How to Ruin a Camping Trip in Three Minutes or Less
(Disclaimer: This happened three years ago, but people still laugh about it—and I’ve finally recovered enough to talk about it without twitching.)
A little background: At the time, we had two small dogs—Loki (the white one, who sadly passed this January 💔) and Odie (the black one). This story starts on a beautiful spring Thursday morning. The camper was hitched, the fridge was stocked, the neighbors had been notified, and Dawn had even arranged for someone to water her precious plants. We were supposed to meet up with two other couples for a long weekend at Land Between the Lakes. Everything was going smoothly… almost too smoothly.
Dawn says, “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” which if you’ve been married more than a week you know translates to anywhere between five minutes and the next lunar cycle. As I’m loading last-minute gear, she shouts something from another room that sounded like a Wi-Fi password during a thunderstorm. Dawn knows I can’t hear half of what she says, so naturally she waits until she’s in a completely different zip code before trying to communicate. But I digress—that’s a marriage story for another time.
Turns out, she wanted me to let the dogs out one last time before we hit the road. No problem—we’ve got a big fenced yard. The dogs wander onto the deck. Loki, the nimble little athlete, suddenly perks up. Off he goes, ears high, tail even higher. Odie, who’s built more like a throw pillow with legs and generally moves at the speed of syrup, decides today, of all days, is the day he wants to sprint after his brother. Cute, right?
Wrong.
I look up and see what I think is a cat. But this cat has a very concerning white racing stripe down its back. Not a cat. Definitely not a cat.
I yell for the dogs to stop—because that always works (said no dog owner ever). They hit the corner of the fence just as I get close. The skunk does a quick 180, lifts its tail, and BAM. Hits all three of us like a biological weapon. It’s in my nose, my eyes, my soul.
Naturally, Loki and Odie decide they’ve had enough fun and bolt back toward the house. For the first time in history, Odie is actually leading a race. I’m 15 feet behind them, flailing and yelling, “STOP! STAY OUTSIDE!” as if they’re going to listen now.
Dawn hears the chaos and opens the door to investigate. I scream, “DON’T OPEN THE—” Too late. The doors swing open and in come the dogs, trailing stank like it’s their job.
Odie heads straight for the couch, throws himself on it, and begins to roll like he’s marinating it in Eau de Skunk. Loki dives onto the bed and starts doing the same thing. Dawn is frozen in horror. Then she smells it. Her expression shifts from confusion to pure trauma.
She yells for me to grab Odie while she tries to extract Loki like he’s a live grenade. When she walks out of the bedroom, holding Loki at arm’s length like toxic waste, she stops, looks at me, and says something. I have no idea what it was, but I’m 99% sure it wouldn’t be allowed on network TV.
Eventually, she kicks me and both dogs out of the house. “You all smell the same. You deal with it.” Fair enough.
Needless to say, we did not go camping that weekend. The couch was saved (barely), but she got a brand new comforter set out of the deal. As for me, I had to unhook the camper and drive to the pet store—but only after I was forbidden from getting within 20 feet of her car.
Thankfully, the pet store had some miracle formula that worked on all three of us. Me, Odie, and Loki smelled like slightly skunky citrus for a week, but at least we were allowed back inside the house.
So yes, this technically counts as a camping story. Because if we weren’t heading out that morning, we never would’ve met the black-and-white bandit. And as much as it stunk (literally), it’s now one of those unforgettable memories that makes camping so… special.
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