There's always the car

AL NISBET offers some advice about camping ... or not. With the weather warming up, there's a tendency to consider outdoor pursuits.

People drag barbecues out of shadowy garage corners and wipe down cobwebs. They rummage in the drawers for swimming costumes. And, dare I say it, they pull out tents, along with the silly notion that they'll go camping!

I'd like to issue the readers with a warning: DON'T GO! Stay at work. Everything is there -- friendly faces, a computer to play on, a coffee machine nearby. At my work, we've even got Sky.

Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of camping. But sadly, the idea is never the reality. Every time my partner and I go, we leave in a heightened state of expectation, car tidily packed with every possible utensil, envisaging sunny skies, a mirror-like lake and the smell of frying trout.

We always return prematurely, with tent poles, ropes and soggy boxes hanging out the windows, teenagers punching each other and the car making a funny noise.

I've reached the stage of, when we get to our chosen site, dragging out the tents, chucking them into a massive tangle of nylon and poles then hurling a bucket of water over the lot. I figure they're going to look like that in the morning so I may as well get ahead.

Chaos follows us with a telescopic sight trained on our foreheads. It's either severe windstorms or drunken yobbos. With luck we get both. The only dawn chorus we've ever heard is projectile vomiting from the yokel wildlife that abound in these spots. The only breeze ruffling the canvas is a force eight, thrashing-tempest of a southerly. Those green areas in the Mackenzie Country aren't due to irrigation. They're old camp sites of ours where rain squalls have lashed.

On a recent trip to Kaikoura, we found our chosen campsite and were delighted to find we had a whole coastal strip to ourselves. The sea was just over the rise and it would be pleasant to be lulled to sleep by the wavelets. My teenage kids each pulled out their respective tent and found a spot to put it up.

My partner and I stupidly began to assemble our World Ranger Storm-buster Four. The chairs were set up, along with the cooker. Now we could sit and watch the strange funnel clouds marching up from the south along with the spectacular lightning flashes.

As dark descended all hell broke loose. We lay on the airbed trying desperately to hang on to the tent's roof fabric as a shrieking maelstrom blasted through our camp. The frenetic flapping of the tents muffled the kids' terrified screeches and the gentle lull of the wavelets had transformed into a thunderous surf spewing foam and spray across the campsite. We huddled in the car until dawn.

Not to be beaten, we headed to Goose Bay, a beautiful spot tucked in under the hill. It was bush-clad so we would be sheltered. We re-pitched our bedraggled tents in the sun and headed off for some fishing. We'd return in the evening.

Later on, we marvelled at the starry night and watched for shooting stars and satellites. Suddenly my paper plate, complete with baked beans, blasted off my lap. It had been blown. Everyone scuttled to the tents. The wind increased with a low, resonant howl whooping down over the mountain. The chairs toppled and the trees cracked. One large branch snapped off and just missed my older boy's tent.

Again we lay on our backs desperately holding onto whipping fabric as the tent threatened to shred itself to pieces. Again, we ended up in the car.

On our last camping trip, I decided I wouldn't take the tent. I'd sleep in the boat. It's small, but with a rope tied down the middle and a cheap tarp over the top it's a suitable retreat. Far more convivial than those jumbo-jet-sized gazebos that everyone seems to use. With an airbed underneath, the set-up would be complete. My partner opted for the car. I wonder why?

A cool breeze was springing up and some nearby youths were beginning to vomit. We had caught a few cod so in the gloom I filleted them and began cooking a few. After a while the fish were still raw. The wind was fanning the gas flame.

My partner's eyes blinked knowingly from the confines of the car as I clambered into the boat to hopefully doze, but within minutes I was clutching onto flapping canvas once again. It was threatening to rip free from my clenched fist. Either that or take me hang-gliding.

As I grimaced upwards, twigs and branches blasted across the moonlit sky along with the scudding clouds of a southerly, all accompanied by the chundering sounds from next door.

Then the rains began. Wet from the waist down, I crawled back into the car.

Camping for me now consists of a game that I reckon I could patent. You drive somewhere remote and exposed and drag out a humungous tarpaulin. I'm not sure what purpose it serves, but you have to have one.

You then begin to wrestle with it in a shrieking gale. You can add fun by getting someone else to hold the other end while it's frantically flapping, then try to fold it up again. Get someone to thrash you in the back with a matagouri branch at the same time for added effect, then try to spread dried-up peanut butter, complete with tussock fronds and moth, over stale bread. Next, find a really uncomfortable hummock of ground and try to sleep on it. If you're lucky enough to get heavy-eyed, arrange for a group of hoons to drive noisily past and emit drunken whoops while blasting the latest hit at 40-million decibels on a boom box. Make sure they slam the car boot a couple of dozen times until dawn.

Finish by hurling everything back into your car swearing that you'll never go camping again. Once home, wait three weeks then plan another trip. But don't take the tent -- the car's warmer.

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