From Shotguns to Shambala: Or, The First and Last Tent Camping Trip with Our First and Last child.
The whole trip started innocently enough. Our daughter’s preschool always takes a week-long break in August for teacher in-service training, cleaning, and getting ready for the new school year, so it’s a natural time to take a vacation. Normally I’d be fine with a “Stay-cation” but for a long time we’ve been meaning to introduce our three-year-old to the adventure and pleasures of camping, preferably in the mountains. The break happened to fall, this year, right after our in-laws’ annual family reunion up in Walden, Colorado, so my husband suggested,
“Hey! Northern Colorado! In August! Let’s find something up there!”
“Fabulous idea, darling!” I responded with genuine enthusiasm, and set to work right away looking for inexpensive Forest Service campgrounds in the area.
As a former archaeologist for the State, I told myself, “I am imminently familiar with the Medicine-Bow/Arapahoe-Roosevelt National Forest (or the M-BARF, as we called it at the SHPO), or at least maps of it. I will have no problem doing this. It will take me two minutes.”
Two hours of precious work-at-home time later, I had finally come up with some options for camping. Both of them were developed, Forest Service campgrounds, meaning they had water and bathroom facilities on site. This fit our criteria, as we were not at all interested in doing the “extreme” or “hard-core” version of wilderness camping, especially for our daughter’s first experience. The goal was to have a good time, do all those fun camping things like sleep in a tent and eat outdoors, without scarring her for life against the experience. Besides, wilderness camping is really more suited for single people or couples with no children, and lots of time on their hands, or as I like to call them, trust-funders.
At the same time, we had no desire to spend our time “camping” in what basically amounts to an RV parking lot. That happened to me once in Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, near the Mexican border, in January, where the snowbirds flock and settle in enormous RVs that block out the sun, and enormous generators that run all night. I pulled in with my Volkswagen and two-person tent, and spent one of the worst nights of my life, twitching at the sound of bug-zappers and late-night television, in the beautiful desert. As my friend King so aptly put it, “that’s not a vehicle, that’s a mobile barn.” Ixnay on the mobile barns in parking –lot style campgrounds-ay.
But that’s another story. Suffice it to say, we are not extremists, and we are also not RV people. So. With this criteria, or reverse-snobbery and practicality in mind I scanned the MBARF listings of their campgrounds online. Ah! Wonderful! There are several near Red Feather Lakes, and one very close to the Shambala Mountain Center, with the Great Stupa, that we’d also been meaning to visit for years. Hooray! The campground closest to Shambala didn’t require reservations unless you had an RV and needed electrical hookups, so I didn’t bother making one. Camping fees seemed to have gone up in the last 5 years, but I didn’t worry about that either. We’re 2.5 people in a tent, after all! How much could it possibly be??
The last day of the reunion, we headed out after breakfast with our bellies full of wonderful food, well rested after sleeping on comfortable king-sized beds, our heads and bodies freshly bathed, and a happy song in our hearts. Okay, truth be told, we were also a little hung-over from all the rich food and festivities. Before we left, we were invited to go shoot skeet at one of the cousins’ ranches, not too far out of town. Of course we went- it would have been rude to refuse. And like most people coming off a 3 day family reunion/bender, we wanted to shoot things.
Ella played on the family’s trampoline with the other kids while we took our turns, the picture of childhood happiness, day-glo orange sound mufflers dangling from her ears. She tired herself out so much she actually grudgingly accompanied us as we said our goodbyes and snuck out of there- the shootin’ match having devolved into a typical, ultra-competitive “tournament” way too hard-core for the likes of us.
Using my trusty book of Colorado topographical maps, I navigated for my husband as he drove. Apparently he thought the campground was much closer than I knew it to be.
“Turn here?”
“No.”
“Alright, how far is it?”
“A ways.”
“Tell me when to turn then.”
“I will. We don’t turn until Glen Isle. That’s a ways away. You’ll see it.”
“Up here?”
“No.”
It really didn’t take long to find the turn-off and the dirt road that led to the campground, but it felt like it did. By this time our daughter was awake and using the same powers of inquisition that she inherited from her father.
“Is this the camping place?”
“No, not yet honey.”
“Where is it?”
“Up here a ways.”
“And we’re going to play tent?”
“Yep!” (Sometimes we play “tent” by sitting under the sheets on the bed. She loves it. Based on this, we figured she’d love camping.)
“Right now?”
“Pretty soon…”
“Today?”
“Yes, tonight. Tonight we’re going to sleep in a real tent!”
“I like tent. Today?”
“Yes, today.”
It went on like that for awhile. Eventually, after a couple of false leads and turnarounds, we found the place. We pulled up in front of the Campground Host’s RV and watched as an elderly couple tried to back their gigantic fifth-wheel camper into the spot nearest us. The woman was waving and yelling directions to her husband at the wheel, who couldn’t hear her, or wasn’t paying attention. I felt a pang of recognition and sympathy. After all, there but for the grace of God …. Maybe we’re not so different from these RV’ers after all.
The hosts showed up in a golf cart pretty quickly, but informed us that to their regret they had no tent spaces left. We would have to take an electrical hook-up RV space, and pay the full fee. My Scottish-bred husband was not going to like this. The host gave us two choices of spots, said to go check them out, then come back and pay him. We chose the one not too far from the water and bathrooms, and not too parking-lotty. It had shade trees, and a whole pile of beetle-killed pine for wood, and best of all- fire pits that we were actually allowed to USE!!
I went back with my check and asked Mr. Host, just to be sure, “are we allowed to have fires in the pit?” practically giggling with excitement. “Oh, you bet” was his reply, and I think I may have jumped up and down. “That’s great- we’ll be careful- you know I haven’t been allowed to do that since I was 9 years old, at Girl Scout Camp! But I used to be a forest firefighter- I know all about fire safety,” I babbled, grinning. “That’s great- I used to do that too. You have any questions, you just come right down and ask me or Janine*.” Then he smiled politely and shut his RV door.
I ran back to our site.
“Honey- HONEY! We can have a FIRE! In the pit!”
“Really? Alright!”
I felt that this extraordinary news merited a more joyous response. After all, it was true that the last time I’d sat around a campfire, in the actual forest, in actual mountains; I was 9 years old and in Girl Scout Camp at Tomahawk Ranch near Bailey. Nightly sing-a-longs, S’mores, ghost stories, and hot chocolate from an old enamel kettle drunk out of our metal camp cups- the whole bit. The next year, the fire bans took effect. And the year after that, and the year after that, and so on for apparently, close to 30 years. No campfires, anywhere, no how. The risk of wildfire was too great. Thousands of Girl Scouts pouted, but carried on valiantly, toasting their marshmallows over indoor fireplace flames rather than outdoors. I think it’s partly for this reason that I became a Wildland Firefighter in my mid-twenties. I missed the smell of wood smoke- in the air, on my skin and hair for days afterwards.
My husband started unpacking the car. “Hon- I don’t think you understand- we don’t have to use the cook stove now, we can cook over a FIRE! A real one!”
“Yep, that’s awesome. The wood might be a little wet though…”
“Pshaw,” I snorted. “I’ll get a fire started. You and Ella can go for a walk.” The little girl was clamoring to change into a dress and glittery shoes, but we convinced her that pink sneakers were best for tromping through the woods. Not that she’s excessively girly and prissy and we’re trying to cure her of that- oh no. She routinely dons her best clothes at home, and then plunks herself down outside to fling rocks over her shoulder, searching for bugs. Like me, she wants both. Unlike me, she usually gets her way.
I handed off the bouncing, jumping 3-year-old girl to the husband with some relief and began to hunt for matches. As their figures gradually receded down the road that led to the lake, I was imagining an almost fully erected tent and a roaring fire when they got back. After all, I was formerly a fire-fighting archaeologist, and forever I will be an anthropologist. Humankinds’ persistent priorities were etched into my brain both by rigorous professors, and real-life, brawny work in the field that demanded you pay attention to those priorities, or possibly die (more likely get fired for being a dumkopf). You set up your tent before you go out and play. You prepare the fire pit hours before you actually need it, so it will light quickly if people are cold, wet and hungry. Food, warmth, and shelter. The essentials. I heard our camp-neighbor’s microwave beeping in their RV and scoffed out loud.
And of course, I have nothing to prove. Like all anthropologists, I’m above that.
By the time they came back, I did indeed have a respectable pile of dry kindling assembled, and the tent laid on the ground to air out, with all the major poles slipped into their sleeves. I had decided it would be a good educational experience for my daughter to actually see, and help with the tent being set up. Also, she would enjoy it. Ah yes, the tent. Since this thing hadn’t seen the light of day in over 3 years (see above: child) I wanted to make sure there wasn’t black mold or giant spiders growing inside, so I shook it out and made sure all the parts were present and accounted for. The last time we had used the thing, I was pregnant with my wee one and we were visiting our wedding site for our anniversary. Yep, good times. Our “starter child” Aussie shepherd Zeke was with us, and so relaxed we almost didn’t recognize him. His soft gaze seemed to tell us, “Thank you for taking me out of that stupid city. I hate it there, it stresses me out- how do you guys even stand it?” We resolved to take him camping many, many more times, and soon. While I look back on that now with nostalgia, I realize what complete morons we were for having no idea of the maelstrom of child-rearing coming towards us.
Daydreaming as such, when the family returned, I hadn’t lived up to my own expectations. Little girl had to go potty again. I took her, grateful for the non-outhouse bathroom just down the hill. On the way back, she started running on the gravel road and immediately wiped out in a grand way. Screams, crying, blood and dirt- I carried her right back into the bathroom to wash her off. Thankfully, it really wasn’t a bad scrape. And thankfully, she would only do that 27 more times during this trip.
We get back to the site, bloodied and bruised, and find out that I had put the wrong color tent poles in the wrong sleeves. After much struggle, we took them all out again and put them in the right sleeves. Little girl was playing with one of the shorter poles, which was still about 10 feet long when snapped together. She wasted no time in whacking everything we had set up on the picnic table off onto the ground, and then started on the car. So the tent setting-up went something like this:
“Ella, stop that. You can play with that, but don’t hit anything. “
“You got that end? Ok, push- Ella STOP. I’m taking that away from you if you hit.”
“Is this even the right pole?”
“Ella, STOP! Now!”
“Ella- I mean it. We can do time-outs here too.”
“No! Don’t want time-out. Can I have some gum?”
“We don’t have gum when we’re camping.”
What seemed like 5 hours later, we had the tent set up. It was Ella and I’s turn to go for a walk around the lake and stick our feet in the water. My clean, well-rested and fed glow had already worn off and I was dusty and stewing in my own stench. The lake sounded nice. We got there quickly, just as the sun was starting to set, ripped off our shoes/sandals and plopped our feet in the water.
“Oooo, cold!” Says the kiddo. Suddenly she’s back to being the cutest thing in the world. “Me and Daddy put our feet in the water too.” Suddenly I’m jealous that she did this with him before me. What the hell was I doing back there, pretending to make fire with my bare hands and set up the tent by myself? Please. This isn’t about “Que es mas macha?” anymore; this is about making memories with my family. I let my toes settle into the squishy bottom mud of the lake and start to relax.
Some doggies came along, and we petted them. We helped a family catch crawdads with hotdogs and put them in a bucket. Not to eat or anything, just for the challenge of it. They had thick yellow fishing line tied around willow twigs on one end, as makeshift poles, and the other end tied around the hotdogs. The dad had already caught two, but the kids were getting discouraged. Ella was utterly fascinated. She “oohed” and “aaahhed” in an encouraging way that the other kids caught on and started smiling again, as in, “maybe our parents aren’t total dorks for making us do this. Maybe this really IS cool!” (Note to self, other thing we forgot to bring: fishing poles.) This very nice family stated that they were from a small town North of Greeley, and they were staying in their RV down the road. I could not dislike or judge them for it. If we had more than one kid, who knows if I’d even have the energy to catch crawdads, let alone make a weekend of it in the RV, let alone do the whole trip in a tent.
On the way back to our site, we saw many more dogs and kids, but absolutely no-one else camping in just a tent the way we were. Some people however, had done a very wise thing. They had the RV for the adults, the bathroom and the shower, and kids and dogs were relegated to tents. Because kids and dogs generally think tents are “fun,” and either way, they’re going to stay up all night giggling so they may as well do it away from the grown people who are actually trying to sleep. Hmmm, I thought to myself. Maybe it’s possible to have both? I began to entertain the possibility of a very small RV. A pop-up camper. Something towable with a regular car.
That night our fire roared and scorched our hot dogs to perfection, and the leftover pasta salad from the reunion was a perfect complement. Ella loved the novelty of a meal cooked over a fire, and squealed with delight at the chipmunks’ antics as they tried to steal our food. We all brushed our teeth the Leave-No-Trace way and crawled into our sleeping bags, content. One storybook read by flashlight later and all of us were sound asleep. It was maybe 8:30 at night.
The moon was so bright that night that I woke up several times thinking it was already morning. I was grateful for this as I had to heed the call of nature at one point in the pre-dawn hours, but thankfully didn’t need to grope for the flashlight as I forced my feet into boots and gracelessly crawled out of the tent. It was astonishingly quiet. No rustlings of wildlife, no owls hooting, and gracias por dios, no generators humming in the background. It was so quiet the splash of my pee on the ground was as loud as a waterfall. I don’t consider our neighborhood in the city especially noisy, but in contrast this silence was positively eerie. It reminded me too much of the ill-advised drug trips of my youth, and I quickly scrambled back into my sleeping bag, where I could at least hear my little family breathing.
The next morning broke cold and gray, and of course my daughter wanted to get right out in it. We let the daddy sleep in a bit and wrapping ourselves in all available layers, stumbled out into the light. I was anxious to get a fire going, my daughter was anxious to have cereal. I set her up with a bowl and spoon first, then got right to work finding more kindling and non-soggy matches. It was cold and dewy out, but nothing serious, I thought. I’ll have a kettle of hot water for tea and coffee in no time. Sure. Meanwhile, the young’un announces that she has to pee. Daddy is still sleeping in the tent. I take her small, fleece-covered hand in mine and we walk down to the bathroom. It’s still chilly, and mostly I’m just grateful that she is potty-trained now. Think how much worse it would be if she had soaked all of our sleeping bags with her toddler urine, which tends to be pungent, and surprisingly plentiful. Sure, we have to take her to the bathroom every half-hour now, but it’s a small price to pay.
We successfully use the bathroom again, wash our hands, and then, because it’s chilly, I unthinkingly hit the button for the hand-dryer, not realizing how bloody loud it was. My daughter, who had been relatively stoic and reserved up to this point, let out a piercing scream which turned into sort of a wailing howl, at this unexpected noise. She also threw herself on the bathroom floor and covered her ears while screaming, “MOMMY! MOMMY! STOP IT! MAKE IT STOP!! MOOOOO-MMMMMY!!!” So much for the eerie campground quiet. It probably sounded like I was killing her, along with several forest creatures, in the bathroom, with a large car-vac. I try soothing her, telling her that I can’t stop the hand-dryer once it starts; it just stops on its own. She does not care. “MOMMY! MAKE IT STOP!!” (Loud sobbing). Giving up entirely on dry hands, I lift her bodily off the floor and shove the door open so we can at least get away from the noise. She stops yelling, but continues sobbing as if she has just witnessed the death of Winnie-the-Pooh.
Back at our campsite, Daddy is up and at’em. “Ella threw a fit in the bathroom because of the dryer,” I tell him. “Yeah, I heard.” He says. “I think the whole campground heard.” Great. Now the RV people will think I’m not only a dirty, tent-using hippie, but also (of course) a bad mother.
Daddy finishes his breakfast and takes Ella on another walk to give me a break, while I try again to start a fire, or anything that generates heat. I psych myself up by harkening back to the fire-making demonstration put on by the District Archaeologist (and private survivalist) at my field school. His nick-name was Wild Bill, for reasons which soon became clear to us. In the middle of sparking flint into a pile of dried kindling, showing us just how to strike the platform to get the biggest sparks, he looks up at the circle of young, eager faces crowded around him and says, “I’m a warrior, I do warrior things.”
Of course the only appropriate response to a remark like that is an unspoken, “yeah, well, me too” and a steeling of the abdomen as you yourself resolve to always be a warrior. I would start this fire, by gosh, with soggy kindling, my last two or three “waterproof” matches, no caffeine in my system (due to lack of hot water), and maybe 20 minutes of free time. Go!
Well, I got the camp stove lit. I attribute that mainly to its superior European engineering, and not my warrior-cum-mommy talents. As the air warmed and the dew evaporated, I eventually got the fire started too. But it was a resentful, smoldering fire that stuck out its fiery tongue at me and extinguished itself every time I looked away. The RV’ers next door were smugly drinking freshly-ground coffee and wearing fewer clothes than they had brought with them, and looking quite refreshed after a full night’s sleep. I cursed them in my head, and secretly admired their portable yet rugged-looking pop-up camper. Thankfully the camp stove boiled a whole kettle of water in 10 minutes and our days, and possibly our lives, were thusly saved by enabling me to ingest caffeine. Daddy and kiddo came back, and we made a plan to go into “town” after our Shambala trip to get non-soggy firewood and a lighter of some kind.
We go to Shambala and have a wonderful time. We eat a delicious, healthy, vegetarian lunch in the dining tent, wander around for a little bit and hike up the path to see Buddha. It’s quiet, but friendly. Everyone at least smiles at you as you pass them.
Buttcracks to Buddha
We spot mule deer resting in the shade under some of the platform buildings, and one in the Zen archery range.
Can you spot the deer in the shade?
They do not appear to be frightened of humans at all. When we get up to the Great Stupa, and behold the gold-painted statues of the eight deer that guard the four entrances (to Heaven, symbolically) I think, the deer not only know they’re safe here, but revered. Must be nice. We take turns meditating on the cushions before the huge golden Buddha, and chasing the little girl around outside. During my turn, I gazed back up at the Buddha and that just one day before, I had shot a gun for the first time. It was a pistol-sized shotgun called “The Judge” that requires no aim or skill whatsoever, but was designed mainly for blowing huge holes in criminals as they try to flee. It’s not a very warrior thing to do, but it is fun to shoot. Would Buddha judge the Judge? I try to bring my thoughts back to a center place.
Later, while Daddy meditates, the little girl is fascinated by the offerings left by people at the altar leading up to the Stupa, as are we. She picks up a piece of gum someone has left for Buddha, and starts to put it in her mouth. “Gum?” “No, no! No gum while we’re camping. Someone left that gum for Buddha.” She pauses to consider this. “Buddha share?” “Well, yes” I answer. “But not the gum. Buddha doesn’t share his gum, because he knows it has germs and things.” She seems to accept this answer, puts the gum down, and starts gathering up the coins people have left instead.
(you'll all be happy to know that Gonzo guards the shrine)
I went back into the Stupa’s meditation room after the other visitors had left, and took a better look around. It is a peaceful place, but more than a feeling of peace, I was overcome with the sense that my problems were pretty dang petty compared with the world’s problems. Or rather, that my concerns were only a small part of the overarching issues of the world, and they were one and the same. How do I make sure my family is safe, and well, and fed? How do I deal with grief and loss and still prepare for the future? How do I protect the place I live in, for reasons both selfish and altruistic? How do I make fire with soggy kindling?
Buddha just gazed down at me, smiling that enigmatic smile. He’s a Buddha, he does Buddha things.
Refreshed by our pilgrimage into the heart of peaceful, sustainable living, we did indeed descend from the heights of our campground to get firewood and lighters in the nearest, tiny tourist town. It was probably overpriced. We didn’t care. That night we had again, a roaring fire and a satisfying dinner. We slept well and had a cheery, warm breakfast in the morning. On the way back from our sixteenth or seventeenth trip to the bathroom, I stopped and talked to the woman in the delightfully compact RV across the way. It looked like she had two adopted kids in tow, plus the husband, the in-laws, and a dog.
Basically I was trying to wheedle out of her, how do you do it? She pointed to the ginormous 5th-Wheel camper next door to the tiny one. Oh. The little one was just for the in-laws, the 5th-wheel was for everyone else. Still, I toured the smaller RV at their invitation, listened to their story of what a great deal they got on it, and started visualizing myself in one. They were pulling it with a regular-sized mini-van. I could certainly pull something like that with a biodiesel truck, or even a team of sled-dogs. Buddha would smile down upon my eco-friendly choice, and congratulate me on my detachment to self-inflicted misery and self-righteous tent martyrdom. As I talked to this woman, and became inspired by her story, an enigmatic smile began to play across my face.
After all, I’m a mommy; I do mommy things.
.. ..
