My driveway, 10 A.M. Waaaahhhhhh! An ear-blasting scream echoes from my house, and I instinctively sprint across the driveway and hurdle a pile of sleeping bags and tent poles. Standing in the doorway is my four-year-old daughter, Magnolia, tears spilling down her cheeks. Just moments ago, she had been happily stuffing her bunny-shaped backpack with markers, legos, and plastic figurines, but now these items lay spilled out across the floor. Zipper: 1, Magnolia: zero. I crouch next to her and repeat a mantra from the latest parenting book: Don’t get angry. Offer comfort. Acknowledge her feelings.
I then apply the wisdom to own raging emotions. I am frantic, frayed, and frustrated. Here it is, the Friday before theJuly 4th weekend, will descend on campgrounds around the country. Throngs of parents, myself included, are questing after the same experience: a hike or bike ride, and a meaningful connection forged between our kids and Mother Nature. It’s already 10 A.M. and I’m still in my driveway, hours behind schedule. The car isn’t packed. My kid is melting down. I’m going to have to come to grips with a dad’s worst nightmare. We’re not going to beat the traffic.
Flush with Ambition, Short on Cash
Barreling down Interstate 25 in an overpacked Subaru, 1 P.M. The hum of my little Subaru is getting drowned out by the roar of V8 engines of the RVs and big rigs driving along side me on Colorado’s Interstate-25. Scenes from Mad Max: Fury Road pop into my brain, and I fantasize about blasting the pickup truck that’s tailgating me with a flamethrower. Magnolia’s latest musical addiction is to seventies-era hard rock, and I jam ZZ Top and Rush tunes to drown out the freeway noise. “Play !”she screams from the back seat, and I click on the Blue Oyster Cult hit. My wife, Angie, scowls. It’s going to be a long weekend.
I bite my nails as I add up the cost of this trip.That morning’s stop at the gas station had been surprisingly painful on my wallet: the per-gallon price or fuel had jumped from $3 a few days ago to $3.45 for the holiday weekend. There were also big purchases at the supermarket and at Target. I add those expenses to the recent and dramatic increase in my monthly mortgage payment, caused by soaring insurance fees and Colorado’s spike in property taxes. Then there’s Magnolia’s preschool tuition. Electric bill. Water bill. It dawns on me: I’m already out of cash. I’ll have to put the rest of this trip on a credit card and pay off later. Now it’s my turn to scowl. “Play Rock and Roll All Night!” she screams. I squash down my financial worries so that we can all rock out to Kiss.
Campground Fantasy and Reality
A dusty highway outside Cañon City, Colorado, 3 P.M. Like many outdoor dads, my ideal camping scenario involves a secluded campground located at the foot of a majestic mountain or on the banks of a blue-green alpine lake. This idealistic vision evaporates the moment I pull into our final destination on this trip. It’s an RV park located alongside a highway—a place I would have avoided like a poison oak patch prior to having kids. But becoming a parent has forced compromises my younger self would have never agreed to. This RV park, with its flushing toilets, represents an important middle step between backcountry adventure and the comfort of home. It boasts accoutrements that will make parenting easy over the next few days: a playground, swimming pool, and a massive pillow-like inflatable thingy that kids can jump on.
Like most RV parks, the nicest spots near the front are reserved for motorhomes. The tent campsites are located way in the back, among the scrub brush and cactus. We find our spot and unload the Subaru. Then comes the time-honored ritual that every camping dad loves: setting up the tent. My North Face Windy Pass tent predates the Clinton Administration. It’s the same one I camped in with my mom and dad 30 years ago, and also hauled to college outings, float trips, and bachelor parties in my twenties. Why spend the cash on a new model when this one works just fine? I slide the poles through the cloth sheath and the shelter springs to life. We climb in and I smell that familiar scent of decades-old insect repellent, dust, and sweat. It’s the aroma of my childhood. “Eww yucky!” Magnolia yells.
S’more Remain Undefeated
Much too close to a campfire, 8 P.M. Flames crackles and smoke swirls into our faces. Magnolia and her friend Soren scrunch up their noses with each whiff, but they remain seated by the flames, dangling a marshmallows into the fire on sticks. S’mores are worth a few hits of acrid smoke when you’re four years old. We watch the sun sink low in the horizon and replay the afternoon. After setting up the campsite we had hopped on our mountain bikes and ridden a dusty trail on the other side of the highway. Afterward, we had cooled off with a swim and had then jumped for an hour or so on the inflatable. I may have to adjust my fantasy campground: maybe the perfect one includes a pool and a trampoline.
Angie reads to Magnolia and takes her to the bathroom for one final potty break, and then it’s time for bed. We flop into our tent reeking of bug dope and campfire and doze off. Sharing a tent with a little kid is an exercise in patience, and both of us know this slumber will have plenty of interruptions.
A Coffee Calamity
On a two-inch-thick sleeping pad, 5 A.M. The sun rises early, and within a few minutes it’s sweltering inside the tent. I awake to a feeling of sheer terror. I realize the essential item I left back home: the AeroPress coffee maker.
One foundation of a healthy relationship is knowing and respecting the items your partner requires for happiness. My wife requires oxygen and good coffee. Long before Angie and I got married, we came to an unofficial agreement. She would follow me on whatever dingbat outdoor adventure I proposed, so long there was access to tasty espresso drinks. I learned over time to bring single-origin grounds on any ski trip, in case the mountain town coffee shop wasn’t up to par. I also learned to always bring an array of grinders, French presses, and brewing devices along on a camping trip.
Yet here I am, hours from home, with a fresh bag of coffee but no way to brew it. I squirm in my sleeping bag, knowing I’ve let Angie down. Had I just given myself adequate time to pack, I would have remembered the AeroPress. But I rushed the process in an attempt to beat traffic. She wakes and I immediately spill the beans and apologize. To my surprise, she shrugs off the calamity. She reaches into our cooler and takes out a can of fancy cold brew. This isn’t her first rodeo.
A Bike Ride to Remember
Rolling down a trail near a federal prison, 1 P.M. We are camping alongside friends of ours, the Kleppe family, and they have a four-year-old, Soren, as well as an infant. Their lives still revolve around naps and baby mealtime, and this pull keeps them close to the campground. Our situation is much easier—Magnolia gave up her daily nap months ago—and thus we’re able to venture out on longer hikes and bike rides. But living with a four-year-old’s emotional ebb and flow requires similar amounts of patience as managing an infant. Magnolia wants to be independent, but also craves our attention, which creates hourly tension.
We’ve overcome one of these meltdowns as we head out onto a bike ride along the Arkansas River. Magnolia still somehow fits on my device that mounts to the top tube if my mountain bike. We ride along the river watch rafting teams bob in the rapids, and we experience the full slate of four-year-old emotions across a two-hour bike ride: tears, smiles, squeals of joy. We stop to watch a train rumble by and Magnolia erupts in laughter and waves at the passengers. In another few months, she is going to outgrow this device, which will render these bike rides a thing of the past. As we spin along, I remind myself to soak in every moment of this ride—even the tantrums.
Is It Worth the Struggle?
Beneath the stars, 9 P.M. It’s pitch black as we sit in our campsite and digest our hot dogs and s’mores. Angie and I are completely drained from a day spent biking, swimming, bouncing, and parenting under the baking sun. Tomorrow morning we will have to pack up the campsite, load the Subaru, and drive back onto the freeway to battle the hordes of RVs and motorhomes.
Millions of parents, all reeking of burnt marshmallow and DEET, bleary-eyed from bad sleep, will again sit bumper-to-bumper, this time en route to the safety of the suburbs. I ask myself: Is this annual migration to the outdoors—with its costs and headaches and sunburn really worth the hassle? I look over and see Magnolia staring wide-eyed at the sky, the Milky Way twinkling before her eyes.
You bet it is.