A Hard Trip Worth Taking
On camping with a toddler, near meltdowns, and the quiet triumphs of doing things the hard way.
My latest obsession culminated in some wonderful highs and a few severe lows this past weekend. Back in December, I decided that 2025 would be the year I’d take my young family camping. Knowing my wife is a big city girl and my son is only two, I set out to build a setup that was as close to glamping as possible—a huge tent with a porch area, a big comfortable bed with layers of bedding and pillows, a solid cooking setup, and even a few decorative touches. The catch? It all had to fit into three giant duffle bags and onto a foldable dolly, because we don’t have a car—and I don’t want to rent one.
After months of planning, online shopping, and even a dry run in May, we finally set off last week on a two-night camping adventure by train. The first setback came the night before, when I found out that the train line was under construction and wouldn’t take us all the way. There was a replacement bus, but hauling 70 kg (150 lbs) of gear, a stroller, and a toddler with a tired partner in tow? Not ideal. I bit the bullet and hired an Uber to bridge the last stretch.
By the time we arrived, it was 32°C (90°F), and our pitch had no shade. The plan had been for me to arrive early and set everything up so it would be cozy when mom and son showed up after his nap. But the train delays blew that plan. Instead, I found myself racing under the blazing sun to assemble our oversized tent and all the fixings while mom and son played in the stream that ran alongside our pitch.
I was about 90% done when our son suddenly needed a nap. We laid him down in the tent, and he quickly fell asleep. Then we noticed his cheeks were red. My wife was visibly worried. I was, too. I checked the thermometer inside the tent—it was 45°C (113°F). I tried lifting him gently to place him in the stroller and move him to the shade. He woke up, of course. And from that moment—right at the official start of our trip—things started to go downhill.
We couldn’t find anything when we needed it. My wife and I were both exhausted and scatterbrained, struggling to keep up with our son’s energy. I felt a sense of anxiety I hadn’t felt in a long time—the kind that doesn’t come from anything specific but from a general fear that something isn’t right.
Then came the near breaking point: over dinner, while sitting in the ‘gazebo’ part of our sauna-like tent, our son played with the tiny battery-powered fan—our one source of relief. I was glad he had it. Then, like any curious two-year-old, he stuck his fork straight into the spinning blades. The fan stopped.
I stood up, walked away, and called a friend. I asked if he could come pick us up. He lived over an hour away, but he said yes. He could be there by 10PM. So now we had a way out—and time to think about it.
By 9PM, the temperature began to drop. We got more organized. When my friend called to ask if we still needed the rescue, we told him no. We decided to stay.
From that point on, everything turned around. I broke out glow sticks and sparklers. We even watched a movie projected onto the tent wall. My son saw his first stars that night.
The next day was even hotter, but we had learned. We set up a shaded picnic area where he could nap safely. On our final morning, we had breakfast in the tent while light rain tapped on the roof. The trains were running smoothly again, so I walked with my wife and son to the station, saw them off, and returned to begin a three-hour pack-up. My train home was on a far-flung platform, so I carried each duffle down and up a flight of stairs.
I don’t expect pity. You might even be thinking this all sounds pretty tame. And you’d be right. These are first-world problems. But still—it was a major physical challenge. A logistical one. And an emotional one.
Seeing my son sweating in that tent, knowing the next day would be even hotter, I felt like I’d failed him. Like I had brought my family into an unsafe situation—which, in a way, I had.
But the biggest lesson? It’s okay to ask for help. Normally, I pride myself on being resilient. But something about this situation just cracked me open. And I made that call. I think just knowing we had a path out gave us the space to regroup. And that’s exactly what we did.
I like to believe that these kinds of experiences offer something that all-inclusive resorts can’t. Everything is harder when camping—especially with a toddler. But sitting in a chair that night, my son singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star under his first real starry sky? That moment alone was worth every ounce of effort—and maybe even the teasing I’ll get from the good friend who picked up his phone that day.
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