Welcome to Trip Reports, where we invite real families to share their stories of adventuring with their kids. Today's report comes from Monica Stockbridge from Denver, Colorado. Have a story you want to share? Email us at hello@morrisonoutdoors.com !
What's scarier, a growling black bear or a hangry two-year-old?
A few years back, I started bringing my kid camping. She was 18 months old at the time. We brought the pack-and-play, the SlumberPod, the white noise, the bedtime books, you name it—and she slept like a champ, tucked in her Little Mo sleeping bag. We went alone at first, then gradually joined groups of other car-camping families, trading camp dinner recipes and checking out different tent set-ups.
On one such trip, I connected with another mom who mentioned how much she enjoyed backpacking. "But not with your kid, right?" I asked, skeptical.
"Yep," she said, totally serious. “I’ve backpacked with him a few times now.”
He was three, and mine had just turned two. Then she said that she'd be glad to go with me. I heard myself saying "Let's do it!" The next thing I knew, we were marking our calendars for a mom-and-toddler backpacking trip.
Now, I’m a big fan of camping. I love sleeping in a tent and connecting with nature. I’ve camped dozens of times, but to be truthful, I’ve only backpacked twice, and they were grown-ups-only, supported trips with chefs and showers. Leading up to this particular backpacking adventure, I watched multiple videos on how to pack a backpack (thanks, Anastasia of Kula Cloth!). I ordered extra hydration bags and even rented a Trail Magik kid carrier that would clip to my pack for when I needed to carry my daughter. I set up our little tent multiple times in my basement, coaching my sweet two-year-old that soon we would "nap" overnight in the tent together and would have “so much fun!”
We were ready.
The day of the trip, my friend and I met at a trailhead only about 60 minutes from my home in case we needed to bail (smart of us, right?). We walked along a beautiful trail, just over a mile, but it took about 90 minutes with our toddlers leading the way. The weather was perfect and the sky was clear. We arrived at camp, dropped our 40-pound packs, and began pitching our tents, trying not to gouge our small children with tent poles.
Dinner was a flurry of guarding my hangry toddler from the overflowing JetBoil and slurping too-watery mac' and cheese while trying to keep bunny-shaped pasta from falling to the forest floor. It was fun, though. My friend and I talked about parenting while trying to keep our own passions alive.
Just as my daughter began leaning against our tent saying, "nap, nap!"—just like we'd practiced!—my friend and I heard a deep, loud growl from behind a rock outcropping merely 25 feet away.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
"Yeah," I whispered, frozen in place.
She grabbed her son's hand. "I think it's a B-E-A-R."
We fell completely silent, listening, while my kid fiddled with a toy dinosaur in the dirt. We heard it again, more distinct this time.
“We should be loud,” my friend said, “Let it know we’re here.” Without missing a beat, I began belting out “O’ when the saints go marching in.” Why that song? I have no idea. I smiled a big, cheesy grin at my daughter, then turned back to the rocks, looking for a tuft of brown fur, a rustling branch, anything.
My friend and I came to the decision that we didn’t feel safe staying, just us and our little ones. It was a tough call. I was so committed to camping through the night and bailing felt like such a failure. I had wanted to prove myself. Was I not brave enough? Was I just pretending to be a real nature mom?
Looking back on it, the choice to break camp and hike out at sunset wasn’t a failure. Not in the slightest! I carried 70 pounds at times. I set up, cooked, and cleaned all the things, all by myself. I hiked twice the mileage I expected in one day, and I decided to go with my gut when it came to keeping my kid safe. Even though we didn't stick it out, I proved to myself that I was stronger and tougher than I thought—and that I could still have an adventure even if the outcome wasn't what I expected. That right there is parenting gold—the kind of lesson I want my daughter (and now, son) to come away with.
Epilogue:
I returned to that campground about a year later, this time with my sister, my niece, my (then 3-year-old) daughter, and my new three-month-old son. Strength in numbers kept us feeling much more confident, and no one saw a bear. But, as we hiked out the next morning, my sister pulled me aside. “Last night, when I crept out of the tent to use the restroom,” she whispered,” I definitely heard a growl!”
Monica Parpal Stockbridge is a writer, camping enthusiast, and mom of two based in Denver, Colorado. She is the author of “Best Tent Camping: Colorado” (6th edition, Menasha Ridge Press) and enjoys exploring her home state with her husband and kids. Learn more and find her guidebook at https://www.monicastockbridge.com.
