Managing to keep my husband and offspring relatively intact in a house full of power tools, sports equipment, and heating sources is a full time job at best. So filing them in to a camper and depositing us all in the wilderness can be considered an attempt at reconnecting with Mother Nature, or a side effect of that head injury I incurred helping Tommy put the Christmas lights up last year.
I have extensive faith in my husband's mechanical abilities, so long as he limits himself to Leggo and two beers. Convincing him to buy a camper that folds down into a compact wind turbine to drag behind the van while crying at the cruel man who drew the map can only be blamed on a long night of watching "Bonanza" reruns while I was battling the flu and all jacked up on cough syrup.
Our adventure begins with my husband removing the suitcases from the van to make room for his beer cooler, emptying his bladder behind a tree to "show the boys what to expect in the wild", apologizing to the neighbor for the peep show, and doing a half-hearted head count as he climbs behind the wheel while begging the neighbor not to call the police. Again.
Pulling away with a frighteningly loud verse of "Wagons West", we marvel at how the camper is so lightweight we can barely tell we're pulling it. Quickly reversing to re-attach the camper that still sits in the driveway, we are welcomed by the relieved faces of the two kids standing beside it that got missed in the headcount.
Finally on the road, I wait on pins and needles to hear what wonderful campground my husband reserved for us. Noticing his repentant expression, I realize with horror that we are once again at the mercy of whichever barely passable logging road we can find on a map.
After driving for 11 hours while listening to the boys engaging in combat in the back seat, Tommy spots what appears to be a walking trail for crippled squirrels and hangs a sharp left on to the "road". Travelling at a velocity that strips the foliage from the forest and forces a family of owls into stress leave, he hits a rut that dislodges the camper and deposits it at the border of a cliff and announces "We're here. Get out".
Abandoning their commitment to batter each other, the boys exit the van and check out their new home for the next week. Avoiding eye contact with their father when he begins hinting at help "hoisting" the camper, I remain composed when I see several vapor trails disappearing into the woods with mumbled excuses about making mosquito netting or finding a tree root that will cure their sudden onset of gout.
Shrugging the abandonment off, my husband digs around the many cases of beer in the back of the van and produces a "tool kit". Gone are the cumbersome wrenches and screwdrivers that would take up space otherwise reserved for the cooler, only to be replaced by a propane torch and duct tape. Unnerved by his bravado about "only really need the duct tape to put 'er up", I resign myself to the fact that the first aid kit will be christened long before campfire time.
Using the torch nozzle to crank up the tent parts of the camper (due to the fact that the actual cranks were fashioned into a skateboard ramp by the boys), Tommy is unconcerned by the mysterious absense of metal poles to sustain such a structure, and fashions "supports" out of tree branches and duct tape. Declaring "Chez Hawley" open for business, he wolf-whistles to lure the boys to their humble abode.
Watching them wander out of the forest, I can't tell if I'm more distracted by the middle son's facial twitching as he announces with a shaky voice that he can't find a Wi-Fi hookup anywhere in the woods, or the fact that my youngest is stark naked with an announcement that he's going by the name of "Wild Willy" from now on and dares any of us urbanites to challenge him.
Unpacking the hotdogs, I urge my husband to let me be the one to start the fire. Spooked by a scowl that is usually reserved for dress shopping with me or watching romantic comedies, I concede the task to a man who could be the poster child for the makers of sterile gauze, and send my little darlings back into the forest to find firewood.
Converting the camper into an infirmary in preparation for what's to come, I'm not encouraged by hearing "Wild Willy" mutter that he'd rather forage for berries or intimidate some woodland fairies into working for him.
Returning with the rough equivalent of a box of toothpicks, the boys declare themselves exhausted and head to the camper to wait for the weinie roast. Climbing onto the bunks, they lay down and mourn the loss of several days of X-Box Live. Piling up enough branches to build a wicker house, my husband proudly brandishes the propane torch and a BBQ lighter. Drowning out my warnings with a war cry, Tommy lights a bonfire that could signal the space shuttle, as the rotted branches and duct tape holding the camper up give way sending the boys sprawling over the mud and grass at warp speed.
Almost knocked down by "Wild Willy"s panicked break for the trees, I grab the extinguisher I so expertly hid in the cooler, and cover the campsite and the boys in a film of white dust. Realizing I also ruined the weiners, I reveal to the boys that all the other food was in the suitcases that were left at home, and we have to now hunt for squirrels.
Startled by the Park Ranger that suddenly emerged from the bushes, I'm horrified to learn that our fire initiated the Forest Emergency Response, and we'd better have a good reason for creating an inferno during forest fire season, littering the forest with the empty Doritos bags that the kids snuck with them, and displacing a family of owls.
Dismayed by the unfortunate timing of "Wild Willy" barrelling out of the trees wearing nothing but mud and screaming about the intentions of a mutant squirrel, I bearly get my Calm Down Yell working when Mr. Park Ranger launches himself out of the way, only to land on what's left of the camper.
Finally succumbing to the laws of physics, the camper teeters on the edge for one last bitter moment before crashing over the edge of the cliff, the noise drawing the pack of fire fighters and rangers searching for us to the site now referred to as "Apocalypse Ridge".
Trying to sneak into the brush without being associated with this bunch, I'm forced to witness my teenagers stealthily hijacking the Blackberry left on the dash of the rangers' truck, a firefighter trying in vain to pull a sobbing Tommy off the charred beer cooler, and "Wild Willy" challenging the interlopers to a duel with a sharpened pine cone.
I sure hope the makers of "Bonanza" don't watch CNN.....
