I grew up in a rather isolated environment. My family restricted my friends, so much so that I could count on one hand how many girls made it past their screening. Perhaps it was because we were quite poor and my parents didn’t want our level of poverty exposed. Or maybe it was because they didn’t want me finding out what others were doing.

            My awareness of what other girls my age did was quite limited. I saw them at school, of course, but that didn’t expand to friendship: there was no sharing of secrets or playtime at each other’s houses.

            In fact, except for one neighbor in Ohio, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone’s house. (Until I became a teen and figured out how to escape the restrictions!) If there’s no indoor time, you don’t know how many toys someone has or what they do for fun. You have no knowledge if they have a television or if they do, what they’re allowed to watch. You don’t know if they have just one old doll or dozens of new ones, or how many clothes they have in their closets.

            Because my interactions with others were heavily supervised and restricted, I had no idea if they went away to camp or just traveled with family, or it they went anywhere at all.

            When you grow up in such an environment, your knowledge of the world is comparable to living in a tunnel, with restricted view of what lies beyond.

            My family didn’t camp. We seldom took a vacation unless it was to stay with one of my mother’s sisters/ And none of those cousins ever went to a camp because they were just as poor, if not more so, than us.

            When I took a course at the College of San Mateo about a proposed development in the mountains, I understood that camping was part of the course. I expected information to be distributed detailing what types of equipment one needed plus clothing and other necessities.

            None of that happened, so I was on my own. This was pre-Internet, so I had no way of researching information other than going to a library, which, in all honesty, I failed to do. That turned out to be a huge mistake.

            Back then you could collect Green Stamps by bowling high scores. Every weekend, I went from alley to alley, bowling sets of six games, the maximum, and collecting stamps, which I later glued into books. Once you had enough books, you could trade them in for whatever was offered at the Green Stamp redemption center.

             I perused the catalogue, marking camping equipment that I thought I should have. Once I had enough books to redeem, I’d get someone to drive me there, trade them in, and return home proud of my “purchases.”

            Some of the things I got: a small canvas pup tent, a camping stove and lantern, a sleeping bag, air mattress and utensils. At a thrift store I bought a backpack: a canvas bag on a metal frame. I also bought a warm jacket and sweaters.

            As time neared, I began putting items in the pack. Once everything was inside, I knelt down and slid my arms into the straps. I couldn’t lift it off the floor! Then I sorted through my belongings, removing anything I felt I could live without for three nights.

            When time came to leave, my brother drove me to the meeting place on campus. As others deposited their packs on the ground next to the bus, I realized, with great embarrassment, that my equipment was all wrong.

            Not one person had canvas anything. Their packs were lightweight aluminum and nylon. Everyone else had jackets that stuffed into tiny bags, unlike mine which was bulky. Their sleeping bags were also nylon, unlike my flannel-lined cotton one. No one had an air mattress: instead they had thin mats that tied onto the tops of their packs.

            There was nothing I could do to change anything, so when it came time to leave, I put my stuff in the bottom of the bus and took a seat.

            The drive was amazing. I was surrounded by happy voices as people sang and shared stories. The voices were animated and filled with joy. Their energy was contagious, and although I didn’t participate, I loved simply being in their presence.

            At the trial we put on our packs and began walking. There were three leaders: one at the front, one in the middle, and one bringing up the rear.

            I started off in the middle, but as my inexperience and heavy tack pulled me down, I soon was at the rear. And struggling. I hadn’t realized that cheap tennis shoes wouldn’t work. Since that’s all I owned, I felt every stone, every stick, every rut. My feet grew sore within the first hour.

            As I fell further and further behind, the leader was stuck keeping me company. He offered encouraging words, like keep going, you can do it and so on. He must have realized that his words had little effect, for soon tears began flowing. If the bus had been at camp, I would have turned around and gone back.

            After an hour my shoulders were aching so badly that I imagined the straps of the backpack cutting into my skin. I pictured blood streaming down my back and chest. I thought I’d pass out, as it was also quite warm.

            This was before cell phones, so the leader stuck with me had no way to communicate with the others who had been out of sight for a long, long time.

            Someone must have noticed our absence, for a camper came down the trail and took my pack from me. He made a snide comment about my choice of equipment, which hurt, but there was nothing I could do about it.

            Without that weight, I could move faster, although not as speedily as others wanted. Eventually we joined the others, who had stopped at a wide spot on the trail. Because of how slow I was, we were far behind where we should have been. While only one person chastised me, I got plenty of angry looks.

            When others began putting up their tents, I worked to unstrap mine from my pack. I was told to leave it, as it wouldn’t be sufficient. Instead I was squeezed into a tent with two strangers, one on each side, which meant my spot was dead-center on the trail. On top of rocks. Which poked me all night long.

            I wasn’t prepared for how temperatures drop in the mountains. As long as I was somewhat near the small fires we had, I didn’t suffer too much, but once it was time to sleep, the cold smacked me all over. My sleeping bag would have been fine on a sleepover in someone’s heated bedroom, but insufficient outdoors, even on a warm day.

            I froze. I shivered all night long. Even though I had bodies on either side, their closeness provided no warmth. By the time morning arrived, I was unable to move. I couldn’t sit or stand. My fingers and toes were stiff. My face couldn’t change position.

            One of the leaders noticed and offered me his giant gloves and someone else loaned me a scarf. I was grateful. These people were experienced campers. They might have scoffed earlier, but their kind hearts refused to let me suffer too much.

            When we resumed walking, the men took turns carrying my stuff. I was embarrassed, as they had their own lightweight packs, showing their skills outdoors, with my cheap stuff added to their weight.

            Once re reached out destination, a view of the valley where a famous company wanted to build an expensive ski resort, the view was stunning. Other than when my family moved cross-country, I’d never seen mountains or deep valleys or mind-boggling views. It was so beautiful, that turning it into a resort seemed sacrilegious.

            That was the point of this trip: to expose how this company would destroy the environment to create a playground for the wealthy.

            After a quick lunch, which thankfully others shared with me as I had brought no food (oh, I forgot to mention that they also gave me food for dinner!), we headed downhill.

            By now I was able to carry some of my stuff, but the bulky items had been tied to others’ packs. My fingers and toes still hurt, so walking was treacherous as I couldn’t feel anything under my feet. I stumbled about, like a drunk. I still had the gloves, which helped somewhat.

            The bus was waiting when we got down to the parking lot. Our stuff was loaded into the bottom and we headed north. Because it took longer than planned to get me up there and back, we couldn’t drive all the way home that day.

            We camped at a rather boring site off the freeway. Once again they shared food, but because I was feeling better, I put up my own tent. During the night there were unfamiliar noises outside the camp. I had to pee, but was too scared to go out on my own.

            In the morning, I made a beeline to the restroom, the first one up. When I was awake enough to see what had happened during the night, it was obvious that some kind of creature had broken into everyone else’s packs. We had no food left.

            It was a long, hungry drive home. We did stop for hamburgers, but I hadn’t brought any money! Someone gave me a few fries, but that was it.

            Back home I was too embarrassed to tell my story. I simply hid in my bedroom for the rest of the day, spent time unpacking, then carried my stuff out to the garage.

            I never told my family any part of my experience. My parents were experts at ridiculing me, making me feel stupid and incompetent. I refused to give them another morsel to add to their weapon cache.

            That was my first time camping. While you might think it was my last, you’d be mistaken.

            My husband’s family loved camping at Lake Berryessa. Before we were engaged, he took me there to join his family. They were already settled in a spot, apparently the one they preferred. My husband hadn’t brought a tent, to my dismay! I was terrified of bugs and was convinced that they’d eat me up during the night.

            When I awakened in the morning, my face was swollen, so much so that I could only open one eye. My soon-to-be mother-in-law was a nurse. She applied compressed which brought down the swelling.

            My concern, my biggest worry, was that she’d tell her son not to marry me! Thank goodness, that never happened. Instead it became part of the family lore.

            After that, my husband and I camped many, many times.