Camping Chronicles:Part Two

How was my first night camping?

Well, I’d compare it to being a first time parent.

.........Because, everyone who’s been through it swears it’s life-changing and essential.

..…They act like you’ve been living some pathetic, empty existence, deprived of true meaning, until you finally experience it.

..…They insist that the moment it happens, you’ll be overcome with a deep, primal bond.

And then—shockingly—you do it, and you realize you’ve been scammed. Hard.

And those exact same people, the seasoned campers/parents will reassure you, “It gets better.” Oh, does it? Or is that just how you cope with your own trauma—by dragging others into the same pit of despair?

So, how was my first night camping? A transcendent experience? A soul-deep connection with nature?  (Absolute trash. That’s how it was.)

I absolutely did not instantaneously bond with this strange new thing in my life.

My inflatable “mattress” was less of a mattress and more of an elaborate joke at my expense—a sad, deflated balloon whose only purpose was to mock me. It didn’t separate me from the ground so much as collaborate with it to ensure maximum discomfort.

And then there was my beautifully inadequate tent. I needed at least five more centimeters to lie down without feeling like I a pretzel of regret.

Ah, the ultimate irony—this first-world Hag, desperate for a back-to-basics, off-the-grid experience, spent her first night obsessively adjusting her chargeable fan so she didn’t suffocate. Watched Netflix downloads for emotional support and debated calling every single person who told her she’d “love” camping just to read them their rights.

And don’t even get me started on my refusal to go to the toilet all night. Nope. I would rather lie there in discomfort, than dare to unzip my tent and venture into the abyss.

By 4:45 AM, I was thrilled that the night was over.

But at least I had one bucket list item left: Watching the sunrise from a mountain.

Did the sun rise? Yes. Was I on a mountain? No. Did I still enjoy it? Absolutely!

Ingrained in my mind for eternity though, is the absolute symphony of chaos that was Sage and me, endlessly zipping and unzipping our tents. Adjust this, retrieve that,—all accompanied by the relentless ziiiiiip ziiiiiip ziiiiiip of fabric and frustration.

It went on for a solid ten minutes both nights. Why? No idea. Maybe searching for comfort. Maybe just determined to disturb the peace. Either way, anyone camping near us probably thought we were conducting a zipper stress test rather than trying to sleep.

Night #2: Rinse & Repeat (Now With Extra Dampness!) Same disaster, different details.

My budget tent held up with the drizzle, but condensation inside meant I was cold and even more miserable than the night before.

But luckily my special friend, Chili—heads up Chili, if you don’t come on another hike soon, I’ll be revoking your title - came through with 3 last-minute survival items, one of which was a mysterious thermal silver thingy. It crinkled. A lot. I had no idea what it was, but I threw it over myself like it was some kind of high-tech comforter.

From that point on, every time I moved, I sounded like a bag of Simba chips. Sage had to endure the sound of my every twitch echoing like an industrial snack factory. At least I was warmish, I guess. But, oh, the price of survival.

And once again, I swore NEVER AGAIN.

Am I now a die-hard camping enthusiast?Absolutely not.

Would I willingly sleep on the ground for fun? Nope.

BUT—if a hike I really want to do requires camping, and if I can upgrade my pathetic excuse of a mattress to something that doesn’t feel like medieval torture?

Fine. I’ll do it again.

Berg en Rivier itself, totally my vibe—quirky little details and hidden gems around every corner, and I was living for it. Everywhere I turned, there was something delightful, or charming.

It offers riverside tented camping, a 4x4 trail, and a peaceful retreat in the Trichardspoort River Valley. If you actually love camping, you should 100% check it out.

For me… well, the jury’s still out. Watch this space....

And guess what? My son, Salt—said he was proud of me. For camping. Not for single-handedly raising him and Pepper, not for keeping them clothed, fed, educated, or—oh, I don’t know—keeping them alive. 

Nope. Turns out, my crowning parental achievement isn’t two decades of unpaid labor, but surviving a second night in a damp, freezing tent, swaddled in a crinkly silver survival blanket like a human baked potato.

But hey, who am I to argue? If this is what finally earns me a place in the Proud Parent Hall of Fame, then so be it.

Proud of you too, my beautiful Salt. Especially for setting the bar for me so spectacularly low. Honestly, it’s underground. I think we just hit the Earth's core.

For those of you who follow me purely for my hiking commentary and not for my unhinged life that’s teetering on the edge of madness, stay tuned for the ACTUAL hike!

Addendum

So, honestly… you know that whole "waking up the next morning, rested and refreshed" thing? After absolutely obliterating my keyboard the day before—furiously slamming out blog posts questioning whether I’d ever be stupid enough to subject myself to camping again—Monday rolled around, and suddenly… I felt like I was floating through the rest of the week.

Sleep-deprived? Perhaps.

Confused? Possibly.

But I can already feel those miserable, sleepless nights slipping into the abyss of memory, and who knows? Maybe next time, I’ll actually understand the appeal.

Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m not saying I liked it. Let’s be crystal clear on that.