Super Nature Dad

by M. Witmer a.k.a. Wilderness Witmer

It was a July 4th weekend much like any other only this one was marked by The Devil himself. Now, under normal circumstances, this weekend is special to my family because not only is it a national holiday but its also my youngest daughter’s birthday. So being the ever-concerned, highly-conscientious, loving, caring, extremely modest father that I ammmmm… I wanted to make this weekend super fun.

But before we dive into this too much further, let me back up.

About two weeks ago my kids and I were walking through the Glutton-Mart looking for something (probably a 48 pack of toilet paper or a generic brand of chocolate chip cookies) when we passed what is commonly known as Honky Aisle. Honky Aisle is the one with the racks of guns and fishing lures and extreme camping equipment. There are animal heads bolted to the end-caps to give it that “VFW Lodge” feel and normally you can purchase M-16 ammo in bulk if you so desire (that is if Jethro and his half-brother Merle didn’t already pick up the last box to store behind the seat of their pickup truck). I DARE you to find any person other than a honky in this aisle actively purchasing an item. Since I happen to fall relatively well into the “Honky” demograph, I have no problem perusing the items. By the way, did you know they made a fish lure that could double as a tooth brush? No lie.

Anyway, as my little honkies and I were passing through Honky Aisle, their attention fell on the tents. With wide-eyed glee they stared. And for a brief moment my eyes widened a bit too. Suddenly I imagined myself the rustic outdoorsy camper guy with the big beard and the animal pelt for a coat, laughing like a jolly retard as I pulled a large mouth tiger shark from a raging river. Suddenly I was Grizzly Adams and my kids were those little hairy Chakka kids from Land of the Lost, scurrying up trees and beating squirrels with rocks.

Just as my daydream was getting to the part where we found a lost deaf mute playboy centerfold flailing in the river, her clothes blown off by the strong river currents (teeming with Tiger Sharks of course), I was brought back to glum reality by one of my now relatively hairless kids tugging at my arm.

“DADDY DAAAAAAAADDY,” they both cried in well-rehearsed unison, “LETS GET A TENT.”

With my grand wilderness daydream still flirting at the edges of my memory I rolled the idea around in my head. I even toyed with it a bit. I suddenly had an epiphany:

This could turn into one of those Family bonding things. The kind of trip where your kids would have fond memories of their first real camping trip. Fishing, boating, swimming… Hell I’d teach them how to shave too but their legs just aren’t hairy enough yet. This trip could very well make me hero…no…..A FATHERLY LEGEND.

But it was nothing without a tent. The tent was the key. Fortunately, Honky Aisle had a veritable cornucopia of tents. All shapes and sizes and colors and materials. I stared at the bright colored vinyl tents with awe and realized something: I was already in over my head. My dreams of being Super-Dad-Grizzly-Adams, killer of river sharks and rescuer of dumb naked ladies was suddenly fading. Towering before me, there were dome tents and and square tents and tents with front porches and attics and car ports. Jesus Christ, I was being mocked by the onslaught of the thousands of tents stacked in the aisle. Four times I had to fight the urge to scream “diarrhea!!” and run for the bathroom…because diarrhea is the only manly ailment allowed in Honky Aisle.

So I did what any full-blooded american honky would do. I bought the most expensive tent on the shelf. And boy was it a doozy! It wasnt just ANY tent. This was the 3-dome, deep woods survivor tent. Hear that, folks?

Deep. Woods. Survivor!!

This thing closer resembled a circus tent than a camping tent. It covered roughly 2 square miles of forest and you need an excavation team to clear spot for it.

Part Two – Coming tomorrow