Most Utah families have some kind of fun camping tradition: a reunion at Fish Lake, a pilgrimage to Delicate Arch, or a return to the same meadows in the High Uintas. To my wife’s chagrin, our lone tradition was fairly unhealthy: en route to and from camping destinations, I insisted on treating our children to old-fashioned fast food at small town malt shops (giant shakes, stacked burgers, and greasy fries).
Despite her protests, that practice held strong for years until one trip to Goblin Valley in 2008 with my 11-year-old son and his sensitive stomach.
Before sharing that pathetic story, a few words in my defense: I was raised in the 1970s by parents whose extreme frugality on vacations left me with some lingering psychological issues. On one trip to Zions National Park (in our unairconditioned, oversized, wood-paneled station wagon), our lunch stop went like this:
We pulled over in a small farming town; drove to a desolate city park with rusting playground equipment dating to the Great Depression; hiked to a splintery picnic table exposed to full sun; then glumly consumed bologna sandwiches on white bread.
If I tried to complain, my older brother would shush me, reminding me of the previous year when our parents on a trip to Canada had required us—like work-release convicts—to search along the shoulder of the highway for old bottles and cans we could redeem for money to pay for our lunches.
I should acknowledge that on one special occasion—a return trip from Bear Lake—my parents stopped at a McDonald’s. Excitement quickly morphed into anxiety, however, when they stipulated a two-dollar limit per person, meaning that I could either get a basic burger and fries (but no drink)—or a burger and a drink (but no fries). That’s a Sophie’s Choice for a chunky 10-year-old kid, an existential dilemma with no satisfying solution.
In light of this history, perhaps my mistakes in 2008 are more understandable, though no less foolish: We were traveling with a big church group and my 11-year old son was excited to be with older teens. When we stopped in Price at a Dairy Freeze for lunch, he turned away from the kids’ menu for the first time in his life and anxiously asked me if he could order some kind of crazy “baconator” meal deal from the adult side. The still resentful, preteen part of my brain responded, “Sure—and why not go for the triple baconator?”
When that massive meal arrived, my son only enjoyed the first couple of bites; he kept eating, though, to save face with the older boys. As we left the restaurant, I noticed that he was walking funny: bow-legged with a distended belly. My worries increased during the drive since he was unusually quiet, only emitting the occasional groan. Later, during night games at the campground, he wasn’t his energetic self (instead, a step behind, with one hand on his gut). He also went to bed early, long before the other boys in his tent.
At 2 am his stomach finally gave in. Knowing he had to throw up, he desperately tried to unzip the door to the tent. Finally succeeding, he thrust his head forward and tried to perform a reverse triple baconator. Something was wrong, though: he could feel his face pressing against an invisible barrier. Too late, he realized that he’d only unzipped one layer of the tent; a mesh barrier remained between him and the outside air. Thus his gift to nature deflected back on to himself and the interior of the tent.
It was a disaster. the mess went everywhere: clothes, tentmates, his own hair. (We later tossed that tent in the garbage; there was no returning from that damage.) In his degraded condition my son eventually found my tent and we headed to the public restrooms to clean him up.
Getting little help from the tiny faucet that only emitted short trickles of water, I made a bold decision that is difficult to admit, now, publicly: locating the cleanest toilet in the facility, I gave my son a swirlie. That’s right—feeling desperate, I cleaned my son’s hair by having him carefully lean over and flush the top of his head several times in a toilet.
The method worked well, actually—and looking back, I’m just grateful that there were no random witnesses to misread the situation.
The next morning, to my surprise, my son insisted on hiking the slot canyon with the other teenagers, despite his fatigued state and oddly vertical hairdo. I kept a close eye on him since he was slurring his words, took naps in the shade of rocks every time we took a break, and looked haunted with deep circles under his eyes. But he forged ahead cheerfully, never blaming me or mentioning what a huge mistake that meal had been, or my part in it.
At home, my wife, however, was not as forgiving when I confessed everything (except for the impromptu swirlie). I even tried to emphasize the positives—like all the compliments our son got on his new gelled-up hair style. She made it clear that my fast food tradition had to end.
Now, when we go camping, we just stop at lame city parks for lunch and eat in the open sun like nerds from the 1970s. I guess we do lay out some high quality PB & J, though—no stupid bologna sandwiches purchased with the earnings from aluminum cans. At least there’s that.
Comments
Post a Comment