The year climate came to my camper

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Picture the little, almost comical vintage teardrop camper. The sleek Scandinavian wood interior, the cushy bed that makes into a couch with a pop-up end table. The kitchen off the back with two burners, spice rack, charging stations, mini fridge and coffee pot. It carried us through the pandemic, including a trip early on to see a most precious granddaughter in Colorado. Convinced roadside bathrooms could infect us, denying us our bonding moment with our new family member, we eschewed the presumably germ-laden, people-infested rest stops and instead found off-the-highway locales for bodily needs. Not to get too into the weeds, but it involved a mini porta potty, sheets clothespinned to car doors — you get the picture.

In short, it became our refuge in trying times. Dry, off the ground, with a mighty ceiling fan and a teeny heater, it weathers many eventualities. But this summer, the year we personally smacked into climate tried the bounds of its protective spirit. Pursuing an empty nester quest, we’ve been hiking every Minnesota state park. Only 14 left! We camp, try to hit two or three parks and their respective designated trails, then rest up for the next glob of parks.

But this summer, we were hit by unusual weather at every turn. Starting with a monsoon-like deluge in early summer as we tried to knock off a few southwestern Minnesota park hikes. The rain started, sheeted through an entire day, continued through the night and developed a stream through our campsite. It was a disturbing, flooding, angry rain. We quickly packed up in the morning, worried the slight slope to the dirt road out of the site would wash out.

Early fall brought two trips. One to northwestern Minnesota parks, the wind wound up all day until at 3 a.m. tornado sirens drove us, dragging a standard poodle through the rain and lightning to the cement block bathroom for refuge. No sleep that night, just a pounding heart that was hard to settle.

Last, a fall trip to an accessible national park within easy driving distance. We’ve breezed by it, but now we were determined to engage with Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the cool fall months. The scorching heat when we stepped out at our campsite there took my breath away. We replanned our days, throwing a cooling Illuminet over the camper, seeking indoor cool activities during midday and poking our heads out as the day cooled. The temperatures were 20 degrees over the average daily for Medora, S.D.

It’s just one, anecdotal, limited sample. But it’s my eyes, my outdoor sensory systems raising alarm bells. In my heart, I feel it’s here. The change, the twisting of the formerly stable weather systems into something else. The planet pushing back, trying to right our wrongs. So we must try and push with it, seeking new solutions to temper our impact on this one of a kind spectacular planet. Maybe we just hit some bad camping days, but as a lifelong outdoorswoman I feel it was no coincidence. Oh planet Earth, message received.

Kris Potter lives in South Haven, Minn.