Unplugged
All my children over the age of twelve are pissed. That's how I know we're back to school. Stacks of paperwork, times four, thrown on my desk needing signatures, fees paid, calendar updates, and child assessments leaving me as empty as the checkbook and empathizing with their need for one last week of summer vacation. My fourth grader might be agreeable, if not for his siblings cursing homework assignments; after all, he's dismissed by 2:15pm daily and has at least two outdoor recesses!
With three days of back-to-school torture under our belts we packed up the minivan, Griswold-style, and set off for a Labor Day camping weekend unplugged to recharge. Off the grid without a Snapchat or video game in sight, we exhaled and embraced the Forced Family Fun outdoor recess we all needed at the foot of Mt. Hood.
Tent camping requires as much prep and patience as back-to-school shopping, minus the sharpened Ticonderoga pencils and damned college-ruled graph paper always out of stock. Three meals a day times six campers and two canine companions for a two-night minimum family experience rivaling Clark Griswold's expectations, I packed coolers with three bags of ice and triple checked my highlighted supply list.
If there's one thing I've learned in 24 years of marriage, it's that packing the car is my husband's job. Short of my 14-year-old son surveying the damage, like Rusty to Clark Griswold, there's no one in his or her right mind that would offer an opinion. Scratching his chin and pacing, I spied my husband surveying camping belongings strewn over the entire front lawn. I poured another cup of Joe and smiled as my son removed a minivan passenger seat to allow room for the fishing poles, large Rubbermaid cooler, two shopping bags of dry goods, sleeping bags, mattress pad, two folding chairs and two Schnoodles who climbed on top. A chip off the ole block, my son engineered the shit out of that car, surpassing his father's expectations, while the rest of us bided our time in safety.
Packed to the gills, we set off for the mountain, later than planned and hard-core rap style as my high schoolers picked the playlist and the dog's struggled to get their footing. Three F-bombs and two N-words was the extent of our minivan rap session, leaving my youngest giggling with pleasure. We made a run for the border, ala Taco Bell, to caffeinate the children and satiate their fast food needs before leaving civilization and Wi-Fi connectivity behind.
I'm convinced every family needs at least a week unplugged! We had a mere three days to pack in the outdoor adventures.
Setting up the 10-person 'Vacation-Lodge' tent, fighting over the cushiest foam pad, throwing large rocks in the river and surveying the campsite left little time for anything but fire the first day. With four boys (my husband included) fanning the flame, it's a miracle we didn't torch the place. There's something very primal about building the biggest fire and lighting everything on fire, from marshmallows, pine cones, graham crackers, lettuce leaves, dog food, your brother, etc.
On Sunday, we hiked to the Pegleg waterfall nearby a primitive campsite with beer cans and toilet paper strewn by Woodstock-like campers high on life and reeking of skunk, heightening our sense of adventure as we climbed down the cliff along a decrepit chain-link fence barely holding onto the ledge. Three boys and two Schnoodles reached the bottom when my daughter's blood-curdling scream stopped me cold in my tracks and revealing the irony in the waterfall's name.
"Owe, owe, Mom, something pricked me," she cried on the path ahead. I figured the chain link stabbed her in the leg. "There's bees everywhere!" she screamed. "Run, run fast," I yelled backtracking over rocks on the dirt climb as fast as I could to clear a path for my daughter and husband close behind. She reached the summit as Daddy jumped to her rescue, swatting and picking the stingers out of her chin, legs, and hand, never mind the attack on him. A hero to the rescue, my Braveheart husband was selfless, suffering at least as many yellow jacket stings as our daughter. I helplessly screamed to the boys to wait down below before running back to the car to retrieve our depleted first aid kit. As chief yellow jacket scout, and the only survivor without injury, I surveyed safe passage through the woods as they hobbled peg-legged behind to soak their welts in the fresh glacial runoff.
Charting a different course that afternoon, we persevered on a fairytale hike to the Bagby Hot Springs instead. The path sparkled of green fairy dust and redwood skyscrapers provided a canopy above, gold glimmers of light beckoned us over wooden bridges as the three boys whined about the long hike and longed for the Amazonian rope swing left behind. I strained my ears to listen for the babbling brook down below imagining our family would've died on the Oregon Trail.
"Ewe, it smells like rotten eggs! Is that you?" My nine-year-old announced our arrival at the quaint, century-old hot springs. My geothermal explanation fell on deaf ears as the pubescent boys were distracted by the thong-wearing lady, baring all as she leaned forward and back, circling her boyfriend like a shark in one of the four wooden barrels.
"Dad I think he's gonna pork her," was all I could think, embracing the Griswold experience and new swimsuit policy clearly marked at the trailhead. I'm certain our family of four gawking boys and two barking Schnoodles drained the romance right out of their hot tub! What I wouldn't give for her slim figure in her Sammi Mankini, its rubber band straps retaining her 20-year-old breasts.
Stars twinkle brightly outside the city and sleep is much easier the second night of camping when adults succumb to throbbing left hip and shoulder pain no amount of alcohol can numb. Instant breakfast coffee with marshmallows tastes like Starbucks and four children bond, skipping on trails Julie Andrews style, sharing campfire stories, and proving we all need outdoor recess to recharge unplugged!
"Do you think we could camp for a week?" my husband smiled our final morning. A fan of Forced Family Fun myself, I figured swollen bee stings had infected his brain. "Yeah, in a cabin!" I agreed, catching my daughter's glance of approval, her eyes fearfully wide as saucers. What I wouldn't give for a family week without connectivity!
We packed up the campsite with breakneck speed thanks to teenagers eager to hit the Tarzan rope swing and swimming hole, meanwhile my 9-year-old son's crocodile tears flowed, wailing we forgot to go fishing! Perhaps he also dreaded heading back to stress-infused schedules, laundry, dog baths, homework and school supply shopping lists. I sympathized, eagerly promising another September day unplugged in paradise. Relaxed we re-entered Wi-Fi civilization that afternoon with one brat, one beer, a dozen bee stings and memories to last a lifetime.
With three days of back-to-school torture under our belts we packed up the minivan, Griswold-style, and set off for a Labor Day camping weekend unplugged to recharge. Off the grid without a Snapchat or video game in sight, we exhaled and embraced the Forced Family Fun outdoor recess we all needed at the foot of Mt. Hood.
Tent camping requires as much prep and patience as back-to-school shopping, minus the sharpened Ticonderoga pencils and damned college-ruled graph paper always out of stock. Three meals a day times six campers and two canine companions for a two-night minimum family experience rivaling Clark Griswold's expectations, I packed coolers with three bags of ice and triple checked my highlighted supply list.
If there's one thing I've learned in 24 years of marriage, it's that packing the car is my husband's job. Short of my 14-year-old son surveying the damage, like Rusty to Clark Griswold, there's no one in his or her right mind that would offer an opinion. Scratching his chin and pacing, I spied my husband surveying camping belongings strewn over the entire front lawn. I poured another cup of Joe and smiled as my son removed a minivan passenger seat to allow room for the fishing poles, large Rubbermaid cooler, two shopping bags of dry goods, sleeping bags, mattress pad, two folding chairs and two Schnoodles who climbed on top. A chip off the ole block, my son engineered the shit out of that car, surpassing his father's expectations, while the rest of us bided our time in safety.
Packed to the gills, we set off for the mountain, later than planned and hard-core rap style as my high schoolers picked the playlist and the dog's struggled to get their footing. Three F-bombs and two N-words was the extent of our minivan rap session, leaving my youngest giggling with pleasure. We made a run for the border, ala Taco Bell, to caffeinate the children and satiate their fast food needs before leaving civilization and Wi-Fi connectivity behind.
I'm convinced every family needs at least a week unplugged! We had a mere three days to pack in the outdoor adventures.
Setting up the 10-person 'Vacation-Lodge' tent, fighting over the cushiest foam pad, throwing large rocks in the river and surveying the campsite left little time for anything but fire the first day. With four boys (my husband included) fanning the flame, it's a miracle we didn't torch the place. There's something very primal about building the biggest fire and lighting everything on fire, from marshmallows, pine cones, graham crackers, lettuce leaves, dog food, your brother, etc.
On Sunday, we hiked to the Pegleg waterfall nearby a primitive campsite with beer cans and toilet paper strewn by Woodstock-like campers high on life and reeking of skunk, heightening our sense of adventure as we climbed down the cliff along a decrepit chain-link fence barely holding onto the ledge. Three boys and two Schnoodles reached the bottom when my daughter's blood-curdling scream stopped me cold in my tracks and revealing the irony in the waterfall's name.
"Owe, owe, Mom, something pricked me," she cried on the path ahead. I figured the chain link stabbed her in the leg. "There's bees everywhere!" she screamed. "Run, run fast," I yelled backtracking over rocks on the dirt climb as fast as I could to clear a path for my daughter and husband close behind. She reached the summit as Daddy jumped to her rescue, swatting and picking the stingers out of her chin, legs, and hand, never mind the attack on him. A hero to the rescue, my Braveheart husband was selfless, suffering at least as many yellow jacket stings as our daughter. I helplessly screamed to the boys to wait down below before running back to the car to retrieve our depleted first aid kit. As chief yellow jacket scout, and the only survivor without injury, I surveyed safe passage through the woods as they hobbled peg-legged behind to soak their welts in the fresh glacial runoff.
Charting a different course that afternoon, we persevered on a fairytale hike to the Bagby Hot Springs instead. The path sparkled of green fairy dust and redwood skyscrapers provided a canopy above, gold glimmers of light beckoned us over wooden bridges as the three boys whined about the long hike and longed for the Amazonian rope swing left behind. I strained my ears to listen for the babbling brook down below imagining our family would've died on the Oregon Trail.
"Ewe, it smells like rotten eggs! Is that you?" My nine-year-old announced our arrival at the quaint, century-old hot springs. My geothermal explanation fell on deaf ears as the pubescent boys were distracted by the thong-wearing lady, baring all as she leaned forward and back, circling her boyfriend like a shark in one of the four wooden barrels.
"Dad I think he's gonna pork her," was all I could think, embracing the Griswold experience and new swimsuit policy clearly marked at the trailhead. I'm certain our family of four gawking boys and two barking Schnoodles drained the romance right out of their hot tub! What I wouldn't give for her slim figure in her Sammi Mankini, its rubber band straps retaining her 20-year-old breasts.
Stars twinkle brightly outside the city and sleep is much easier the second night of camping when adults succumb to throbbing left hip and shoulder pain no amount of alcohol can numb. Instant breakfast coffee with marshmallows tastes like Starbucks and four children bond, skipping on trails Julie Andrews style, sharing campfire stories, and proving we all need outdoor recess to recharge unplugged!
"Do you think we could camp for a week?" my husband smiled our final morning. A fan of Forced Family Fun myself, I figured swollen bee stings had infected his brain. "Yeah, in a cabin!" I agreed, catching my daughter's glance of approval, her eyes fearfully wide as saucers. What I wouldn't give for a family week without connectivity!
We packed up the campsite with breakneck speed thanks to teenagers eager to hit the Tarzan rope swing and swimming hole, meanwhile my 9-year-old son's crocodile tears flowed, wailing we forgot to go fishing! Perhaps he also dreaded heading back to stress-infused schedules, laundry, dog baths, homework and school supply shopping lists. I sympathized, eagerly promising another September day unplugged in paradise. Relaxed we re-entered Wi-Fi civilization that afternoon with one brat, one beer, a dozen bee stings and memories to last a lifetime.
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