A childhood camping trip nobody asked for quickly devolved into the stuff of nightmares. Chris Hunt accesses a core memory
Riley Hunt roasts a marshmallow over a campfire in 2019. He has his dad’s appreciation for the outdoors. Photo Angela Jacques
One summer when I was around seven years old, my dad decided to take the family camping.
I have no idea why. I had not once in my life expressed a desire to have a sleepover with woodland creatures.
Camping is weird. You drive a few hours away from civilization to do things that aren’t socially acceptable in polite society.
Don’t believe me? Start randomly sleeping on the ground in your backyard or start cooking all your meals on a small fire made of sticks on your patio and see how quickly your neighbours stop inviting you over for brunch.
The spot he rented was a few hours west of Ottawa. We drove there without stopping. Once we arrived, I announced I needed the bathroom. My dad pointed to a tree. I said that’d be great if I had to pee. I didn’t. We’d brought these big, greasy doughnuts for the drive up. I may or may not have eaten most of them in gluttonous defiance.
He nodded and again pointed at a tree. That’s when I realized camping is basically just sleeping in a spacious outdoor toilet. As I started looking for somewhere private to do my business my dad instructs me to dig a hole to do my business and to bury “the evidence” when I was done.
He did not provide a shovel or even a spoon to dig said hole.
My first potty trip in the woods involved me turning into a land surveyor as I tried to find a space I could shred with my bare hands like a crazy person. I settled on the side of a hill because I was too young to understand how gravity worked and that perhaps doing what I needed to do on a steep incline would not work out well in my favour.
(Spoiler: It didn’t.)
While I was teetering dangerously back and forth, I noticed a perfectly round mound of what I thought were chocolate-covered nuts. I couldn’t believe my luck. I immediately finished what I was doing, kicked dirt on my shame and grabbed a handful of “nuts” to proudly show my father.
When I held them out, he asked if I’d eaten any and when I told him I did not he said that was good, as I was holding rabbit poop.
I don’t recall the rest of the trip, likely due to PTSD. We did end up buying a trailer and renting that spot for a few summers. I always had a blast, though I’m sure the fact the trailer came with a bathroom played a significant part in my subsequent enjoyment of the great outdoors.
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