Where to Begin?

Story and Photos by John O’Bryan

After spending five glorious days fishing in the wilds of northern Idaho, and after unpacking the contents of the camper and truck, and after the duffel bags are emptied and stowed away, I collapse exhausted on the couch. As I stare out the window in a peaceful sweaty stupor, I realize that I really, really love fishing—but I really, really hate camping.

This is not a normal thought for someone who lives in Idaho, arguably one of the most campable states in the union. Until now, I have kept my dislike of camping to myself for fear of retribution from my camping friends. Every single one of them finds an inexpressible inner joy in camping and in an effort to find that same joy, I have tried to convince myself that I love camping, too.

I’ve always wanted to be one of the cool kids, which is why an incessant monologue runs through my head, reminding me that I’m an idiot for not loving camping. “What’s not to love?” it says. “Think of the beauty, the mountains, the water, the sun. George Washington was a camper. You should be a camper too. It’s good for you. It’s peaceful. No cell phones. No internet.”

Yet no matter how much I have tried to believe, I can’t shake my unbelief, and even as that inner voice desperately cries, “Pay attention to me. Listen to me. Help me,” I push it into the farthest recesses of my mind.

In the past few months it has diminished to a gasping whisper that occasionally calls my manhood into question for not liking camping. In my mind’s eye, I stab this creature through the heart with the stir stick of my caramel macchiato, extra whip.

The problem is that the minuscule benefit I derive from sitting around a smoky campfire in the middle of nowhere, in the cold and sometimes rain, never outweighs the enormous hassle of getting to that point, at that place. It takes a full week of my life to get to where I can plop my sorry backside into a camp chair next to that roaring (and still smoky) campfire, and that’s a week of my life I will never get back.

The preparation to camp almost kills me. The week before the excursion, I spend most of my waking hours thinking about what to pack and what I’m sure to forget. The only thing that keeps me sane when preparing to camp are my lists. However, there is an inverse side to my sanity because my lists, and they are legion, are way too many and way too long.

The problem is that I don’t ever want to forget anything and believe me when I say that I have never forgotten anything, ever. My preparedness is the stuff of legend and if I had made it past Cub Scouts in the fifth grade, I’m sure my statue would be in the Boy Scouts Hall of Fame in Irving, Texas.