We had big plans for spring 2020 camping. Music festivals, concerts, Florida state parks, and roadtrips criss-crossing the sunshine state. Our free time had dibs on more than a month of weekends from February through May. Then coronavirus said, “Hold my RV keys.” That bastard shut down campgrounds and RV parks nationwide. As for concerts and festivals, they were among the first to go – and could be among the last to return.
Setting aside the puzzlement about why camping – the quintessential “social distancing” activity before social distancing was a CDC-advised practice – was banished in the first place, it’s open again (see the asterisk below for a realistic take on why campgrounds were closed). Just ask the folks at Camping World or the RV manufacturers. A business bearing down on a what seemed to be a deep recession coming has never been stronger as people seem smart enough to say, “I don’t need no Holiday Inn Express. I got my RV.”
But is camping safe?
We camped twice in May, but otherwise were hunkered down and Mr. Charlie was locked away in the storage lot. We’ll find out how safe camping is later this month when we head out for two weeks on the road. Four of us and our dog, Stella – who all have socially distanced pretty deliberately, masks in place, sanitizer flowing generously – will journey from Florida to Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina – and back again.
But is it safe?
We believe it is. We’ll keep our distance, slather our hands in enough sanitizer to eradicate a CDC lab’s freezer full of virus samples, bring enough masks and back-up masks to give you certainty who’s hoarding that PPE stockpile, and be anti-social campers who see fellow humans as virus-afflicted pariahs (just as they likely see us).
But given all our precautions and protective measures, is it safe to go camping?
We’re betting it is. For the record, those who said it wasn’t safe four months ago are saying it is now. We agree. Some say that on a scale of, say, hibernating in a cave and hitting some asinine millennial “COVID party,” camping resides on the safer side of the Darwinian gene pool there. A recent article compared camping with playing golf and grocery shopping with a mask in place. It wasn’t quite tennis-safe, but Jesus, people, it’s not “the gym’s safe, right?” or “I’m Going to Disney World” dangerous.
So why are we so confident we’ll be fine? Here’s a few reasons we’re banking on…
Our RV is our castle. We won’t use public bathhouses, showers, or toilets (mostly) while on the road. Our RV has its own. Some people say “No No. 2 in the camper commode.” The Age of COVID is not time for silly rules. Sucks to be a tent camper in some places. Certain parks shut their facilities and barred primitive campers from entry. Sucks, but hey, can’t really argue the logic there.
We’ll distance on the road similarly to how we do at home. We’ll wear our masks like bandits in public areas, that is, when we can’t stay a reasonable distance from fellow humans whom we’ll assume are COVID carriers. We’ll slather on the sanitizer when we can’t wash our hands with the vigor of a surgeon heading into the OR, and will occasionally aerosolize the car and camper confines with Lysol.
We’ll restock as infrequently as possible. We usually do a sizeable Costco, Walmart, or Publix provisioning run before heading out, stocking up like some Octomom heading into the school year (uh, the jury and school superintendents are still out on that one). But being on the road for two-plus weeks, one provisioning run might not be enough. So, when we have to shop, we’ll ask for requested foods, and head in with the vigor, purpose, and speed of a band of survivors making a food run on The Walking Dead.
Camping – like any journey beyond the confines of the home – has its risks. We’re not Pollyannas here. We know there are risks just stepping out the front door. The four of us have been together since the lockdown began back in March, so we’re pretty confident we’re clean. Humanity? Not so much. So drum circles like those Asheville is famous for, or singing around the campfire, will be strictly out of tune. Even in my garage band, we’re sporting masks to protect our bandmates. We’ll try not to inhale campfire smoke and risk coughing up COVID (if you happen to be an asymptomatic carrier, or around others who are).
Follow the damn rules. Prominently placed on the website of Tallulah Gorge State Park in northern Georgia is a notice: “We are not issuing gorge floor or climbing permits at this time and our interpretive center is closed Friday, Saturday and Sunday.” Think people will defy the rules and say, “Let’s head for the floor”? Don’t be that guy. Whether in a campground or a park or a retailer, read and respect posted rules. They know their properties and state guidelines, and more importantly, you’re a guest. Act like one. If a trail, walkway, or bridge has a sign saying “Closed,” assume it’s there for a reason. For some sample guidance, read these suggestions from this online guide from the state of Minnesota, some tips from the Department of Forests, Parks, and Recreation in Vermont, and a bit of advice from the California Department of Parks and Recreation. Represent yourself, your people, and your species. Respect the rules.
BOLO common symptoms. Whether the loss of taste or smell, or a dry cough, fever, diarrhea, or a host of other signs, always be alert. You may think you’re being safe, but you’ll be hitting at gas stations, truck stops, diners or fast-food joints along the way. When gassing up or making a purchase, wipe the surface, swipe your credit card, and sanitize yourself clean again. And if sense one of those little buggers latched on and made a home in your system, tell your people and quarantine if you’re able.
Most importantly, we’ll camp smart. No group gatherings, no bars, and no dine-in restaurants – especially buffets – or group BBQs, no matter how vital to the republic politicians and proprietors claim supporting the economy may be. We’ll set up the campsite to maintain safe distance from other campers (won’t be hard, with sites backing up creeks or perched deep in the woods), and we’ll hit the tub of Clorox wipes to clean any public surface (picnic tables, chairs, or other places where bugs thrive).
Above all else, be patient. The double-whammy for many of us was the loss of camping and music festivals. Most festivals cancelled outright, Many concerts and festivals were postponed a few months or into the fall, with optimistic promoters hoping something – anything – would change to salvage their events. Many cancelled outright. Festivals, camping, RVing and roadtripping will return – one day. Until then, stay smart and safe and live to rock with your friends again.
We love camping. We love living life COVID-free. We’re hoping the two will be compatible for the next couple of weeks.
Beloved naturalist John Muir might have said it best: “Keep close to Nature’s heart … and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”
And your hands, too…
* As for that asterisk, here’s our take: We still think the closure of campgrounds was a senseless, knee-jerk response to the unknown. But while that might make sense in retrospect, we didn’t know then what we kinda know now. Well maintained bathhouses and restrooms can be safe for use. But out of respect for the managers and staff who have to mop and wipe down those public spaces, closing the campground until guidance became clear was a prudent move. Maybe it was time to reopen camping facilities – and pray the smart ones among us play the part of the smart species…