How Not to Camp: A True Story

It was supposed to be a simple trip—just the two of us and our cameras. A chance to unwind, capture some misty landscapes, but mostly to photograph the flowing rivers and waterfalls among the lush green landscape of the park. And for my friend, it was just that—an easy, well-planned adventure. For me? Well, let’s just say I learned a valuable lesson about the fine line between confidence and foolishness.

The rain came in bursts—hard, pounding showers that would drench everything in minutes before stopping as suddenly as they began. My clothes? Damp. My gear? Damp. The ground? Well, that was saturated. But it was fine. Early spring meant rushing waterfalls and swollen rivers, and the mist clinging to the peaks made for some incredible shots. The temperatures weren’t too bad—mid-60s at night—so I figured I could tough it out without a sleeping bag. After all, how bad could it be?

The answer arrived around midnight. 

My friend, who had all the proper camping gear, was warm and comfortable, sleeping soundly. I, on the other hand, lay on the cold, hard ground, wrapped in nothing but my own misplaced optimism. At first, I just felt a little chilled. Then, the shivering started—slow at first, like a gentle warning. But soon, it took on a life of its own, racking my body with an intensity that bordered on painful. The kind of shivering that makes your teeth chatter so hard you wonder if they’ll crack. 

Now, I’ve been cold before. We all have. But this was different. This was the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, the kind that makes your body question whether warmth was ever a thing in the first place. And the worst part? There was no escape. The ground sucked the heat right out of me, and without a blanket, without a sleeping bag, I had nothing to hold onto. 

That’s when the wolves started howling.

Or at least, I think they were wolves. Could’ve been coyotes, could’ve been my imagination. Hard to say. What I do know is that under normal circumstances, the sound would’ve been unsettling. Maybe even a little thrilling. But in that moment? I barely registered it. Because I had more pressing matters—like the fact that my body was staging a full-scale rebellion against the choices I had made. 

And then, the final blow: I had to use the bathroom.

Now, the bathroom itself wasn’t far. Just a short walk through the dark campsite, barely lit by anything other than starlight. But since I had woken up in total darkness, my eyes were already adjusted. It was an easy enough walk, and I slipped inside the bathroom without issue. 

I didn’t have a flashlight, and cell phones weren’t a thing in my life. If I needed light, I had to find it somewhere else—which, in this case, meant the blinding fluorescents of the campground bathroom.

That’s when I saw them—the bugs. Clinging to the walls, to the ceiling, their shadows twitching under the sterile glow. And then there was the mosquito—or what I assumed was a mosquito—looming above the urinal. It was the size of my head. At least. Maybe larger. I stood at what I calculated to be a safe distance, did what I needed to do, and then faced my next problem.

The bathroom lights. 

My pupils had shrunk to pinpricks in the artificial brightness, and the moment I stepped outside, everything disappeared. It wasn’t just dark—it was blacker than it had been before, like someone had painted over the entire world. My tent? My truck? Both were somewhere in the murky void, but I had no idea where. I stood there for a moment, debating whether to stumble blindly into the darkness or just sleep on the bathroom floor. It wasn’t a great set of options.

I made it back eventually—mostly by feeling my way along the ground like some kind of nocturnal creature—but at that point, I was shaking so hard that lying on the cold, unforgiving ground again was out of the question. Instead, I retreated to my truck, started it up, and sat there with the heat blasting, trying to reclaim some body warmth. 

I’m not sure how long I sat there, but at some point, I realized something: this was miserable. No part of this was enjoyable anymore. The wolves, the wet ground, the mutant insects—it was all one big cosmic joke at my expense. And I wasn’t laughing.

The next night, my friend and I made a decision. We packed up and got a hotel, where we cranked up the heat, stretched out in real beds, and slept—really slept—for the first time in days. And in the morning? We enjoyed a continental breakfast, warm coffee in hand, marveling at just how much better life felt with a little warmth and dry clothes.

I wouldn’t trade that trip for anything. The waterfalls, the rivers, the mist—it was everything I had hoped for, and I had a great time. But that one night? That was enough to send me straight to an outdoor store as soon as I got home. I bought all the camping gear I should have had in the first place. Because if there’s one thing I knew for sure, it was this: I was never going to be that cold again.

Looking back, I laugh about it now. I got the photos I wanted, spent time in nature, and made some memories—some better than others. And as I sit here, warm and comfortable, I realize that the best adventures are the ones that teach you something. 

And the park? Well, you might have heard of it—it’s called Great Smoky Mountains National Park.