Let me begin by saying I’m not very outdoorsy. For me, roughing it is a motel with blond furniture, a leaky faucet in the bathroom, and a black and white tv with plyers for channel changing.
So camping was crossed off my list after two tries.
On the first try, the first husband and I went with my dear friend Suzy and her husband. It was a holiday weekend. A group of Hell’s Angels camped next to us and ran their motorcycles up and down a road nearby. All. Night. Long. The next morning, Suzy and I walked down the road to use the bathroom. A guy pulled up next to us in his car, rolled down the window and said “Pussy”, then drove away. Overall, not a beautiful commune with nature.
Second try. Same cast of characters, but add horses. Also add in the middle of a National forest. Stupid husband pitched tent on a small incline. No padding, just sleeping bags. Wound up wadded in the downhill side of the tent. Bathroom was the side of a hill, where I peed in my own shoes, to great hilarity.
When I met Richard, I told him I would be willing to go camping with him, because I trusted that he would make it a good experience. It was the greatest compliment I could give him.
We never went, and that’s fine with both of us.