This weekend I’m camping in Pennsylvania. Russian Duolingo, accordingly, has been giving me the practice sentences “The forest is really close” and “I like sleeping on the floor.” (Other frequently recurring sentences are “My girlfriend doesn’t cook, but she can eat a lot,” “I like jumping!” and “Big Brother is watching,” so clearly it knows me well.)
I spent a large percentage of my life believing that I hated camping, before sort out the data and realizing that all of the camping I did between the ages of 16 and 22 either:
a) took place when it was freezing; I guess I can’t claim that November is “winter,” but I did spend most of that camping trip counting all of the pebbles that were digging into my back through my sleeping bag, feeling more like ice cubes. The rest of the time I spent with my feet in my friend’s armpits, because they were cold enough to have turned numb and white and someone told us that was a way to save them. I gave her two quarters that I found in my jacket as means of payment.
b) involved carrying 35% of my body weight on my back for the first part of the trip, and again sleeping on a bed of twigs and other pokey things. I could barely put on the pack without overturning like a turtle.
When I was traveling in my early twenties I often stayed in hostels/guest houses/various forms of shelter that had no lights, water, fans, or other amenities. The thing they had in common, however, was a FLOOR. And, almost always, a mattress of some sort. The walls could be full of holes and mosquito netting a bonus, but as long as I had something between me and the ground I could go to sleep at ease.
In conclusion? Go camping in the spring or summer. And take a sleeping pad.
