One of my role models when I was a kid was Patrick McManus, who wrote outdoor humor in the bigs, like Outdoor Life, Field & Stream, and Sports Afield. He also published quite a few books, and my favorite was ‘A Fine and Pleasant Misery.’ It was full of stories about camping, real camping, with tents and campfires and bugs and rain and suffering. Unfortunately Pat died a few years ago, and I never met him, which would have been a huge thrill for him.
Camping has always been fun for me, but the older I get the more painful fun is. When I was a kid I could sleep on the ground, or stay up all night squatting by a campfire. Now I do well to sleep most of the night in a bed, and I only squat when there is no alternative, and sometimes not even then. Death Before Squatting is my motto, which was suggested by my knees.
Last summer, when the Covid was in full bloom, my wife and I decided to go camping in Colorado for a week. We chose Colorado because of the beautiful scenery, Jeep trails, and excellent odds of being cold and wet most of the time. We took a screen shelter and a tent, but we slept in the back of our Jeep, because tents are a little too roomy. Plus it takes longer for bears to break into a vehicle. Misery loves company, but doesn’t care much for bears.
That trip went so well we decided we never wanted to do it again, and started looking for a camping trailer. And for the record, ‘camping trailer’ is a misnomer. If you’re in a trailer, you’re not really camping. They’re called campers to give old guys like me the illusion of youth and vitality. It rarely works, but I don’t care anymore, and neither do my knees.
Our problem was the great disparity between the kind of camper I wanted and the kind my wife wanted. I thought we needed a small, basic trailer with nothing but a bed inside, and maybe a kitchen on the back end. My wife envisioned a Holiday Inn with an HEB store attached. When I pointed out that we’d have to sell most of our kidneys to get what she wanted, Jocelynn agreed to compromise. Slightly.
Having a bathroom in the trailer was a big deal for my wife, so I told her if she found a trailer with a bathroom and kitchen in it, and the total weight of the camper was low enough that we could pull it with the Jeep, and it was affordable, we’d buy it. I figured she’d have better luck catching a unicorn with a spaghetti strainer, but after a few weeks she announced there was a Teardrop camper in Oklahoma City that met all the specifications. I reluctantly agreed to go look at it.
The trailer was used, but in great shape. My wife liked it immediately, and wanted to buy it. I put my foot down. I said I am the man of the house. We brought it home that evening. I may be the man of the house, but I’m not stupid.
It wasn’t long before I learned what ‘teardrop’ means. I’d always thought it referred to the fact the trailer is shaped like a teardrop, which it is. The term also applies to the actual size of the camper. It contains a bathroom and shower, kitchen, come cabinets, and couches that double as beds, but all of it is scaled down small enough to fit in a regulation-sized mayonnaise jar. I manage to bump my head on every sharp corner in the trailer every time I go in there, hence the teardrop name.
But the trailer has been a lot of fun, since we spend most of our time outside of it, anyway. It’s so small we can take it just about anywhere we want, and park it in some pretty tight places, such as the coffee aisle at Walmart, which is my wife’s favorite place to camp. And since we have a generator, we don’t have to stay at RV parks, which are usually crowded and stinky and peopley. So that’s a big plus.
We take the teardrop ‘camping’ pretty often, and although we look for remote places to stay, we still go to campgrounds sometimes, just for the entertainment aspect. Until we got the camper I never realized how many people who own trailers are really bad at backing them. We like to sit in lawn chairs beside the teardrop at RV parks and watch old couples shouting at each other. Some of the campers are large enough to have their own zip codes, so those are always fun.
Earl tries to back the Taj Mahal into a space built for a dog trailer, while Edna shouts at him to turn right, no, your other right, you idiot, why don’t you listen to me? Earl can’t hear a word Edna says, but he can’t give up, either, because that would be admitting he’s a failure at life, even though he spent 40 years building a business that afforded him enough money to buy a $60,000 camping extravaganza on wheels with all the comforts of home, plus lots more comforts home never thought of. It’s better than a Keanu Reeves movie.
We plan to take the teardrop to Ouray, Colorado in a few days, for the beautiful scenery, Jeep trails, and excellent odds of being cold and wet most of the time. Because whether you have a trailer or not, camping is still what Pat McManus said it was – a fine and pleasant misery . . .
Kendal Hemphill is an outdoor humor columnist and minister who is learning to duck. Write to him at [email protected]
