“If Hank wrote that here in the car,” Emily said, “imagine what he can come up with when we’re actually sleeping under the stars.”
“I can’t wait to see what our campsite looks like,” Frankie said. “I hope there’s a fire pit so we can make s’mores.”
“I’ve read all the brochures,” my mom said. “It sounds like it has everything we’re going to need.”
“Except a heater, a bed, a refrigerator, and a TV,” my dad muttered.
We drove the rest of the way without talking, just looking out the window. The road got smaller, the trees got taller, and the clouds got darker.
“You don’t think it’s going to rain, do you?” my dad said. “Because I don’t do well in mud.”
“I checked the weather forecast before we left,” my mom said. “There was no mention of rain.”
We passed a red-and-white sign that I couldn’t read, but Frankie could.
“Fire danger,” he said, pointing to it.
My mom put her finger to her lips and made the shhh sound. Then she pointed to my dad.
“Oh,” Frankie whispered to her.
We drove around a big bend in the road, and at last, there it was. Harmony Acres.
Let me just say, it was not exactly what we were expecting. There was a cabin at the entrance that only had three walls. The fourth one was lying in pieces on the ground next to it.
I looked through the trees to see if I could find any other cabins. Nope, there weren’t any. There were just a bunch of wooden platforms scattered around. There was a gravel parking lot, but it didn’t have any cars in it.
“Oh, isn’t this wonderful?” my mom said in her extra-calm voice. “Looks like we’ll have the place all to ourselves.”
From out of nowhere, a man appeared and walked up to our car. He was wearing a black-and-red checked shirt and baggy jeans with suspenders. His gray beard was so long, it practically touched his knees.
“Howdy, folks,” he said with a big smile. “I’m Jed Presley, no relation to Elvis. I’m the groundskeeper here. It’s good to see you. We don’t get many visitors this time of year. Bug season, you know.”
“Oh, so that’s why Papa Pete told us to take bug spray,” I said.
“Where do we set up our tent?” my mom asked.
“Anywhere you don’t see bear tracks,” he answered.
My dad gasped so loud, I’m sure that everyone in China heard him.
“Just pulling your leg.” Jed laughed, punching my dad on the arm. “We don’t have bears here. We got a family of possums. You’ll see them walking down to the lake after dark.”
“Possums?” my dad asked. “I don’t like the sound of that. They’re like big rats.”
“They’re not rodents, Dad,” Emily said. “They’re marsupials. Did you know that they have thumbs on their back feet?”
“Thumbs on their feet?” I said. “Aren’t those called toes?”
Frankie cracked up, but Emily, the little know-it-all, didn’t even smile.
“Hank,” she groaned. “You don’t know anything about animal science.”
“Well, I know about trees,” I said. “I happen to have written a poem about them. And I say, let’s set up our tent on that platform over there, under that big old tree.”
“You folks have a great time,” Jed said. “Camping out is good family fun.”
“We’ll get in touch with you if we need anything,” my dad said.
“You do that,” Jed said. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Wait, you’re not staying here?” my dad said.
“I’m picking up supplies in town,” Jed answered. “Remember, safety first. Put out your fire before you go to sleep. And be sure to tie your food up in a tree so the critters can’t get to it.”
“Could you please not say critters?” my dad said. But Jed was already walking away.
We unloaded the car. Everyone had the responsibility of carrying their own bag, except for Cheerio. All he had to carry was his little tennis ball with a bell in it. Dad carried the tent. When we got all our gear onto the wooden platform, we heard a buzzing sound. We looked in every direction and saw nothing. Then we looked up.
Tucked in the top branches of the tree was a gray basket-like thing with a small opening at the bottom. It looked like it was made of thread. And it was buzzing.
“Wow!” Emily said. “A nest of yellow jackets! I’ve always wanted to see one.”
We all looked up and saw lots of yellow jackets flying in and out of the nest. My dad’s eyes grew as big as flying saucers.
“Yellow jackets?” he said. “Aren’t they like bees? Don’t they sting?”
“Well, of course they do, Dad,” Emily said. “It’s how they defend themselves.”
“I’ve read that they won’t bother us if we don’t bother them,” my mom said. I could tell my mom was trying to keep him calm.
“Well, they’re not going to bother me,” my dad said, “because I am out of here!”
And without waiting for any of us, he took off running as fast as he could.
Halfway to the parking lot, my dad stopped dead in his tracks.
“The bags,” he shouted. “I forgot the bags.”
He turned around and ran back to where we were still standing. He grabbed all the bags we had brought and threw them over his shoulders. He looked like a stack of duffel bags with a head. Bags were hanging off every part of him. It was amazing that he could walk with all that stuff on him, let alone run. He took off again, heading for the parking lot.
“Dad, where are you going?” I yelled.
“As far away from those stingers as I can get!” he shouted back.
We followed him and didn’t stop until we reached the car.
“Okay,” he said, panting. “This has been a fun trip. Who’s ready to head back? I know I am.”
“There’s no reason to leave,” my mom said.
“How about a nest of buzzing, stinging insects?” he said. “That seems like a pretty good reason to me.”
“Calm down, Stan,” my mom said. “We’ll just set up our camp under another tree.”
“Look, there’s a great spot down by the lake,” I said.
Without waiting for my dad’s answer, we all headed for the clearing by the lake. Cheerio whined a little as we walked. I thought maybe his tummy was still pickle sick, so I picked him up and carried him under my arm.
“Hey, isn’t this where that groundskeeper said the possums come at night?” Frankie asked me.
I gave him our special signal to be quiet, the one where you just slightly wave your hand under your chin. I didn’t want my dad to hear what we were saying. I knew that possum talk would push him right back to the city.
We picked out a wooden platform at the lake’s edge far from the yellow jackets’ nest.
It was a lot of work to set up our campsite. Emily took Dad’s hand and led him into the woods to gather sticks to make a fire in the fire pit. Mom took the food out of the cooler. Cheerio helped her. Actually, he didn’t exactly help her, but he did eat two raw hot dogs directly out of the package.
“Any poems popping into your head?” Frankie asked me as we sat down on the edge of our platform.
“Funny you ask,” I said to him. “I was just trying to think of words that rhyme with ‘yellow jacket.’”
“Did you come up with anything?”
“Yup, I sure did. Jello shacket. Or pellow packet. And then there’s wellow wacket.”
“Tell you what, Zip,” Frankie said. “Maybe we should try putting up the tent. Give that brain of yours a rest.”
“Good idea,” I said. “It’s been working very hard these last few minutes.”
I had never put up a tent before, and following the instructions was not easy. There were lots of pictures of hands
pushing rods through loops. No matter which way I held the instruction sheet, it looked upside down to me.
“How about I read the instructions and tell you what to do,” Frankie suggested. “You just listen and do it.”
I nodded.
“Okay, first find the tarp and lay it on the ground flat. That’s our ground sheet.”
I laid the blue plastic tarp out on the wood platform. That was pretty easy.
“Now you take those rods and put them together to make two long poles,” Frankie read.
I did that, too. It wasn’t that hard, either. I was getting the feel for this camping thing.
“Okay, Frankie,” I said. “Got it. What’s next?”
“Put the rods through the flaps in the tent so they cross each other at the top.”
I could hardly believe it myself, but I could do that, too.
“Now what?”
“The instruction sheet just says that now you raise the tent and it will pop up.”
“I have no idea how to do that,” I said. “Maybe you say a magic word or something.”
“Try zengawii,” Frankie said, using his magic word.
I stood over the tent, waved my arms in a circle, and yelled, “Zengawii!”
I chanted it seven or eight times. Nothing happened. Well, something happened. My mom came over and found a little cord that was attached to the top of the tent. She pulled it up, and the tent came with it.
“It worked!” Frankie and I both said.
By that time, Emily and my dad had returned from the woods. Emily was up to her chin in sticks and twigs, and my dad had three or four big logs.
“There better not be spiders living in these,” he said.
“Great job!” my mom said, ignoring his comment. “All that wood will make a wonderful fire.”
“This wasn’t easy,” Emily whispered to Frankie and me. “Dad was talking to snakes the whole time we were in the woods.”
“Whoa, did you see a snake?” I asked.
“No, not one,” Emily answered. “But Dad kept talking to them, anyway. He had twenty-five ways of saying ‘leave me alone,’ including ‘back off,’ ‘keep your distance,’ and ‘if I see one forked tongue, I’m calling the Intergalactic Snake Patrol.’”
We laughed until our sides hurt, which is unusual when you’re around Emily. She doesn’t exactly tickle your funny bone.
My dad put the wood in the fire pit and looked around our platform. When he saw the tent, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“We’re not all sleeping in that, are we?” he asked. “There’s no room.”
“Come on, honey,” my mom said. “We’ll all put down sleeping bags and it’ll be very cozy.”
“And what if Cheerio burps all night?” he asked. “He’s going to fill the tent with stinky pickle air.”
We all cracked up again, but my dad didn’t. He wasn’t joking. In fact, he was in the worst mood that I’d ever seen him in—even worse than when I brought home my last report card with the F in spelling and the D-minus in math.
As the day went on, his mood got worse, if you can believe that. When we grilled hot dogs for dinner, he ate standing up because he was sure there were spiders waiting to bite his rear end. When he walked to the outdoor bathrooms to brush his teeth, he came running back screaming.
“Remember those possums?” he yelled. “I know where they live. In the men’s bathroom.”
And when we all piled into the tent and got in our sleeping bags, my dad shot out of his like a rocket.
“What was that creepy thing I felt on my shoulder?” he screamed.
“Stan, that was just my hand,” my mom said. “I was saying good night. Do you think you’re going to be able to sleep at all?”
“I’m not even going to try,” he said. “I’m going to keep my eyes wide open all night.”
My mom sat up and turned on the battery-operated lantern she had bought for our trip.
“Mom, turn off the light,” Emily whined. “I can’t sleep. And look, you woke up Cheerio.”
“I think none of us is going to get any sleep with your father being so upset,” my mom said. “So I have a suggestion.”
“I hope it has to do with going home,” my dad said.
“We can’t go back, Dad,” I said. “I haven’t written my poem yet.”
“So here is my idea,” my mom said. “Stan, we’re fine here. And I think you should get in the car and drive down to the Half Moon Motel that we passed on the way up. You can sleep in a spider-free bed and take a possum-free shower, and we’ll see you tomorrow morning for breakfast.”
“Are you sure you’d be okay?” my dad said.
“We’re fine,” she said. “Look at us. All tucked in safe and sound. Aren’t we, kids?”
“Yes,” we all said together. We knew that the only way we’d get any sleep at all was to let my father go.
He kissed us each good-bye and practically ran up the hill to the car. We heard the engine start and the wheels crunch on the gravel driveway. As we listened to the sound of his car driving away, we settled into our sleeping bags for the night.
The sounds inside our tent were so cool. We could hear the water lapping against the shore of the lake, an owl hooting in the distance, Cheerio snoring. I felt positive that a great poem was going to come into my mind.
It was all so peaceful, the perfect outdoor adventure.
I closed my eyes and snuggled deep into my sleeping bag. I was almost asleep when I heard a noise. What was that?
Something was rustling just outside our tent.
I poked my head out of my sleeping bag and whispered to Frankie.
“Are you awake? Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you think it’s an animal?”
“It’s just a little wind in the trees,” Frankie said.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like a little wind to me,” I whispered back.
“Go to sleep, Zip,” Frankie said. “Your ears don’t work when you’re asleep.”
Frankie rolled over and pulled his sleeping bag up around his neck. I rolled over the other way and pulled my sleeping bag over my ears. But that didn’t block out the sound, which was growing louder by the minute. I could hear the wind blowing so hard, the branches on the trees were starting to creak. In the darkness, I heard Emily’s voice.
“Hank, it’s really windy out there,” she said. “Do you think one of those trees could fall down on us?”
“Relax, Emily,” I said. “It’s just a little wind.”
I tried to sound like a calm older brother, but even to me, my voice sounded like a scared little kid.
“I’ll check to make sure our tent is tied down tight,” my mom said, crawling out of her sleeping bag. “There could be a little storm coming. Nothing to worry about.”
As she unzipped the tent flap and stepped outside, a giant blast of wind came whistling into our tent. It blew so hard, it almost lifted Cheerio’s ears off his head. But good old Cheerio slept right through it. I think his bad pickle experience had worn him out.
Through our flapping tent door, I could see my mom outside testing the cords that held our tent to the wooden platform. When she came back in, her hair looked like she hadn’t combed it for a month. It looked like a lion’s mane, but not in a good way.
“Whoa,” she said, trying to smooth down her hair with her hands. “It’s really blowing hard out there. And I felt a few raindrops.”
“Is our tent waterproof?” Emily asked.
“Sure it is,” my mom said. “Besides, even if we get wet, a little rain never hurt anyone. We’re not going to melt.”
Without anyone saying anything, we all pulled our sleeping bags into a tighter circle. We listened to the raindrops pitter-patter on the top of our tent.
&nbs
p; It wasn’t so bad, until the pitter-patter turned into ka-boom, ka-boom. I don’t know how big those raindrops were—but they sounded like they were the size of soccer balls. And the wind was going crazy. It was like a train going through a tunnel.
“Hey, kids,” my mom said, sounding extremely fake cheerful. “This is even more of an adventure than we thought we’d have. Hank, I’ll bet this rain is giving you all sorts of ideas for your poem.”
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “What rhymes with ‘storm’?”
“‘Warm,’” I said with a shiver. “Which I’m definitely not.”
“I’m scared,” Emily said. “Mommy, can I get in your sleeping bag?”
“Of course you can,” she said, sliding over to make room for Emily.
“Can Cheerio come, too?” Emily asked.
“I’ll put him in my sleeping bag,” I said.
I picked up Cheerio and tucked him in right next to me. That was a mistake, because as soon as he got in my sleeping bag, he farted. I don’t want to say it smelled bad, but let’s just say it was like lying inside a jar of old pickles.
I unzipped my sleeping bag a little to let in some fresh air. All of a sudden, a big gust of wind hit our tent so hard that the sides actually started to flutter. The sound of the tent flapping got really loud. It sounded like the tent was going to take off like a small plane.
“Mrs. Z.!” Frankie shouted over the howling wind. “This doesn’t seem like a little storm to me. I’m kind of scared.”
I’ve known Frankie Townsend since preschool, and I’ve never heard him say he was scared. That was enough to scare me—even more than I already was.
“Don’t worry, kids. I’m sure this storm will blow over quickly. And besides, our tent is very secure.”
As soon as my mom said those words, a burst of wind attacked our tent and almost lifted it right off the wooden platform. Correct that. It DID lift it right off the wooden platform, like a helium balloon. Cheerio woke up and started to bark at the sky. I would have joined him if I thought it would do any good. Instead, the four of us sat there getting totally soaked and watched our tent tumble away toward the lake.
The Soggy, Foggy Campout Page 2
