Even fully outfitted, our camping vacations are no Camp-In-Style magazine cover. There is no R.V. with satellite T.V. or even a pop-up trailer. I have to form alliances to get a spot in the tent and even then I don’t get to sleep in a bed. I have to conspire and connive to win the coveted full-length mattress pad.

Our equipment is all the backpacking variety, which according to the advertisements is different than regular camping gear. Unfortunately, the cheap cherub in me can’t bear to purchase all things for each of the husband’s hobbies, so I suffer because backpacking equipment is virtually weightless, but essentially worthless.

Hikers don’t care what they sleep upon or what they eat. They are deprivation seekers,[1] whose ultimate goal is complete and absolute misery. They hike twenty miles of tight little lines on a geologic map in search of the elusive “greater challenge.”

To me,
On our last trip, his idea of a dainty stroll down to the river took a detour off the trail and we ended up fording the raging torrent with the four-year old perched on Daddy’s shoulders while we struggled without a machete through bramble and thicket, trying to retrace our path back to civilized camping. Vote me off, T.

After putting myself through that kind of survival ordeal, I see why the target audience for backpacking is the bold and the brave and I admit, I’m married to it.

Reality Bite: All in the guise of promoting a little marriage survival.

[1] Another nice word for masochists.

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