Small Tents, Big Views

Our family vacation this summer was the first time I had been in Yellowstone National Park since my friend Matt and I camped there on our cross-country trek home from Fuller Seminary in Pasadena, California, more than 20 years ago. By the time we figured out our plans and made our reservations back in February, the only lodging available in the park was camping. 

The family was a bit skeptical when I made this announcement, so I pointed out that we often did some sort of camping adventure each summer, albeit typically much closer to home. And maybe for not quite as long. And eventually they came around.

The rest of the family may have been unsure at first, but I was thrilled. For one, the adventure level of our trip just rose significantly. Why sleep in a nice soft bed when you could pretend to be Buffalo Bill Cody? For another, to be honest, we would end up saving hundreds of dollars per night, and this made the bottom line significantly easier on the budget. But truth be told, the biggest reason I was thrilled was because I remembered the campsite Matt and I had had back in 1999, and it was the best campsite in the world.

Our first campsite this summer in Yellowstone

I was transferring from Fuller Seminary to Princeton Seminary that summer, and my friend Matt graciously agreed to fly out and make the drive back to Grand Rapids with me.

We had about two weeks to complete the journey, and we attempted to cram as much of the country into our travels as possible. First we went north to Yosemite and hiked Half Dome. Then spent a night with my brother in Berkeley. North some more to a friend in Seattle. Then east to Glacier National Park. From there we jumped over to Yellowstone.

We arrived at the park late at night. This was a problem. We didn’t have camping reservations—back then a significant part of the campgrounds were first-come, first-served—and we’d arrived too late to claim any sites. I had planned to find a National Forest campground on the way into Yellowstone, but the night was so dark that we completely missed the signs for these campgrounds, and before we knew it we had arrived at the entrance gate to Yellowstone.

We thought briefly about trying to backtrack, but my ten-year-old Ford Escort hatchback, crammed full with all my earthly possessions, had developed a bit of a hiccup, especially going up mountains, and I didn’t want to risk going down out of the park and then needing to get back up to the park entrance. We double checked two of the closest campgrounds in the park, and seeing that they were both indeed full, we pulled into a parking lot near the visitor center and slept in the car.

Our second campsite in Yellowstone

While not the most comfortable, this had the advantage of us getting an early start on the next day. Up by 6:30 as the dawn was just breaking, we drove down to a more central campground and tried to find a spot. Indeed, a number of sites on the inner loop were already cleared out, and while they weren’t anything special, they would serve are needs just fine. We started setting up our tent.

As we were putting the rainfly on, however, I looked down the road to the end of the loop and saw the folks in the end site—the absolute prime location with the best possible view—starting to break camp. Before they were even off the site, I told Matt to go down there and ask if they were clearing out and if it would be okay for him to stay around to claim the site when they left. Turns out they were indeed leaving, so Matt sat at their picnic table while they finished up. I paused on setting up our tent, watched carefully until their camper was gone, and then I lifted our tent above my head and marched it down the road to the end site where Matt was waiting. I placed it in a flat spot with a great view of a spectacular meadow and a meandering creek, and started working on getting the rainfly on.

I soon noticed that Matt was no longer helping. I looked up to see him in a conversation with a preppy-looking guy in a polo shirt leaning out the window of a massive motorhome. This motorhome was massive. I mean…massive. Did I mention it was massive? This guy was leaning out the window of the passenger side just so Matt was able to hear him. Even so, Matt was looking straight up in order to be able to see him.

By the time I got there, I heard, “We’ll give you twice what you paid for the site…” These guys were trying to buy the campsite off us. The deal actually sounded kind of good to me—I was the one who had agreed to cover all the costs of our lodging on the way home, after all. But Matt responded, “No, thanks.” “Four times then.” Matt shook his head. “Nah. We’re good.” I almost strangled Matt. I would have taken the money. But it was too late now as the preppy-looking guy scowled and the motorhome drove on.

We finished setting up our dinky little two-person tent in this spacious site on the end of the campground loop, and the motorhome ended up taking the site right across the road from ours on the inside of the loop. I didn’t feel too bad—they still had a great view and our little tent was hardly in their way at all. Had it been reversed, however, their giant motorhome would have blocked the view of the meadow entirely and no one else in the campground would have been able to enjoy it at all.

We were there two nights, waking up to elk in the meadow down by the creek. It was fabulous. We explored the park by day and came back late in the evening to make our supper. We didn’t have camp chairs along, so we’d sit on the ground with our backs against a log and watch the light shifting in the meadow as the sun went down. And there was something about being in the shadow of that massive motorhome, knowing that at least once in this world money hadn’t been able to buy everything, that made those couscous tacos taste all the better.

Our campsite this summer in Grand Teton

Elizabeth will be preaching this week on James 2, where it warns against showing favoritism based on the wealth, power, or perceived influence of the other person. In the church, James says, the way you treat others shouldn’t depend on how much money they have. The small tents should get the nice spots, should be given the same power and influence, just as much as if not more than the massive motorhomes. It’s easy to focus on the bling, but James encourages us to focus on the person. And people, in God’s economy, are worth the same, no matter how preppy or drab they might look.

Our family this summer didn’t have quite the same campsites as the one Matt and I enjoyed back in the day. They were still nice—but not quite as other-worldly as that one long ago. And while we still enjoyed waking up to elk and to bison, and the overall trip was just as epic as I had envisioned, the missing motorhome made it just a bit less memorable.