Hellish Hornby

“What you do on your birthday you will end up doing all year long,” My grandma’s old wives tale from my childhood infiltrates my psyche. What insanity has brought my husband, Rick and me barreling down the highway towards a campsite on Hornby Island, when being cramped in a vehicle and camping have both always been shunned activities on my “special” day.

The problem, as I see it, is genetic. Our son is only happy outdoors. A throwback from our hunting and gathering ancestry, no doubt, and he has chosen a compatible partner. The tenting invite came about a month ago. This would be our last opportunity to visit for awhile, so of course, I said, “yes.”

We pull into our designated site to meet our progeny. It is empty. They should be here by now. Back to the office to double check if we have the right spot.

“There is a message for you on our answering machine,” the lady at the desk announces. “The people you are expecting can’t make it until tomorrow.”

“I hope they’re okay,” is my first thought on the way back to our site. “Oh, no, they have the camp stove and almost all the camping gear,” is my second.

The sun bears down over our shade-less patch of grass. As we pull a picnic table into the shadow cast by our SUV, we hear the arrhythmic zoom of cars from behind the shrubs.

“Well, I’ll be. This lot backs onto the main highway. I thought camping was supposed to be peaceful”, Rick blurts in discontent. “Let’s leave.”

“What about the kids. We have no way to contact them. And besides, we just took all day to get here, and on my birthday”, I childishly add.

After half an hour of watching clouds float by and flies land, I say, “We need water. Let’s go to the store.”

Our mood takes a downturn, if possible. “The only place to buy groceries and it closes at 6 pm,” Rick utters in disbelief in front of the store at 6:15.

“Well, the office fellow said the water is safe to drink and if you air it for about 20 minutes, the sulfur taste leaves.”

Back at camp, we commence our tent pitching. The “Eureka” is supposed to be as easy to assemble as exclaiming its name. We pound the small pegs at the ends of the long flexible framing rods into the ground; only they keep springing out as if possessed from wherever and however we try to stabilize them. Think. Think. How did we set it up when we last used it about 5 years ago?

I ignore Rick’s, “Don’t bother the neighbors,” as I march over to the next campsite. It was either this, or a Jerry Springer fight.

A grey haired fellow and his son follow me back to check things out. The son takes the short pegs, gives them a neat little twist and sticks them one by one into the ends of the demon rods. Voila. The mass of limp fabric becomes a tent.

“Minimalists,” the older fellow states matter-of-factly, scanning our site. Besides our pup tent, a cooler is the only other visible sign of habitation.

Thanking them profusely, I gaze longingly at their mega equipped piece of paradise- two stand-up tents, tarpaulins strung over open areas, patio lights, plus a bucket shower.

Laying the bare table with our only sustenance that does not require cooking; we sup on a ready-made salad and bread. Don’t believe sulfur taste dissipates, even with multiple tablespoons of iced tea mix.

Old Sol is waning fast. A walk to the beach sounds uplifting. Descending the cliff to the beach, we find the tide water covering it. I notice a log still on dry land in the shade of a giant pine where we can sit and watch the sunset. A million ants come out to see who is intruding on their space. Clambering back up the hill, Rick superfluously says, “I don’t think this is our thing.”

Crawling into our cramped quarters, my last thought is, “I do hope Grandma isn’t right.”
Not Quite the End

The next day dawns crisp and bright. Our wayward family arrives, filling us in on their vehicle breakdown. As hugs and kisses and belated birthday wishes are lavished upon me, I find myself more interested in peering over their shoulders at their full load of gear. “Hellish” transforms into “heavenly”, or as near to that realm as can be reached by two non-campers.