Overheard in Passing: Island Hopping Part 1 Stuart Island – Camping, I Don't Think I Hate You Anymore

I’m sitting beside the campfire, smoke and ash drift pass my face. The sun has set, and the sky is a clear deep inky blue so it’s only by the light of the flames that I can check on the progress of my S’more. My marshmallow, roasted to perfection, sits waiting while the chocolate melts on its graham cracker base. I lick the chocolate off my fingers from the last S’more and take a sip of tea.

This little scene is acting itself out in various ways all round this campfire. To my left, several kids inspect the charred remains of their marshmallows while to the right, a couple of dads alternate between swilling beer, inhaling s’mores, and solving the problems of the world. It’s 10pm on Saturday night on Stuart Island and the Baldwin Family Campground and all is well in our world.

I must admit that if all aspects of camping were this enjoyable, I probably wouldn’t object so much to the general prospect of trying to live outdoors for several days in a row. I’ve never been a great camper, but before I had kids, I could at least tolerate it. We would grab a few things, throw the tent in the car, stop at the grocery store and then spend a few days lazing around the lake or wherever before heading back to work or school. Then I had kids and all hell broke loose. I have effectively blocked out most memories of a four-day camping trip spent with other families when Jacob was 8 and Zoe 3. All I can remember is being extremely sleep deprived due to a 5yr old boy to whom I shall refer as Bobby for friendship’s sake, who decided that 4:45am would be the perfect time to wake up each morning. More’s the pity that Bobby and his long-suffering dad’s tent was only a few metres from our own. Mornings went something like this:

Bobby: (forcing a whisper) “Daaaaaaaad”

Bobby’s Dad: “smurgsch”

Bobby: (whining now) “Daaaaaaaad I’m hungry”

Bobby’s Dad: “Bobbygobacktoslee….”

Bobby: “But Daaaaad I’m hungry and I’m uncomfortable”

Bobby’s Dad: (Trying to whisper) “Bobby! I’m SLEEPING!

Me: (In my head) “Yeah, Bobby, we’re all sleeping don’t you know?”

Bobby: (At full volume and starting to cry) “BUT I’M HUNGRY AND I DON’T WANT TO BE IN THE TENT ANYMORE AND I HAVE TO GO PEE AND WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH WAHHHHHH”

Me: (In my head) “Bobby, none of us want you to be in your tent anymore. I’m thinking Nanaimo actually”

Bobby’s Dad: (yelling through clenched teeth. At 4:45am) “BOBBY JUST BE QUIET AND GO BACK TO SLEEP YOU ARE DISTURBING EVERYONE AND I’M STARTING TO LOSE MY TEMPER”

Me: (In my head) “starting?”

Bobby: “I HATE CAMPING IT’S STUPID AND I’M HUNGRY AND I HATE YOU YOU ARE STUPID AND YOU ARE GOING TO WAKE EVERYONE UP NOT ME AND EVERYONE IS STUPID HERE WHY DO THEY ALL HAVE TO BE SLEEPING STILL I WANT TO GET UP”

Me: (in my head) “Don’t go there, Bobby”

Bobby’s Dad: “FINE! I’LL JUST GET UP THEN AND I’M WARNING YOU I’LL BE GRUMPY ALL DAY”

Me: (in my head) “You don’t even know what grumpy is, Bobby’s Dad. I’ll show you grumpy”.

At this point, the antics of Bobby and his Dad had woken up half the campsite, the half that were under the age of 8 that is, and so began another very long day full of sleep-deprived adults, and cranky kids. Throw into the mix meal preparation for 62 people or however many it was, and a general cacophony of screaming and demands for snacks and toys that had been left behind at home, and it was a nightmare I swore never to repeat.

And so I swore off camping for several years. Friends would suggest a camping trip. “This” I would respond, pointing to myself “Does not camp”. They would roll their eyes but I didn’t care.

Then a couple of years ago, friends conspired against me and planned a joint family camping trip to Stuart Island, which is a lovely little island in the San Juan Islands, only a few miles by boat away from Victoria. Friends owned land there and held an annual camping trip. I was my usual difficult self proclaiming that I would go camping when I was dead and not before. To make matters even less appealing to me, this ‘campground’ was boat access only, and had no bathroom. Nothing. No cabin, no outhouse, just a hole in the ground. And not a very deep hole at that.

Well I’ll save you the details but somehow, I found myself packing camping gear, then I found myself on the boat, and then there I was at the campsite. And I’m here to say that, apart from the hole in the ground, and in spite of myself, I actually had a good time.

And so it is two years later that I find myself here again at the Baldwin family campground eating too many s’mores, meeting interesting people, and actually enjoying being outside, hiking, swimming, and cooking communally. There were a few minor glitches like when the boat hit a rock and severely damaged the motor so that we could no longer use it and had to rely on our 15horse kicker instead. It was a long trip back. And also the fact that Kent managed to fall onto a Douglas Fir branch and embed a piece of it in his leg. Nonce, the token Doctor on site, and I tried to remove the rather large ‘splinter’ that was protruding from his shin, but couldn’t budge it. After feeding Kent several glasses of whiskey, and bandaging it up for the night, we decided we would have to find a clinic the next day in Friday Harbour. $180, a few hours, and a few stitches later, Kent was good to go.

But in spite of these events, there’s something about being outside early in the morning, or sitting around the campfire with a cup of tea, vaguely wondering, but not worrying, where the kids are that is just so relaxing and calming, it almost makes me want to do it again.

I think I’ll wait a year.