I Survived Family Camp

In the tradition of “Into the Wild” and “127 Hours” comes a tale of one man’s harrowing battle with mother nature.

John Kovacevich
Aug 22, 2017 · 6 min read

I am not a camper.

(Those who know me know this is a huge understatement.)

I’d rather go to the dentist than load up the sleeping bags and head into the mountains. Probably because my annual visits to the teeth-doc have been infinitely more pleasant that my first camping experience, which scarred me for life.

It was the late 70s and 7-year-old me was shipped off to two weeks of sleep-away camp at Jameson Ranch in the southern Sierras.

Now, I had NEVER expressed any interest in being shipped off to sleep-away camp, but I had two older cousins who had survived previous summer stints at “the Ranch” and my mom took my aunt’s word that I would have a good time (rather than listen to the desperate plea from the fruit-of-her-loins, but whatever.)

To be fair, I have no idea what Jameson Ranch is like today, but in the late 70s, there was an emphasis on “rustic accomodations” (most horrifically, no indoor plumbing) and “health food” (which was stomach churning enough to this 7-year-old picky eater, but it also included a ban on SWEETS, which struck me as both barbaric and un-American.)

Between the bran-cakes (“They’re sorta like pancakes!”) and the veggie-casserole-induced trips to the outhouse (*shudder*) and the forced fun with my campmates (“Tonight, men, we’re going to whittle a stick!”), I wrote a letter every day to my mom, listing the various horrors and BEGGING her to come get me.

Did I mention we slept outdoors? When it threatened rain one night, I politely inquired if we would be moving inside for the evening. I was handed a long bamboo pole and was told to prop it up over my bed and drape my blue plastic tarp over the top. I laughed as if he was joking. He was not.

But the most shocking atrocity was the shower situation. (Even today, 40 years later, my brain can’t make sense of it.) Every other day, a group of 10 little boys was herded into a cinder block room, told to drop their robes, and HOSED OFF WITH A GARDEN HOSE. Then we were told to “soap up!” and then we were spray-rinsed.

Finally, to wash away any remaining dignity, the counselor with the hose would ask, “Who wants a macho?” A “macho” being a hose-down with ice-cold water. Inexplicably, a few boys would raise their hands each time and take their ice spritz.

At seven years old, there were many things I had yet to learn, but I was already pretty fucking clear that I DID NOT WANT “A MACHO.” (I mean, even by 70s-kid-camp standards, this was pretty sadistic, right?)

When my dad showed up on the mid-point weekend for “visiting day” (yes, just like prison) I pleaded with him to take me home. My mom did not make the trip because she knew that I would have convinced her to rescue me, but my dad was steely-eyed and drove away, promising to pick me up the following weekend when my two-weeks-that-seemed-like-two-months was up.

So I did the only thing I could: I got myself an ear infection, got sent to the infirmary and my dad was forced to come pick me up early that Wednesday.

But I remember those ten days as vividly as any in my life. And it’s sort of comforting to make a life discovery at such a young age. “Well, I’m never going to be a camper and I don’t EVER have to do that again.”

Then You Get Married and Have Kids

Fast forward to 2015. My beloved wife tells me that San Francisco Park and Rec actually sponsors a family camp called Camp Mather, up in the high Sierras.

Wait. What? No.

Before I know what’s happening, she enters us into the Park and Rec lottery and we “win” a slot in one of the weeks. “Win.” Yeah. Right.

Before we leave, I do a little research about the various dangers associated with the region and make my own “bingo card” to help me pass the time. (See below.)

And, uh oh, wait a minute. It’s going to be 100-degrees the week we’re there. Honey, for the safety of the kids, maybe we should rethink…

Nope. There’s no way out of it. My one hope is that my children, who have have some of my DNA, will have the same reaction to camping as I did. And if so, I’ll never have to go again.

BUT THEY DON’T. They had the time of their lives.

As the photo below will indicate, I did NOT have the time of my life.

And while I didn’t quite manage a “bingo,” I did survive heat rash, mosquito feast, a slip in geeces (geese feces), sunburn, and the pleasure of trying to shower my then two-year-old in a crowded camp bathroom while he screamed “WE BOTH HAVE PENISES AND BUTTS! AND SCROTUMS!”

Thanks a Lot, Berkeley

Given my kids’ enthusiasm, I assumed that “family camp” was going to be a regular part of summer. However — miracle of miracles — we did not “win” the Camp Mather lottery the next two years! (Finally, the San Francisco bureacracy works in my favor!)

But earlier this summer, my wife learned that her alma mater, UC Berkeley, has their OWN summer family camp called Lair of the Bear. And “luckily” they had some availability for week 10, the last week of summer.

And so, this August, I found myself staring up at a canvas-top cabin, thinking back to Jameson Ranch and trying to figure out how the hell I’d gotten myself into this situation. Again.

In a way, I admire family camp’s ability to bring together so many things I hate into a single experience: dirt, heat, bugs, lack of privacy, communal showers, limited food choices, crummy sleep, and forced socialization with strangers. And I can’t really say “there’s nobody I’d rather spend a week in a 10-by-10 cabin wth than my wife and kids,” because there is, literally, NOBODY I want to spend a week with in a 10-by-10 cabin.

BUT…once again, my family had a great time. Our highly-tethered city kids went nuts being able to go off-leash for a week and roam free. Plus swimming and ping-pong and tie-dye and pottery and camp skits and finding sticks that look like guns and grabbing ice cream from the camp store and searching for frogs in the creek and making new friends is all a hell of a lot more fun than a week on the couch watching DVDs for the 50th time.

There were actual tears from the kids when it was time to leave. (From me too, but a different kind of tears.)

“Next year,” has already been uttered. If it comes down to a vote, I’m going to lose 3–1 so why waste money on an election? Even a selfish bastard like me wants his family to be happy.

And anyway, parenthood is letting your nightmares become annual traditions.

As soon as we got back, I started to rebuild my life: a real shower, washing everything (twice), pushing the tie-dye to the back of the drawer, scheduling a pedicure to repair flip-flop feet, and tossing all the camp underwear (so. many. meat. meals.)

Three hundred and fifty six days until my next deployment. Pray for me.

FOLLOW UP: Yep, I went back the following year. Here’s the diary from my 2018 Family Camp deployment.


John Kovacevich is a writer and creative director based in San Francisco. He’s working on a billion dollar start-up idea where family camp general stores adopt dynamic pricing and Benadryl is $100 an ounce by the end of the week.

Like this? Then give me the clap. Er, hit that clapping-hand thing-y below.

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John Kovacevich

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husband, father, writer, ad man, occasional actor

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