"Camp Wild Child" 2025
And tent camping on a island
I begin today with a confession. I’m not much of a camper.
That’s not to say I haven’t pitched a tent. I have. Quite recently, in fact.
Six months ago, I got the notion that four grandkids (ages eight, six, five, and four) should have a one-night tent camping experience with Papa. This idea was soon incorporated into what was once “Gaga & Papa Camp,” recently rebranded “Camp Wild Child,” a weeklong treat for the six of us.
Our durable pup tent, bought in 1980, was surely adequate for this challenge. And the island in the middle of Otter Creek, 100 yards from our front door, was the obvious site.
In my mind, there’s something magical about an island, an impression fed by boyhood stories – “Robinson Crusoe,” “Treasure Island,” Swiss Family Robinson,” etc. Furthermore, I’d camped on this island before, with high school chums the summer after graduation, sleeping under the stars.
Two decades ago, son Ethan and his friend camped there, too, although these details elude me. They were likely the island’s last campers. That is, until “Camp Wild Child,” 2025.
After hatching my camp-out plan, I immediately encountered skeptics: my wife and daughters (the prospective campers’ mothers). “Can’t you do something simpler?” “Why not just sleep in the back yard?” “Won’t you be all aches and pains after sleeping on the ground?” (This last question, a slightly kinder version of “Aren’t you too old for this?”) Blah, blah, blah. I didn’t hear “hare-brained scheme” but observed a few eyerolls, all of which simply fortified my resolve.
The setting: This island is perhaps 150 square yards. The previous week, I scythed tall grasses to create a modest clearing. The rocky stream is maybe two feet deep; the island is about ten yards from the creek bank on both sides, reached easily by wading.
So, on the appointed eve, granddaughters Louisa, age eight, and Ava, age six, were carried piggy-back style out to the island, with several additional trips to shuttle camping accoutrement. (When I told friend Jim about these plans, he quipped, “Ah, like Washington crossing the Delaware!” My response, “Maybe a wee bit, Jim…I’m hoping it’ll be warmer than Washington’s trip.”
Granddaughters watched as I unrolled our vintage tent and took inventory of our tent-related gear, noting a few nonessential items were missing. Set-up was underway when camping colleagues started questioning the size of the tent. “It’s pretty small, Papa.” “Plenty of space, kids.” I reassured. During a brief pause (for thinking…), “Papa, have you ever pitched this tent before.” “Sure have,” was my confident response, not mentioning almost four decades had passed.
After a few minor struggles, our threesome moved in. “It’s REALLY hot in here.” “It’s pretty crowded, Papa.” “I’m sweating.” “Is that a spider?!?” Evidently, these girls hadn’t yet caught the camping spirit. Within a few minutes, however, we were ensconced in our sleeping bags… and ready for Mr. Sandman. At least I was.
Parents (and grandparents) know how silly kids can get late in the day. I overcame an urge to come across as a crabby oldster. After fifteen minutes, all goofiness subsided and our admittedly tight accommodations grew quiet. I opted not to break the silence by mumbling a prayer with these precious girls. God already knows my fervent hopes regarding our grandkids.
The girls slept the whole night through – until 7:00AM! – with one brief break to find a beloved “stuffy” having temporarily gone AWOL.
Despite only positive reviews, when her turn came a few nights later, five-year-old Marie couldn’t be persuaded that camping out would be fun. Since Kai, age four, was having a tough time sleeping through the night, it seemed wisest not to force a second camp out.
My conclusion: For some, camping might be one of those exercises better to think about and reflect upon rather than doing… and literally living through the experience. Yes, we did it! And indeed, next summer I again envision TWO nights, one each with two camping pairs.
This gives me an entire year to plan and ponder. And presumably, to either buy or borrow a bigger tent.
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I’m pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. My talented colleagues: