Is it too cold to go camping yet? It’s too cold, right? I know some of you outdoorsy people who own North Face fleece jackets (and actually use them in the woods) will say “Hell no!” because you like to camp all year long. You probably camp in the winter. You probably camp naked in January, and you know how to stay warm by burying yourself in snow and pine branches, sharing the body heat of several raccoons you humanely captured and then befriended just like our noble neighbors to the north – the Eskimos – who have done for over five hundred thousand years.

I know nothing about the outdoors. Or animals. Or history.

I really want to go camping. I haven’t gone a camping trip since I was, like, 12, and you really can’t call that camping. I went to a campground with my aunt and cousins and there was an outdoor swimming pool and some pinball machines. Basically, we paid money to sleep in a tent 40 feet from a snack shop/canoe rental outfit. But hey, I didn’t shower and there was a small campfire involved. You can’t argue with that.

Swimming pools and snack shops are not what I want. Everyone’s always talking about the Chippewa Valley’s natural beauty, and I want get out there in it, man. I want trees and rivers and animals and seclusion and non-hot-dog-based meals cooked over a fire I ignited myself from banging rocks together over dry sticks or by using matches pulled from an outdoorsy-looking box.

And what about fishing? People fish while they camp, right? Of course they do – unless all those Hardy Boys adventure books lied to me, in which case, Fraklin W. Dixon can go screw himself. You shouldn’t mess with little boys’ heads like that, you sick jerk. But if I can believe in Mr. Dixon’s well-crafted paragraphs, I’d like to go fishing whilst on my theoretical camping trip. Fly fishing. I want to whip a giant, fuzzy lure back and forth over my head for no apparent reason and then catch a trout big enough to feed my whole family without risk of parasitic infection.

And hiking! I want to lace up my boots early in the morning and lead my little camping family up ridges and down valleys and across rivers over yonder. I want to forge trails, man! Is all this too much to ask? Can’t a guy like me do a little light forging around here? Yes! I can!

I want to spend a weekend sucking in fresh air and campfire smoke. I want to get a healthy glow in my cheeks from outdoor exercise. I want to stroll up to a majestic black bear and scratch that cuddly guy right behind the ears. My daughter would love that.

I want to get back to basics and keep things simple. As long as you can borrow some essential equipment (like a camping stove and a cordless electric beer cooler), and you don’t need to drive 80 miles to a park, buy a pass, and then drive eighty more miles into The Bush – it should be pretty cheap. A tent, some warm clothes, a compass, some outdoorsy looking matches, a huge freaking survival knife, night vision binoculars, a high-powered hunting rifle, and a collapsible cup – that’s all you need, right? Easy.

So, if it’s so gosh-dern easy, why haven’t I done it yet? I keep telling my wife that we should go camping, and she always says, “Yes, please,” and them I get all moony and think about it for about five more minutes before completely forgoing about it. I do this all the time. Whenever there’s something I really want to do, I have a tendency to build it up in my head. A lot. And then I feel all this pressure to make it cool. Then self-doubt sets in, and I feel like there’s no possible way I can make my real life (or the life of those around me) match the over-inflated vision bouncing around inside my skull.

I’ve really got to get over that self-destructive process. Even more so, I need to stop whining about getting over that self-destructive process. I need to grab my family, grab a tent, and just get out there in it, man.

Know any good campgrounds? Maybe one with a snack shop?