My first time camping was in college. I had gone with a friend of mine to Illinois Yearly Meeting (an annual meeting of Friends, or Quakers). Lodging at the Meetinghouse was primitive, rustic two-person dorm rooms. My friend Joan and I decided we would camp in the camping space across the road from the Meetinghouse.
Joan and I put up the tent (not a fancy one like we have nowadays) and we spent the day in activities. The tent was still standing by bedtime, which was a good sign. When we settled in, with our belongings tucked around us, it was a crowded time in the tent and we were tired. Not too tired to notice that my head lay on a tree root.
It stormed all night. Illinois thunderstorms are particularly resonant, so I couldn’t sleep very well. I finally fell asleep after the storm quit. Scant hours later, I woke at dawn, and noticed my air mattress was … floating.
“Joan?”
“Mrrph.” Joan was not a morning person.
“Joan? I think the tent flooded.”
Joan jumped up, and we assessed the state of the tent. Yes, it had flooded at one end, as had the entire campground. We were surrounded by dismayed people noticing that they, too, had taken water in their tents.
Joan and I did the only thing we could — we busted up laughing. We sorted out our clothing (mostly dry) and hung our tent and sleeping bags in the tree to dry. Needless to say, we slept in the dorms that night.
That was my first time camping. The fact that I’ve camped more than once is a testimony to my perseverence. Or my short memory. One of those two.
Words Like Me 