The Joys of Squamping

Late in May I went camping at Kincaid Lake State Park near Falmouth, Kentucky. I was in charge of the Memorial Day camper church service that weekend. I can nearly always talk my friend Brian into going. Once again he was a pushover. He likes to camp as much as I do, if that is possible. And I am always grateful for his part in the camper ministry.

I reserved our spot online. I was surprised we were even able get one on a holiday weekend, though it was down the hill in the primitive tent area far away from the glampers with trailers and RVs. I’d camped many times at Kincaid in the ‘80s and early ‘90s when my kids were young, but I’d forgotten how tiny and close together those sites are. Maybe a little too close.

It was late in the day Friday when I got there. It was supposed to rain that evening, but after I got my tent up with no precipitation, I figured I might as well try to get a fire going.

I had brought a big tub of any kind of firewood I could scrounge up at home. A lot of it was of an unknown species I had accumulated cutting some brush behind the church. It took forever to get it going. Then it smoked a lot and smelled a little like tires burning. 

At first I was concerned about how that would affect the meat we would cook over it that evening. That is, if the rain didn’t put the fire out. Then I realized nothing could hurt sausage or bacon. What was I thinking?

Brian arrived and we finished setting up camp. It appeared the forecasters had been wrong as we each grabbed a chair around the fire. 

I told Brian I was concerned about our neighbors on the left. All our smoke was blowing directly at them as they sat around a picnic table barely eight feet away. They noticed my concern and smiled teary-eyed in between coughs and gags. They understood. This was just one of the many joys of camping. 

Seasoned primitive campers love to rough it. People staying in RVs miss all the fun: leaky tents, hissing air mattresses, midnight trips to the bathroom in frosty weather, toxic smoke, noisy neighbors.

Our squished camping—or squamping—just intensified the enjoyment.  It brought a new level of discomfort unachievable in the larger sites where I usually camp. I began to realize this could really be fun.

As we sat by the fire, a couple cars pulled into the site on our right. A group of 18- and 19-year-olds piled out and set up their tent three feet from mine. In a recent blog I wrote about noisy neighbors at East Fork who were sent there to repay me for all the noise I made camping when I was their age. This looked like it would be a second installment.

This group laughed and talked till midnight. Then, to my relief, they talked about having to get up at six to fish. But each time they got quiet, they somehow managed to revive themselves and start another round of lively discussion and laughter. A couple times I looked to make sure they weren’t in my tent along with their voices.

Oh the joys of squamping. This was even worse than East Fork where the party people were maybe 100 feet away. In a way though, it was amusing to listen to these guys. They could talk for an hour, laughing and having fun, and not really say much of anything. I think I’ve forgotten how to do that. (Or maybe I’m doing that right now.)

As I lay awake, I made plans to sleep in my car Saturday night. I have a cot set up in the back of my Element and it’s not too bad. I would close the windows to drown out the noise. It would be stuffy in there but, oh well, these are the discomforts that campers/squampers love to endure—and actually relish. We have to have something to complain about to be happy.

Saturday evening, I got to some decent wood further down in my crate. It burned with a lot less smoke and stink. We talked with the family we had smoked out the night before. It was fun discussing our camping and hiking adventures. I found out that the dad was a cousin to a student I had at Dayton High School.

I wondered about the three empty sites on the other side of them. They had been reserved since the day before for a group, but no one had arrived yet. 

It must’ve been only eight o’clock when we threw our last log on the fire. That’s when we heard our neighbors on the right start to take down their tent. I had heard them say earlier that at least some of their group would have to leave early, but it looked like all of them were going! Maybe I would get to sleep in my tent after all.

I was feeling good about that when one of the guys walked over the whole four feet to our campsite with a fresh shrink-wrapped bundle of wood they had purchased at the gate. It wasn’t cheap, but he gave it to us. Wow, would we ever have a nice fire the rest of the evening.

I said that was awfully nice. He said, “You guys seem like the only nice people here.” I asked Brian where they got that idea. Brian didn’t know, but he did recall walking past them once and saying, “What’s up guys?” Shows what just a few friendly words can mean to somebody.

Suddenly I actually hated to see them go. Sometimes the joys of squamping really are joys.

I slept well that night—in my tent. Brian said he didn’t. The three empty sites had filled during the night with six carfuls of campers. Brian couldn’t believe I had slept through the commotion. That was one joy I missed. Well, you can’t experience them all.

I met the group as they sat together Sunday morning eating breakfast. They had come all the way from Illinois to visit the Ark Encounter in Williamstown and the Creation Museum in Petersburg. Not a bad job setting up camp in the dark.

They wanted a picture of their group and I offered to take it. Then they kindly offered to include me in another photo. I probably wouldn’t have had the joy of meeting them if we all hadn’t been squamping.

It’s going to be hard to go back to just plain camping again. I’m going to East Fork this weekend with its comparatively monstrous campsites. But if the predicted rain front comes through, I guess it’ll be a worthwhile trip. If things go too smoothly, what will I have to complain about?