Joel Stein with his son, Laszlo, camping in their backyard.
For our last vacation, my lovely wife Cassandra and I took our son Laszlo to Napa. Sadly, no child-rearing book informs you that 4-year-olds have a limited interest in guided explanations of hillside terroir. His post-spring-break show-and-tell was a picture of him at a winery that might as well have been called Château Only Child.
So for our summer vacation, I wanted something that Laszlo would like and yet would still allow me to drink wine. For advice I called Sally Jewell, who took over as Secretary of the Interior in April. Jewell immediately advocated camping, obviously unaware, despite my having just said my name, that I'm Jewish. Jewell was previously the CEO of REI and has climbed the highest mountain in Antarctica. This was like asking for early-morning wake-up tips from Johnny Knoxville.
Eventually, Jewell figured out who she was dealing with and suggested glamping, which is glamorous camping but much faster to say. I liked the idea until she described her version of a glamp, which was "a cot or an inflatable mattress and a nice, comfy tent." I imagine her idea of nonglamorous camping is punching herself in the face until she falls asleep on a frozen mountain in Antarctica.
I was about to give up on Jewell when she mentioned that June 22 is the National Wildlife Federation's annual Great American Backyard Campout. I told Laszlo about it, and to my surprise, he got really excited. I got excited too, especially when I found out that backyard camping is so badass that President Obama--who killed Osama bin Laden--is unwilling to do it. And he has a way nicer lawn than I have. "He doesn't camp much. He makes fun of me for what I do for fun," Jewell said. I'd help her advocate for the President to glamp on the White House lawn with Sasha and Malia, but I know he doesn't read my column since he's too busy reading my phone records and e-mails.
So I got a tent and three sleeping bags, which was one sleeping bag too many, since Cassandra agreed to participate only in the Great American Backyard part of the Great American Backyard Campout. She was sure, in fact, that Laszlo would be back in his bed within an hour of entering the tent. Which made me determined to do whatever it took to make it through the night. I'm not sure what I thought I would get out of it other than a day of being exhausted and sore, but long ago I learned that marriage isn't about happiness. It's about winning.
I impressed Laszlo by setting up the tent pretty quickly, though there was a pole and a rope left over. I was pretty sure they were for camping farther away from your house. We grilled hamburgers and had leftover mashed sweet potatoes that traveled very well through the hike from the microwave. Then we roasted marshmallows over our outdoor fire pit. Laszlo and I were heading into the tent when Cassandra said we had to take a bath, which seemed too glampy for even my taste, but it turned out to be a good idea since at one point in the night, Laszlo tried to sleep with his head sticking out of the tent because he said it smelled. I'm constantly surprised by how superior Laszlo can act about not having hit puberty yet.