Loki is a dog who is used to the finer things in life but he’s introduced Zoe to camping. Photo: Zoe Cartwright.
Since childhood, I’ve been firmly convinced I’m not a camping person.
We went every three years or so – probably how long it took my parents to forget the previous disaster.
We’d dutifully pack the 10-man tent my mum’s parents had taken her camping in when she was a kid, make our way to the park, and immediately hit disaster number one.
Disaster number one was very reliable. The tent had to be put up in a very specific way.
Mum was the only one who really understood it and would transform into the tent dictator for the tense couple of hours it took to set it up.
We would inevitably not listen – or sneak off, unleash her fury, and have to start again.
Once it was up, no matter how many sleeping bags we packed, the nights were freezing.
I hate being cold so between the tent fiasco and the freezing nights I’ve always been firmly convinced I am not a camping person – until last weekend, when my geriatric, arthritic, deaf, blind, cancer-ridden old dog decided to disappear into the notorious Belanglo forest.
After hours of fruitless searching, it was clear to me there was only one solution. I’d just have to live in the spot where he disappeared until the silly old man followed his nose back to me.
I called my husband to inform him of this development and, fortunately, he was entirely supportive of my new life as Baba Yaga (sans chicken feet house, sadly).
I may not have been in an entirely reasonable frame of mind, but this is the man who once waged a vicious war on a spider colony.
It was forecast to hit minus four overnight.
Although my old boy is a sturdy staffy mix, he is accustomed to his heated blanket in winter. I was frantic thinking about how he’d cope with nothing more than some pine needles.
Fortunately my husband grew up camping in Scotland. Minus four is a balmy summer’s eve to him.
He turned up with our swag (used once, in the rain, to soggy effect), two doonas and some pillows – not a sleeping bag in sight.
I wasn’t concerned – I was filled with the unstoppable power of dread and adrenaline and therefore impervious to petty physical realities like frostbite.
We got a campfire going before night fell. Through my panic I noticed the stars blazing overhead in a way they never do in town. We saw a shooting star.
The cold takeaway we had for dinner was somehow the best thing I’d ever eaten.
I finally got to sleep about midnight, only to be woken by a clumsy snuffling around our swag.
I jumped out, ecstatic the prodigal dog had found his way back – and was met by the biggest fox I have ever seen dragging a kilo bag of bacon.
We had a little standoff in the dark, the fox and I.
I had no intention of eating the foxy bacon, but I’d be damned if I’d let this little ginger thief run away with it.
Sometimes your self-esteem just needs a win.
Under the power of my stern eye contact eventually the ambitious scavenger dropped the bag, nabbed a half-eaten pack of chocolate digestives and fled into the night.
We woke up again at 3 am, sweltering in our swag despite the frost on the ground just outside. We opened a window and drifted cozily back to sleep.
The next morning the chill in the air made our blankets extra cozy, in a way a sleeping bag could never be.
When it was light enough to get up, the frosty temperatures gave us a bit of extra motivation to get to work on the campfire – and a hot breakfast.
This story has a happy ending. Despite his advancing decrepitude, our old dog still has some brains about him.
He’d made his way to a farm a few kilometres away the evening before, introduced himself to the owners and spent a cozy evening in their stables with all the kibble he could eat.
And upon reflection, minus the panic, it was probably the most fun I’ve ever had camping. I might be a winter camping convert.
After all, accommodation at Thredbo has become pretty expensive …
