Babes in the Wood

By: Jean Reidy 

I've mothered two Eagle Scouts and two princesses. Catherine and Molly, my princesses were weak in the ways of the wilderness. While they could follow a mall map without a compass, they were far from following the Eagles' trail. On family camping weekends, Mom, Dad, and the boys did all the work, while the girls argued over the nail file in the Swiss Army knife. And although they were dragged to more Scout meetings than most Boy Scouts, they were devoid of the survival stories, the excellent adventures, and the bragging rights of Scout camping. The fair damsels were by no means in distress, yet it seemed my duty to help them.

Why? I wasn't really sure. After all, I could be a princess too. I loved dark pink lipstick, black cut velvet, and floral bedspreads. But a different force often drove me to shed the tiara and scale fourteen-thousand-foot peaks, portage a canoe and nest in a tornado-shaken tent. Instinctively, I longed for my daughters to do the same.

I was determined to give my girls starring roles in their own adventures. So I took my princesses to the woods and left their male entourage at home. We became "Camping Girls."

When princesses become Camping Girls, it's a marriage of glamour and gorp.

"Should I pack my pink fleece?" asks Molly. "It goes good with the pink flowers on my overalls."

"I can't find my light purple capri pants," yells Catherine from her room.

I have to ask myself, "Why are we doing this?"

For camping boys, bacteria are part of the adventure. Camping Girls, on the other hand, avoid campsites with wildlife droppings on the picnic table. We'll boil anything we can get our sanitized hands on. And we'll pick twigs and small tarantulas out of campfire stews.

Camping Girls tackle wilderness activities with gusto. Once, we tried a hike to a lake near our campground. We never found the lake but found instead the "Denim and Lace" boutique having a late summer sale. We bought a scented fantasy candle for Catherine, a beaded purple purse for Molly, and mock turquoise earrings for me. Then with bargains in our backpacks, we hiked back to camp, covering six miles total.

Camping Girls love campfires, and so that night we sing and chat until we're drowned out by the crickets. And then, in the tent, the shadow puppetry begins, triggering uncontrollable giggling. We’re laughing so hard our backs are arching with laughter and tears are streaming down our tired cheeks. I hesitate to stifle the din too soon, because I know that when the laughing stops the thinking starts. Too much thinking and every sound outside the tent becomes a grizzly or a wild coyote.

Princesses surround their castles with moats but Camping Girls have only zippers and fabric for protection. While we've yet to encounter more than a chipmunk, we brave the dark through a choir of night sounds. As we huddle together deep in our bags, nylon walls whipping close to our faces, we prove to ourselves that we can make it through the night.

For Camping Girls, the adventure ends too soon. We arrive home. Butterfly clips and blush replace bandannas and sunscreen. Princesses return - ready to slay their own dragons.

That's it! That's why we do this. Our adventures have nothing to do with being "macho." But they have everything to do with knowing "we can." And even if we glaze those adventures with lip gloss, they're adventures nonetheless. They qualify us for bragging rights and that tremendous feeling of puffing out our chests and shouting from the mountain top, "We did it!"

For this mom, these trips are about fueling my princesses with confidence, that invisible suit of armor, which protects them through the aching adolescent and tumultuous teen years. The confidence that will help them hold their head high and recover when life throws down the gauntlet. The confidence that prepares them to venture off, bravely on their own someday, away from the protection of a mom, a dad and two Eagle Scouts. And while we dig the fire pit together I know I'm preparing myself for letting go.

Catherine and Molly may never win a million dollars for eating slugs. But someday my princesses may trade their hair straighteners for bandannas, balance canoes on their heads and say, "We can do this." They'll do the dirty work themselves, make the grub, drive the stakes, carry the water. They will survive. And maybe bring home a sweater at fifty percent off.

— Jean Reidy is an award-winning, freelance writer and mother of four