Tent camping in a world of RVs

I am a dying breed. 

Not because I’m a journalist. 

Not because I still run. 

And not because I'm a Pete Rose fan.

Because I’m a tent camper. 

When I tell people I’m going camping, they casually ask what I sleep in. 

A tent, I answer. 

This draws quizzical looks. A tent? What, really?  

Fewer and fewer folks, based on my observations in recent years at Glacier National Park, pitch a tent anymore. They don’t roll out sleeping bags or likely even own one. 

Why is that? 

They don’t need them. They don't want them.

Because they pretty much brought their bedroom to the park. The majority of camping sites, say 7 or 8 out of 10, are filled by RVs or giant trucks pulling campers. 

And I’m not talking about small campers and RVs. I’m talking about ones that are the size of small houses. One guy was driving an RV that resembled an apartment building. Another one nearly stood as tall as the trees. Another looked like a fortified military rig with gun turrets and could withstand a nuclear blast. 

I looked at our campsite and saw a tent and two chairs. That was it. In this day and age, that's crazy. Or is it? 

Someone told me the trend toward RVs started with COVID. When folks couldn’t travel by planes or trains, they bought RVs and headed out on the road. Most have the comforts of home and, naturally, that is what normal people prefer.

The family next to us had a camper, an enormous pickup and a trailer for their kayaks and other watercraft. Another site had a table and chairs inside a giant screened canopy for protection against mosquitoes and any type of insect that might be a bother. One site had so much furniture that it could have passed for a living room. One man was sitting at his campsite staring at a giant TV screen. Generators hummed steadily into the evening.

When I visited the restroom in our camping loop, it was usually empty. First, I wondered why. Where is everyone? Then it dawned on me. They brought their own restrooms. 

I told my wife I was pretty sure we were the oldest people in America sleeping in a tent. I prefer it that way, the simplicity of it. I wouldn’t like dragging an RV around. At least I don't think I would. I can't afford one, anyway.

With my Therm-a-Rest, an air-filled pad, I generally sleep well. The outdoors make me feel like a kid again, which is ironic since my parents did not take us camping. Well, my dad once took me and my two brothers for a night at a small piece of mountain property we once owned in Washington state. It didn’t last. We were forced to retreat to the old Country Sedan station wagon that night by a mob of angry, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and headed home before daylight. My father vowed to never try that again, and he was true to his word.

Anyway, as I said, I sleep well in a tent, with one exception: strange sounds.

If I hear a something in the brush, a crunching of leaves or snapping of branches, I am suddenly wide awake, clutching my ax and bear spray, my heart beating loudly. A grizzly is out there! A grizzly! Funny, I have no worries about grizzlies when trail running. But at night? I'm suddenly petrified.

Just as I feared a shark would get me when I was swimming in the ocean when we lived on Kauai, I have that same fear a grizzly will get me in my tent in Montana.

Don’t tell me the odds of such an encounter are minute. Paranoia doesn't care about logic.

I don't think I'm crazy.

One night, a decade or so ago while camping with my three sons, I'm pretty sure I saved them. There was a grizzly bear outside our tent. I seemed to be the only one aware of this as I listened to what sounded like snorting. I was certain an attack was imminent. I considered fleeing to the car but could see the headlines the next day: IDAHO MAN SURVIVES BEAR ATTACK BY HIDING IN CAR AS HIS SONS ARE MAULED! 

I sat up ready and waiting to defend. Fortunately, nothing happened. Eventually, before sunrise, I dozed off. We lived through the night, but my sons never knew of the danger they faced. Only I did.

Anyway, I'll keep my tent, thank you.

But note to RVers in campgrounds. If you hear someone knocking frantically on your door one night, don't be alarmed. It's just me, trying to escape a grizzly.

I guess the RV people got something right.

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press.