Our First Camping Weekend of the Season: A Comedy of Water, Work, and Woohoo
Nothing says “spring has sprung!” quite like dragging your travel trailer out of hibernation and pretending you remember how to use it. With excitement seeping out of every part of our being, we kicked off our first camping weekend of the season—naturally, with rain, and last-minute road snacks.
Day One: Packing, Premonitions, and Snack Recon
Friday: The Pre-Camping Ritual
I decided to take the day off to prep the camper. That whole ‘just toss a few things in’ line is a blatant lie only believed by the truly delusional. My reality involved a full-scale logistical operation, hauling everything from patio furniture to half the kitchen pantry into that aluminum box on wheels. And wouldn’t you know it, my Spidey-sense was tingling – I just knew Meg was battling back-to-back calls with patients needing this or that and mentally cussing the Premier )
I was out there wrestling with the garden hose, filling the camper’s water tank (a task normally saved for when we arrive at the campground, because increased weight equals more gas the truck uses. Of course, the universe, with its impeccable comedic timing, confirmed my premonition with a ‘ding!’ – my wife was indeed stuck at work.
Meanwhile, I deployed our son on a top-secret mission of vital national importance: acquiring road snacks. The kid returned like a conquering hero, arms overflowing with enough chips, candy, and questionable energy drinks to power a small army through a week-long wilderness survival course. Mission accomplished, indeed.
Friday: The Drive of Dreams (and One Missing Detail)
Mother’s Day weekend officially kicked off with Meg scooping up her mom on her way home – a crucial first step in any successful family adventure. With everyone finally unshackled from the chains of responsibility, we piled into the truck, excitement levels hitting that giddy, ‘We should totally do this every weekend!’ peak. As I expertly navigated the asphalt sea, feeling like a majestic land-yacht captain towing my humble abode, my brain decided to grace me with a moment of profound insight. Gazing at the sun visor, a thought of earth-shattering importance struck me: ‘The info sticker doesn’t have the truck’s license plate number. I should really get on that.’ Because, you know, at 60 miles per hour with a trailer in tow, that’s where my priorities lie.
That and it’s one of the questions they ask at check-in. Naturally, right on cue, the heavens decided to join our little expedition with a gentle, then not-so-gentle, shower. Good thing I had the foresight to fill that water tank earlier; standing in the downpour wrestling with a hose was not exactly on my ‘weekend bliss’ itinerary.”
Arrival: Pull-Through Paradise and Weather Betrayal
After a picturesque, snack-crumb-laden journey, we finally arrived at our designated plot of temporary paradise. And not just any plot, mind you – a pull-through. For the uninitiated, a pull-through site is the VIP lounge of the RV world, the valet parking of campsites. No awkward backing maneuvers, no silent neighborly critiques of your questionable spatial awareness. You simply glide in, offer a grateful nod to the cosmos, and maybe a little celebratory ‘woohoo.’ Naturally, the moment we stopped, the clouds decided to open up a bit more to give us a wet welcome, unleashing a torrential downpour that sounded suspiciously like a brass band hitting a wrong note.
What followed was the world’s land-speed record for RV setup: power cord deployed, wheel chocks slammed into place, and a rapid indoor evacuation that would make a Navy SEAL team envious. Safely inside, slightly damp but undeniably smug in our dry-ish sanctuary, we declared the weekend a resounding success. Because, hey, we were camping. In a loose, technical, and somewhat soggy sense of the word
Camping, and Cake: Night One in the Great Indoors
Having successfully weathered the soggy setup, it was time for the sacred ritual of the first-night camping feast: hamburgers! But as the freezer door swung open, a collective ‘uh oh’ hung in the air like the lingering scent of damp earth. Turns out, while Meg and I lean towards the leafy side of the menu, Grandma and the boy are devout carnivores. We had veggie burgers, yes, but the beefy brethren were MIA. So, with a culinary pivot worthy of a five-star food truck, hot dogs became the stars of the show. I mean, they’re technically meat cylinders, right?
This gourmet experience was complemented by a macaroni salad that still possessed a delightful icy core – apparently, we enjoy our carbs with a side of frost. Nothing quite screams ‘vacation mode’ like gnawing on semi-frozen pasta under the warm glow of flickering LED lights.
Dessert was a study in grocery store elegance: a Swiss roll log cake that had clearly lived a full and adventurous life before reaching our campsite, yet tasted like pure, unadulterated victory. The unsung heroes of this epicurean adventure? Paper plates. Cleanup was a breezy 45 seconds, not counting the ensuing debate about who would brave the downpour to take out the garbage. Stalemate declared, the garbage bag remained an honored indoor guest for the night.
Packing: A Masterclass in Overachievement
Now, let me take a moment to appreciate my wife, Meg. She is a packing legend. And by “legend,” I mean she packed so much stuff that some of the storage compartments were actually bulging. Like, the walls had given up. The cabinets were puffing their cheeks out in protest. At one point I opened a hatch and it hissed like a pressurized suitcase. With bins, bags, blankets, backup shampoo, and enough sunscreen to defend against a nuclear blast, the inside of the trailer was… crowded. Not cozy. Crowded.!
There was no floor. Just zones of stacked preparedness. So I did the only logical thing I could: I climbed into bed at 8:30 p.m. to give Meg room to work her organizing magic. Because nothing says “supportive spouse” like pretending to sleep while someone else wrangles six mismatched rugs and a rogue roll of toilet paper.
Sleeping Arrangements: A Grandmother’s Winter Wonderland
Just when we thought we had this whole ‘relaxing in nature’ thing nailed, the universe chuckled. It was around this point that the horrifying realization dawned on us: Grandma’s sleeping bag was still at home. You know, the one essential item for anyone planning to slumber in a compact, uninsulated metal box during the crisp embrace of early spring. But fear not, for we are masters of improvisation! We presented Grandma with the extra well used sleeping bag lacking in loft, and a luxurious bedding ensemble consisting of no fewer than six random blankets, artfully layered upon each other like a human lasagna.
And for that extra touch of rustic chic, we swaddled her feet in her winter coat. Because nothing whispers ‘ultimate comfort’ quite like wheeling your feet to rearrange the teeny tiny jacket to warm the tootsies. To her credit, she didn’t utter a peep of complaint. She’s a grandma. Grandmas don’t whine; they just give you that look. That silent, all-knowing gaze that clearly translates to, ‘Perhaps someone could locate the nearest bottle of fermented grapes?
Meanwhile, in the Bunk Zone…
Our son, Dylan, was operating on a potent cocktail of pure vacation adrenaline and approximately 14,000 milligrams of sugar, courtesy of his strategic snack acquisition. His enthusiasm for camping reached a fever pitch, resulting in a personal bedtime of 2:30 a.m. During this extended period of wakefulness, he could be heard providing a live, play-by-play narration of his own existence, punctuated by the rustling of Pokémon cards being meticulously reorganized in the pitch black. Even the dog, a creature known for its generally low standards for nighttime entertainment, was giving him a look that clearly telegraphed, ‘Dude, seriously? Lights out!’ The exact moment Dylan finally succumbed to the sweet embrace of sleep remains a mystery. We only know it occurred sometime after Meg and I began silently ruminating the merits of retroactively installing industrial-grade soundproofing in the camper for, and Meg cussing beneath her breath.
Day Two: Croissants, Borders, and the Elusive Dish Soap
Saturday: Breakfast of Champions
The dawn broke with the smell of coffee brewing, the clatter of cards, and a highly competitive game of Crazy Eights unfolding on the minuscule dinette table. . Our son, Dylan, who had finally achieved unconsciousness sometime in the wee hours, graced us with a fleeting appearance, grumbled at the audacity of daylight, and then retreated back to his pizza oven bunk. Clearly, the universe felt a twinge of guilt for Friday’s aquatic assault, because the sun decided to make a grand entrance, shining with the unapologetic brilliance of a superstar. Birds serenaded us with their chirps (Lots of Cinderella birds as the due Cheryl and Ben from our favourite Camping with the Coles channel say !!), the trees shed their damp overcoats, and everything had that fresh spring glow – grass starting to grow, leaves starting to sprout. Debate over the flowering tree in the back Plum or Dogwood? I leashed up the dog for his 2nd morning sniffari around the area, and by the time we returned, the temperature had risen to the point where a jacket was overkill – hoodie season, the unofficial uniform of campground dads everywhere, had officially commenced. Coffee in one hand, a questionable-looking-but-delicious muffin in the other, I have to admit, genuine happiness manifested while I lounged in my lawn chair.
The Forgotten Essentials List: Now Featuring Dish Soap, and Hamburgers
As is the hallowed tradition of any camping excursion, the ‘things we forgot’ list had already begun its inevitable creation. This morning’s additions included the crucial trifecta of dish soap (because hygiene, even in the wilderness, is a thing), actual hamburgers for the dedicated meat-eaters (apparently, hot dogs only go so far), and, naturally, more snacks from a local bakery (because one can never have too many emergency carbs). This, of course, could only mean one thing: a town run. A sacred ritual, both revered and dreaded by campers, where you reluctantly puncture your blissful nature bubble to undertake errands you swore you’d sooner wrestle a bear than do on your precious vacation time. A quick tap-tap-tap on the phone later, we had located a promising bakery and plugged the coordinates into the GPS, embarking on what can only be described as the Borderline Magical Bakery Run.
We navigated the invisible line between Ontario and Quebec like seasoned spies on a clandestine pastry operation. One minute we were surrounded by the familiar ‘loonie’ signage, the next we were immersed in a Francophone wonderland where, it’s a little-known fact, all baked goods are legally mandated to be 20% more delicious. Just a hop, skip, and an invisible border crossing later, we stumbled upon the bakery – a charmingly diminutive establishment packed tighter than a tin of sardines with flaky croissants, outrageously decadent éclairs, and a few locals who eyed us with the distinct suspicion one reserves for tourists who’ve clearly taken a wrong turn into deliciousness. I stayed in the truck with the dog while the others went inside. Soon they emerged victorious, clutching bags overflowing with buttery treasures and a renewed faith in the serendipitous nature of a well-executed snack quest.
Wildlife, Groceries, and the Ice Cream Enigma
Just when we thought our scenic drive couldn’t get any more postcard-perfect, we glanced upwards and spotted a magnificent hawk soaring majestically above the truck, seemingly escorting us back to our temporary woodland abode. It was truly a breathtaking moment. But the siren call of civilization (and forgotten necessities) still echoed, so we made one final pit stop in the charmingly Canadian town of Hawkesbury. Our mission? To acquire the critically needed dish soap and, more importantly, a strategic reserve of ice cream – because any seasoned camper knows that a successful town run culminates in frozen delights. My sixth sense, clearly honed by years of camping-related disappointments, was tingling again, whispering doubts about the camp store’s ice cream availability on opening weekend.
We vividly recalled the painful saga of last year: trusting the camp store, only to be met with empty freezers and the crushing disappointment of leaving with nothing but a dusty can of beans. Never again. This year, we were taking no chances. Back at the campsite, still mentally savoring those exquisite croissants, we indulged in a leisurely lunch of bagels and salad – the culinary equivalent of saying, ‘We’re too tired to cook, but at least we’re pretending to be healthy.’ The resulting food coma hit Dylan and Grandma with the force of a tranquilizer dart. Meanwhile, Meg, our ever-vigilant Checkers companion, and I embarked on a noble quest: to reconnoiter the campground store and procure some firewood for the evening’s cozy ambiance.
Our arrival at the camp store was met with locked doors. It was a mere 4 p.m., and the sign clearly stated they were open for a few more hours. This, naturally, only amplified my curiosity. I peered through the window, inadvertently unleashing my inner creeper and startling the poor woman inside, who jumped as if she’d encountered a Sasquatch with a can of beans. My profuse apologies followed, a whole awkward ballet of flustered gestures and mumbled regrets. Turns out, they’d closed early due to that classic camping narrative twist: staffing shortages. However, in a moment of unexpected kindness (perhaps fueled by pity for the socially inept guy peering through her window), she allowed me to snag two bags of firewood. So, a small victory, but a significant loss. Namely, the ice cream
Trail Time: Nature at Its Swampiest
Next, because nothing screams ‘relaxation’ quite like the distinct possibility of getting hopelessly lost in the woods with increasingly soggy socks, we decided to tackle one of the campground’s scenic trails. Parts of it were a delightful swamp symphony, other sections were genuinely breathtaking, and one particular stretch was, shall we say, an interpretive dance expressing the departure from the boardwalk. But, ever the intrepid explorers, we pressed on. Our feet enjoyed a gentle baptism, our shoes received a complimentary mud spa treatment, and Checkers, our canine companion, was in absolute nirvana, processing approximately 800 olfactory data points per minute and generally living his best leashed life.
Upon our triumphant return to the trailer, it was time for ‘refreshments,’ which in adult parlance translates to the clinking of beverage containers and a hazy debate about whether anyone had actually remembered the bug spray. And then – plot twist! – I glanced down and spotted a tiny, eight-legged stowaway casually strolling across my thumb. The dreaded notorious tick! I excitedly presented my newfound friend to the group for an bug identification lesson, just in case anyone had forgotten what these little bloodsuckers looked like.
This educational moment culminated in a decisive thumb-squishing maneuver, executed with the focused intensity of an Olympic pest control specialist. These things are resilient little devils, but I can confirm, justice was served. We then commemorated this momentous occasion with more ‘refreshments’ and a deeply philosophical discussion about humans taking dog tick medication. It protects our four legged friends, so… Can we take it too? No definitive answers were reached, but the debate was certainly spirited. Meanwhile, Checkers, having undergone a thorough tick inspection, was snoring contentedly, clearly basking in the glory of his woodland adventures and his unwitting contribution to our evening debates.
The Final Chapter: Vitamin Beer, Tick Terrors & Dog-Paddle Drama
As the sun dipped low and the frogs cranked up their nightly concert to full volume (seriously, nature has zero chill), we settled into our last evening at camp. That’s when I made an important discovery—my beer contains Vitamin D. Yes, I actually read the label. I mean, who needs supplements when you’ve got a cold one and questionable nutritional labeling?
Just as I was basking in this newfound health regimen, Grandma marched into the trailer like it was a bunker, fleeing the triple threat of ticks, mosquitoes, and black flies. She was done with the wild outdoors for the evening. Firestarter Meg lit the night ablaze, starting up the campfire. And to her credit, she got it going while I supervised the flames with another beer in hand. This is called division of labor. Frogs croaked like they were all on a Tinder date, and the logs slowly turned to embers while we soaked up the flickering glow of camping perfection. Eventually, the fire died down, we straightened up the outdoors and I handled the sacred duty of closing the trailer kitchen, which mostly involved guessing which bins things went into and promising myself I’d organize it better next time.
Inside, it was time for the ever-romantic tick check, which turned into a horror movie moment when I found another one crawling on me toward a place I didn’t want him to go. It was terminated with extreme prejudice very quickly. With that crisis handled, I crawled into bed, put on a video to decompress, and promptly crashed. Dylan was finally asleep (probably dreaming of ice cream, and crazy eights, while Grandma and Meg were chatting at the table, probably solving the world’s problems or ranking muffin flavors.
The Final Morning: Muffins and Mismatched Hats
Friday:
Meg let me sleep in (saint), and I woke to the sweet sound of “Coffee’s ready!”—truly our love language. She even brought out a lemon cranberry muffin, which paired surprisingly well with being half-asleep in a hoodie. Dylan was the last one up, which is never a surprise. Once we were all awake and caffeinated, we played a few rounds of games at the dinette, while simultaneously complaining about how uncomfortable the bench cushions are. You haven’t truly bonded as a family until everyone agrees that their butt hurts in unison. At some point, we had a lively discussion about hat styles, and designing one for Grandma. A Jamaican Rasta Hat perched atop a collapsible bucket. The ingenious design allowed for adjustable sizing between salon appointments, and she wholeheartedly embraced the vision of becoming a fashion icon straight ready for the cover of ‘High Grandmas’. We headed out to pay for our firewood, because the till was closed when we picked it up from the camp store. While Meg got ready, I took Checkers for a short walk. He was still high on the scent of swamp things. Walk done, I sat in the truck listening to music, enjoying the calm before the next round of dog-drying and gear-packing. Eventually, Meg climbed in and we rolled out. On the way back, we stopped at the dog beach, which was pure joy. A Great Dane puppy was running around enjoying the outdoors. We let the two dogs play together, and everything was going well until they went in the water. Checkers went full send after the Great Dane, bolting into the water, then suddenly realizing he was shorter than the other dog. He realized he was in too deep when he dipped under, then made a very sharp U-turn and hopped like a kangaroo to keep his head above water all the way back to shore. Once doggie playdate was over we headed back to the trailer for one last lunch and to let the dog dry off in the sun like a soggy throw rug. Finished off all the leftover salads like champions and started mentally bracing for the pack-up ahead.
We all banded together and made short work tearing down our campsite. Once the trailer was hitched and everyone was in the truck we pulled out of the campground and hit the highway, homeward bound.
Final Thoughts: Itchy, Muddy, Overfed—and Already Planning the Next One
We had wet feet, tick trauma, sugar highs, and some serious cushion complaints—but it was perfect in that ridiculous, memory-making way that only camping can be. The trailer is dirty, the fridge is empty, and we’re settled into the post camping exhausted tranquility nature brings to our souls.
And we can’t wait to do it all again.
Thanks for coming along on our first (slightly soggy, surprisingly loud, and delightfully chaotic) camping weekend of the season. If you’ve ever forgotten the dish soap, fought the firewood, or found yourself debating tick medication over a cold beer—you’re one of us. Got your own camping stories, mishaps, or favorite must-pack items? Drop them in the comments below! And if you enjoyed this post, be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss the next chapter in our trailer adventures. More fires, frogs, and food blunders are guaranteed.