer. No chauffeuring kids around. No volunteer responsibilities. She and I are actually able to choose our own diversions.

So we’re buying a camper. Just a little one. Big enough for the two of us. A tiny little home on wheels. Hopefully one that gets to see lots of places. Hopefully one that I’ll have to someday learn how to fix, because all the miles we put on it will take their toll. Maybe I’ll buy a sticker at every state and national park we visit, and I’ll put them on the camper like Japanese Zeroes on a WWII P-51 Mustang. Maybe, maybe not. But it sounds like something I’d like to do.