At the top of my regret list was the fact that Flash and I had never taken our son camping. Oh, the guys had a couple of pseudo-camping trips - one on top of our large yard trampoline, and the other in our extra-large tent, 12 feet from our back door. The latter lasted only three hours; Flash couldn’t take sleeping on the ground. We were failures in the World of Nature. For Pete’s sake, our 23-year-old has never even touched a frog - a travesty of the worst kind.
But then, last summer, our friend Howard invited Flash and Cowboy to go on an overnight fishing trip. I was elated, both for Cowboy and because it was a guy trip. They’d be doing all the male bonding stuff. And I would be home. By myself. With no obligations, responsibilities, or schedule. Just me and two dogs who can let themselves out via their doggie door. Other than answering nature’s indoor call, I’d have no reason to get off the couch. The weekend couldn’t come fast enough.
“This is a week-long trip, right?” I asked Howard when I called him about the food plan; I always have to ask about food plans due to Cowboy’s special diet.
He cheerfully replied, “Well, I like to start with one night and see how it goes.”
It would be Cowboy and Flash’s first campout in a trailer, which sounded like roughing it compared to my planned sabbatical. And rain was in the forecast. The only thing worse than not catching fish would be not catching fish in the rain. Howard assured me the trip was on, rain or shine, and I assured myself Cowboy would not, in fact, melt in the rain. But I bought longer rain slickers for my men, just in case.
We were all grateful for Howard’s invitation as well as his generosity in paying Flash and Cowboy’s fees for the early morning guided fishing excursion. They left on a Friday afternoon for someplace in Texas – it didn’t really matter where – and I put together a last-minute girls’ night at a nearby restaurant. We laughed, ate, and enjoyed the country-western band. On my way home, I looked forward to doing everything I wanted to do, and nothing I “had” to do.
As I settled in, it was glorious. It was peaceful. It was quiet. Too quiet. Even the dogs took a whining strike, probably because they finally had me all to themselves. But I was fine. I was free. And then, I was freaking out.
As happens when I’m alone in my house at night, all two times I’ve had the pleasure of such a situation in the last 27 years, random everyday noises became amplified against the backdrop of nothingness. There was no Flash watching one of his Loudest Movies on Earth. No Cowboy repeatedly typing in his iPad about upcoming plans on his Never-Ending Calendar Event List. The house, itself, was peacefully sleeping.
But I could hear it breathing.
Being a mature, independent woman, I decided to stay up as late as possible, until sleep would be inevitable. But 1:30 a.m. came, and I was still on high alert. I thought about stacking cans in front of the front door, like Laura Petrie did on the Dick Van Dyke Show, ironically when Rob went on a fishing trip.
Instead, I readied whatever weapons I had on hand, which took an hour or so. Finally, I was prepared, in case the popping refrigerator came to life and walked down the hallway to take its inexplicable revenge on me for some unknown wrong I’d committed. You can never trust an angry appliance. Or perhaps the whistling wind would pay a visit to me in the dark of night.
Eventually, I fell asleep. The next day consisted of less neurotic relaxation, and I was happy to see my boys and hear about their trip when they arrived around 7 p.m.
In the rain, wearing their long yellow slickers and smiling ear-to-ear, they’d caught fish. A lot of fish. Cowboy caught seven; Flash caught nine. And the wonderful fishing guide cleaned, fileted, and sent fish home in baggies. It was a perfect first camping trip.
“Maybe next time y’all can stay several days,” I suggested, forgetting the terror of the night before.
And so, when Howard invited the guys for a second camping trip in late October, this one being a two-night stay, I was thrilled. I called Howard one afternoon to discuss, of course, the food plan.
“What kinds of meals would you guys like?” I asked.
“Oh,” he explained, “I meant that all of you are invited.”
“Oh, Flash didn’t tell me that,” I answered. Perhaps he enjoyed his wifeless, quiet weekend, I thought to myself, happy to oblige.
“Is Marion going?” I asked. Marion, like her husband, is the epitome of easy-going, easy to talk to, and easy to love.
“Yes, if you are.”
“Okay, just let me know what to bring to cook, and I’ll go to the store,” I requested. “Marion and I can plan meals.”
“Oh no,” Howard replied, “I do all the cooking. Y’all can have girl time, go shopping in town, whatever you want to do. This is her time off.” I’d never heard of going shopping while camping, but my definition of “back to nature” was about to change forever.
We made plans, and the packing began. It was the easiest job in the History of Lindquist Packing. When you have five people in one trailer, it's all about necessities only. Although phones and chargers were on the list, which was strange to me. I come from a tent-camping family. No air conditioning, no electricity, no modern conveniences other than the restroom that was always within walking distance from our campsites and a propane stove.
Unknown to the others, I was nervous about the trip. Of course. Because when I go on vacation, my anxiety often does not. My primary concern was driving arrangements. Like so many other autism moms, and mothers of children with various challenges, I was used to having a get-away vehicle. In case Cowboy had a meltdown. In case his anxiety became too high. In case of emergencies. I keep a running mental list of many “in cases,” due to my vivid imagination and our history as a family.
“How big is your vehicle?” I texted Howard one day, thinking there was no way we’d all fit comfortably in his car, and I’d have to take my own.
“Oh, plenty of room,” he texted back. “I have an FSZ28 BR549 Super Duper Revved-Up Extended Cab with a Backseat the Size of a Closet model.” No man alive describes his beloved truck as a “big truck” anymore. Nope. He’s got to include every letter, every number, every dimension, color, and seat fabric to fully describe his dream on wheels.
Now, I had a dilemma. I couldn’t use the excuse that I needed to drive myself due to room constraints. You can do this, I told myself. You’ll be with people who love Cowboy, as well as love you and Flash. Trust them. It was a big step for me.
We’ve known Howard and Marion for a few years, and have been to lunch several times. But this would be different. More vulnerable. I wondered how Cowboy would do on this second camping trip; he tends to do better when I’m not around. We spend a lot of time together, and he enjoys the breaks.
The drive up was wonderful, as if we’d been long-time friends. With only a few years between us in age, we had more in common that we’d imagined, and laughed the entire way. Thankfully, they also adhere to the stop-when-you-need-to-stop-because-it’s-all-about-the-journey approach to traveling. We never felt bad if one of us needed a restroom break. When we’d been on the road awhile, Howard explained some of the weekend plans.
“We’ll set up camp at Fairfield Lake State Park, and then I thought we’d go into town for dinner.”
Another new concept for me; going out to eat was not part of roughing it in my childhood - I thought corned beef hash and alphabet soup were the ultimate outdoor delicacies. But it would be nice to take it easy the first night.
Up to that point in the conversation, it sounded like a relaxing weekend. Until Howard added, excitedly, “And tomorrow the park is having a nighttime scorpion hunt. Isn’t that cool?”
“Cool” wasn’t quite the word that came to mind. “Deadly,” “stupid,” “terrifying”…but not “cool.” I thought perhaps Howard was kidding. Or delirious. But the more details he gave, the more I realized this veritable Daniel Boone was ready for the challenge.
“I think I’ll skip that, and stay in the trailer while y’all go,” Marion commented. I liked her way of thinking.
We arrived at the campsite, and Marion and I sat at the picnic table watching the men line up the trailer on the concrete slat in front of us. Already, camping was entertaining.
After we organized everything in the trailer, I asked Cowboy, “Do you want to go eat dinner first or swim first?” Why I asked these ridiculous questions, I don’t know. He was changed into his swim trunks in a flash. But he was on his own. We’re lightweights when it comes to swimming in a lake in the fall, but we enjoyed the swings on the playground while we watched Cowboy.
Soon after, we headed to a restaurant for dinner. I was beginning to feel guilty for all the indulgences. When we headed back to camp and entered the air conditioned trailer, my guilt grew.
“Can we really call this camping, Howard? I mean, we have cold air, indoor beds with real mattresses, electric lights, and an indoor bathroom and kitchen. Does this count?”
“Yes, it counts,” Marion replied, laughing.
“Of course it does,” Howard agreed. “We’re camping out. We’re in the woods. Instead of a tent, we’re using a trailer.”
Yes, I understood that definition. But this was not my mother’s camping trip. I felt spoiled; I was glamping. I even heard a few ancestors laughing at us beyond the grave. Soon, however, the laughter faded as I relished every moment of the night, and dreamed of having our own trailer one day. My travel trailer memories consisted of a trip to Canyon Lake with my friend Lylas and her family one summer. We took their trailer, but being a kid, I thought nothing of the amenities. Because, of course, I wasn’t doing the work. Other than that, my experience consisted of playing “camping” with Lylas in the trailer, when it was parked in the easement behind her house.
The next morning, Howard allowed Flash and I to cook breakfast. Why does breakfast always taste better when you’re outside among the trees and fresh air?
After we finished our coffee, I told Howard, “Flash and I need to walk up to the bathrooms. Would it be okay if Cowboy hangs out with y’all since he doesn’t need to go?” Even though the trailer had a bathroom, it was more comfortable for us, in more than one way, to take a short walk to the park facilities.
“Of course. He’ll be fine. I’m with Cowboy every Sunday morning, and know him well. It’s not a problem,” Howard replied, seeing the what-if-he-suddenly-runs-off-into-the-woods look on my face, not that he ever runs off anymore. Howard volunteers in Cowboy’s Special Friends class at church, a class for special needs adults.
Our bathroom jaunt turned into a leisurely walk on the way back to the trailer. We held hands, crunched leaves under our feet, and enjoyed being away from the loud city. Families were riding their bikes, cooking breakfast outside, and sitting in the crisp fall air. We started exploring the land. Flash went one way, I went another.
As I walked closer to the lake, I saw one of those colorful spiny-backed orb-weaver spiders Howard had warned us about, dangling mere inches from my face. It looked like its name, but was pretty, for a spider. I calmly called Flash over to look at it. But there was no Flash nearby. All I heard were grunts and more crunching leaves as he finally emerged from I-don’t-know-where flailing his arms.
“Ugh. Webs everywhere; I keep running into them,” he exclaimed, while doing the spider-web dance to rid himself of threads covering him. The man must have destroyed hundreds of spider homes that day.
We returned to the less spidery path, but suddenly, I didn’t recognize any of the campsites. I insisted we keep going straight, finally seeing something familiar, as Flash explained, “We’re not on the same road we came down on.”
And so ensued the “Yes, we are,” “No, we aren’t” discussion. As I turned into our campsite, a different camper was there.
“Do you think they moved the trailer while we were gone?” I asked Flash. It was easier than saying “You’re right.”
Forty minutes later, we were back at our site.
“Well, we were starting to wonder about y’all,” Howard said. “Sure, you had to walk to the bathrooms,” he teased, insinuating we’d had some kind of romantic interlude among the pines. Only the second day, and we’d made a reputation for ourselves. It was easier than admitting we’d been lost for 30 minutes.
The day flew by. We fished for a while, but Cowboy caught the only fish. He’s the best fisherman we know, with patience galore. Of course, we dined out again; we had to reserve our energy for the scorpion hunt and spider search later that night. I agreed to go, based on the fact that the state park couldn’t possibly chance an excursion that could result in injury to campers. Of course they wouldn’t. This would be a controlled nature experience. Even as we drove to the front of the park to meet about 60 other campers there, Howard and I discussed the strong possibility that this was a ruse.
“I’ll bet these are fake scorpions. It’s close to Halloween. Probably a fun thing for the kids,” Howard reasoned.
“That’s just what I was thinking,” I replied. “They wouldn’t let kids close to a real scorpion.” I was relieved, yet disappointed. I’d psyched myself up for this.
After the trooper explained how to use the handheld black lights to find scorpions, we headed down the path. Flash was the first in our group to spot one.
“Oh, it is rubber, Flash. That looks like a glow-in-the-dark small squishy toy.”
And then, it moved.
Our jaws dropped. Who in the world discovered that if you shine a black light on a scorpion, it looks neon green? I was mesmerized. And glad that the ones we found were babies. But I knew the mamas and the papas were waiting in the wings, like all good parents do.
Next, using a regular small flashlight, held at eye level as we bowed our heads slightly, we saw countless sparkles in the grass. The ground was bedazzled. And every sparkle was a spider. It was beautifully disturbing. Literally millions of spiders live in that particular state park. I vowed to not share this with Marion when we returned to camp, for fear she might pack up and leave without us. But apparently, she knew what she was walking into before we did, which is why she stayed put in the trailer.
The adventure, or the sugary s’mores over the fire that night, left Cowboy sleepy; he was in bed and snoring by 9:30 that night. The rest of us spent hours by the fire, enjoying the quiet, after our neighbors went to sleep. We bonded even more, as time stood still. We shared secrets, talked politics, and told stories about when we were kids. No subject was taboo, and my heart was thankful not only for Marion and Howard, but for my willingness to step out of my comfort zone. I trusted our friends with myself, my son, and my what-ifs.
As we drove home the next day, stopping to eat out of course, I realized that what-ifs are heavy. I thought of all I would have missed out on had I opted to drive separately or not go at all. Trust is stronger than all the imaginable possibilities of what could go wrong. Trust in my friends, and trust in my God.
And I’ll be trusting a lot more when it comes to new adventures in the future.
