There’s really no singular explanation for what compels urbanites to heed “the call of the wild.” Aside from the formerly required junior high reading of that classic paperback novel, which undoubtedly will be stricken from all current curriculum due to its graphic depictions of dog fighting, I think it can all be attributed to those clever ads for blue jeans, erectile dysfunction, retirement funds and bladder control. Take your pick. Personally, if I had to pee uncontrollably I would rather be stuck in the middle of the woods somewhere than be stuck in the middle of a board meeting three flights up from the nearest bathroom, and apparently the marketing community agrees.

I myself grew up camping and I still occasionally feel the need to venture out from under the halo of cement and glass and lights. Anymore, it’s portrayed as some exotic getaway from the bustle of city life. Just don’t mention those bedbugs and lack of amenities. Fortunately, around these parts it doesn’t bustle so hard that you have to drive too far to get away from it all. I have been known to throw a tent into the back of my ride and head to the nearest state park for a weekend of solitude. It’s not for everyone, and that’s what I like about it.

When it comes to the outdoors, I’m a creature of habit. My folks started camping in a two-seater Karman Ghia that managed to tow a two person pop-up. As the family grew, so did the vehicles. Favorite destination: Lake Madison. That’s where I got my “lake feet,” which is basically learning how to walk barefoot on gravel and rocks without complaining.
As a kid I was soaking it all in like that opening scene from the movie Avalon. Every night was like the 4th of July, complete with Black Cats, Lady Fingers, Bottle Rockets and Roman Candles.
My mom always prepared these incredible meals, which featured the meat we had brought along, or the catch of the day. Breakfast however, was the sole responsibility of my dad. His specialty was scrambled eggs with cut up hot dogs bathed in a generous helping of melted Colby cheese and black pepper. Wolfgang who?

My next favorite spot was Newton Hills State Park. There was a father and son Cub Scout campout. It was all about roughing it and bonding and getting in touch with nature. We borrowed a little two-man tent from my uncle. It was a two-tone orange and white pop up that was made out of a parachute that he had brought back from his “tour of duty.” We had a couple of goose down sleeping bags and a little green Coleman grill, but most of the food was cooked out on the open flame with the other campers. My dad’s specialty that weekend was scrambled eggs with cut up hot dogs bathed in a generous helping of melted Colby cheese and black pepper. Seconds anyone? Again, we’re creatures of habit.

One dude showed up towing his Airstream camper, and the collective thought of the tent community was, “What a dick!”
And that dude’s favorite song was:
“The Outdoor Type” by The Lemonheads