The Problems With Camping
Life has two types of problems, the ones we create and the ones we encounter. Camping comes with the same problems, so it’s the perfect training ground for the rest of life.
Let me give you an example.
The Problems We Create
Before I took my first step on the trail, I already knew I’d be having an uncomfortable night. And it was 100% my fault.
When you decide to take a three day backpacking trip in the Great Smoky Mountains, you can expect all kinds of struggles—some of your own doing and some of Mother Nature’s.
The blame for the first struggle was entirely on me.
Before heading out to the trailhead, we all tossed our 40 pound packs into the bed of my friend’s pickup. Knowing rain was in the forecast, I pulled mine out, stuffed it into a big garbage bag, and hoisted it back into the bed.
Sure enough, we hit rain on the drive, but I didn’t care—my gear was tightly tied in a waterproof bag.
At the trailhead, as we were lacing our boots and prepping our gear, I realized my pack was wet. At first I thought a few raindrops found their way in on the ride. But then I dug deeper and found the true problem.
I never closed my camelbak valve.
A camelbak is a pouch of water you carry when hiking. It fits in your pack and a hose comes out the top so you can conveniently take a sip while walking. The hose comes with a valve to prevent accidental leaks.
I forgot to close the valve.
My pack was free from rainwater but soaked with drinking water, which, as it turns out, is equally as wet.
Not only did the water spill but it spilled inside the waterproof garbage bag around my pack, so all my belongings marinated in camelbak soup for the entire ride.
My pack, my extra clothes—and worst of all—my sleeping bag were sufficiently soaked.
At this point, there was no going back. We hit the trail to cover 12 miles on the first day. And I knew what I had to look forward to in the evening—a soggy slumber.
Within the first few minutes of our camping trip, I already learned several valuable lessons:
Inconvenient problems can happen easily. Expecting problems to happen helps you be less annoyed when they do.
Failing to prepare properly means you’re more likely to have problems. The less experience you have, the less likely you’ll be able to prepare properly because…
Sometimes the obvious risks (rain clouds) overshadow the less obvious risks (a leaking camelbak).
When you fail to prepare properly, look to those with more experience for advice. My friend told me that instead of putting his entire pack into a waterproof bag, he puts his clothes, sleeping bag, and other valuables into separate waterproof bags inside his pack.
Mistakes teach the best lessons. From now on, I’ll always put my dry gear in waterproof bags, and I’ll always close the valve on my camelbak.
Actions have consequences. Because I forgot to put my valuables in waterproof bags, I’d be sleeping in a soggy sleeping bag.
The group is more important than the individual. If I was alone, I could’ve turned around—gone home before I even started. But I was with two friends. They both had dry sleeping bags, and there was no chance they were going home. The world doesn’t care about me and my little problems. Of course my friends were patient, but I still felt like a moron making them wait while I reorganized my stuff. The show goes on and I have to adapt.
As I was laying in my damp sleeping bag that first night, I was actually thankful. My mistake wasn’t fatal. It taught me valuable lessons. And it gave me something to write about.
The Problems We Encounter
The second type of problems are the ones we encounter. These are problems caused entirely by someone or something else but suffered entirely by us.
We woke on the second morning to beautiful weather. Low 60s and clear skies. Despite a wet sleeping bag, I slept alright, and by sunrise the bag was nearly dry.
We ate a leisurely breakfast, drank a cup of coffee, packed our gear, and hit the trail. On the agenda for the day was 14 miles and a stop at Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in Tennessee.
While I had learned my lesson about waterproofing my gear, the only waterproof bag I had was wet on the inside from my camelbak debacle. But the weather seemed fine, and my options were limited, so I packed my sleeping bag the same as the day before.
We had a great climb to Clingman’s Dome where we were met with Labor Day crowds and fog thicker than cream cheese. After a quick stop at the top, we retreated back to the woods, away from the herds of Americans (of which the stereotypes are alarmingly accurate).
We had nine miles left for the day—easy miles compared to the trips we’d done in the past—and they fell underfoot interspersed with equal parts silence and conversations best reserved for the empty wilderness.
The trek was uneventful. With a mile til camp, we started sensing rain. With a half mile to go, we started feeling drops. With a quarter mile left, we felt like Forrest Gump from the Vietnam rain scene.
It was some of the hardest rain I’ve ever experienced. It fell so hard, fast, and heavy, it felt like it was washing the two days of dirt from my skin—although the smell in my tent later said otherwise.
As we trudged the final steps to camp number two, the trail had turned to a river, the campsites to mud, and our morale to mush.
Our plans for a leisurely setup and relaxing dinner were replaced with a frantic setup, dinner at a soaked picnic table in sopping wet clothes, and another night in a wet sleeping bag.
As much as I would’ve preferred the former, I tried to find the best in the latter. As strange as it sounds, one of the things I appreciate about backpacking is the problems that arise and the challenges you have to endure. Part of the reason I venture into the wilderness is to recalibrate my brain. I do it to remind myself that my life is easy, that I should appreciate the comforts I have, and that I can survive on much less.
Without an unexpected problem like the second day's rain, I don’t think the recalibration would’ve been complete.
The rain was an opportunity to practice the stoicism I talk so much about. Getting angry wasn’t going to get me dry. It was just going to make my trip less enjoyable.
It was also a chance to practice one of my favorite sayings.
As we were setting up our tents in the driving rain, my friend reminded us, “slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” Those seven words were the prompt I needed to focus my mind on the task at hand.
Roll out the tent.
Assemble the poles.
Slide the poles through the clips.
Spread the rain fly over the top.
Stake everything down.
One step at a time. Just the same as I would if it wasn’t raining.
The rain was a problem outside my control. The last thing I needed was to compound it by creating another problem. Rushing to set up my tent could mean breaking a pole or forgetting to put in the stakes—both of which could leave me without shelter, escalating the rain from a minor inconvenience to a major problem.
And finally, the rain gave me an opportunity to find the positive in the negative. Although it was raining, it wasn’t cold. After the frigid temperatures of our last trip, I didn’t care about the rain, just so long as I was warm.
So the rain was a problem for sure, but it wasn’t the end of the world. And with it came opportunities—bonuses, if you will. Without it, I don’t think the trip would’ve been nearly as memorable.
After reading this, you might think camping isn’t worth the problems. But I think exactly the opposite. Without the problems, camping wouldn’t be half as fun, and it wouldn’t be nearly as useful for the rest of my life.
Photo by Lesly Derksen on Unsplash
