Camping with City Kids

Posted on 22 June 2008 by Rachel Longo-Tosoian

In high school and university, my friends and I would plan camping trips every summer. It was a cheap way to gather everyone together for the weekend, have fun and create some memories. The camp site/conservation area was a short 45-minute drive from the city where we all lived. It wasn’t remote, but that’s what we liked about it.

The drive to the conservation area did not look any different from what we were used to seeing back home in the city. Pizzerias, brand name grocery stores, McDonalds, you name it, and we drove past it.

Right outside the conservation area, there was a convenience store. When people forgot something at home, or just wanted a slushy, a bunch of us would go jump in our cars and drive over to the store or into town to get what we needed for the weekend. This was quickly termed “Fake Camping.”  

Year after year, our “camping” got worse. Because we all had been so often, we knew what the conservation area offered and where and what the best sites were: radio zones, group sites and flushing toilets. Yes, this was a group of 30 plus teenagers and 20-somethings all acting like divas, and sadly, I was one of them.

The ladies needed the flushing toilets because there were sinks so we all could wash our faces, put on our makeup, wash our hair and just have the luxury of a not using an outhouse.

Instead of swimming in a lake or river, we swam in a swimming pool, regulated with chlorine and even offered us a diving board, where many of the boys showed off their high diving skills.

In no way could our three-day camping excursion even be considered real camping. We were city kids, and our idea of roughing it was to bring a mini barbeque, air mattresses for our tents, and all the toiletries you can think of. Anything to make our time away from the luxuries of home was welcomed.

I think the idea of authentic camping scared the crap out of us. We could barely manage dealing with dousing ourselves in bug spray, being bitten by bugs in spite of our DEET baths, huddling around the campfire only to complain about how cold it was outside, or freaking out when a spider found its way into a tent. Who knows what would have happened if we actually took a real excursion to Algonquin Park and roughed it in the bush (Susanna Moodie, anyone?).  

It must be my generation. We are so used to living in the laps of luxury that our idea of camping is driving out to a conservation area in the Boonies. Forget hunting for food, we have hamburgers and veggie dogs to cook on our portable grill. We don’t need to chop wood to make a fire; the employees at the site already have some pre-packaged bags ready to be sold. And what are the most threatening things we encounter? Not bears or snakes, but mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies.

The idea of roughing it in the bush is almost like a fantasy, something idealistic. Perhaps one day I will be brave enough to venture into the wild like my Canadian ancestors before me. I don’t know how long a vegetarian like me would last out in the wild, so maybe my adventure would have to be cut short to just one weekend.

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