Another Sabotaged Gourmet Meal 3

Pink Think: “Camping is nature’s way of promoting the motel business.” – Dave Barry

[This is Part 1 of a 7-part series on tent-camping at Lake Powell. Here’s my intro post.]

Lake Powell – Day 1

My way of finding a camp spot:
1. Drive to nearest designated camp spot
2. Stop the car
3. Get out and put tablecloth on picnic table

My husband’s way:
1. Drive all over creation,
2. If there are humans within 100 miles, drive some more
3. Declare a camp site worthy and fetch wife who is wondering where in the heck he is

It’s nearly 9 p.m. and my husband left with his dad 2 hours ago to find a better camp spot at the Utah-end of the lake, at Stanton Creek. My mother-in-law and I are waiting with my three kids on a little cove squeezed between two camp spots. In the 10 years I’ve been coming to Lake Powell, I’ve never seen Stanton Creek as busy as this August weekend. The camp to our left has biker dudes giving us really menacing glances. To our right, I can see what people are having for dinner.

So what if we are so close to the others? It’s nearly 9 at night, I’m hungry, I have three cranky kids, and my MIL looks like she is about to pass out (she’s diabetic). There’s official outhouses visible in two directions. It’s the perfect camp site, if you ask me.

But no, somewhere in the fading twilight, my husband and his dad are still on the hunt for the perfect site.

Two girls come over, 12 and 9 from the biker camp, and the younger one says, “We don’t mind having neighbors. It’s okay so long as you’re not weird.” We must pass the weirdness test because they are smiling at us. Already, the 9 year old has snagged my 10 year old son to help her with her fishing pole.

I’m trying to contact my husband on the walkie-talkie, but all I get are weird buzzes. From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Biker coming over with a glass bottle in his hand that looks suspiciously like beer and his cheeks are flushed.

“Hi,” he says, flashing us a gap-toothed smile. “I just thought I’d say hello.”

“I’m sorry,” my MIL says. “I know we’re really close to you…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he says. “I understand. You’re just fine.”

So aside from having 2 outhouses nearby, Mr. Biker, who is the dad to one of the girls, is the understanding-type after all. They are cooking a spaghetti dinner and the thought makes my stomach growl.

My father-in-law comes on to the walkie-talkie. “Where are you?” asks my MIL, to which he replies, “We’re cleaning up from getting stuck.” My blood boils. All this time of us waiting, and they are off-roading!

When the men return, my husband unapologetically barks that we had better high-tail it out of there because they found a better spot and someone might take it. We barely have a chance to say goodbye to the girls. I fume as he drives in the fading light to find this “perfect” site. We go down this steep road and pull into a little outcropping that I am prepared to dislike. I am in charge of dinner, so I start yanking out boxes from the truck right where my FIL wants to park his jeep.

“What are you doing?” my husband asks me.

“Getting my ham-and-potatoes dinner ready,” I say through gritted teeth.

My MIL says, “You can just fix sandwiches, that’s okay.”

I begin to cry and my oldest daughter starts patting my back. “I am not going to fix another STUPID meal,” I say. (This morning for the sake of time, I served cold little sausages and tossed out not-cooked-enough eggs for breakfast at my husband’s family reunion, and the family near us rescued us with hot ham. Now it looks like my gourmet meal is sabotaged again).

“And what were you doing anyway,” I say waspishly to my husband, “off-roading?”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “We were already making our way back when we got stuck.”

I sniffle as I fry the ham under the lantern light. Coupled with delicious cheese bread, I have to say the meal isn’t terribly stupid. As I finish off my sandwich, I look around. Really look around.

A ridge gives us privacy from other camps. We do not have to watch the neighbors eat their dinner. Starlight bounces off the water in a peaceful cove where we can dock the boat in the morning. And I don’t have to plot ways to avoid overfriendly camp neighbors, if I want some quiet.

I hate admitting that perhaps I am wrong. I stoop to plant a kiss on my husband’s cheek by way of apology. “I guess,” I say, “this seems like a pretty good camp site, after all.”

Next: Getting my hair wet

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