It’s fairly rare for married couples to like their in-laws, so I feel the need to preface this by saying that, as far as in-laws go, I’ve hit the friggin jackpot. They’re all equally free-spirited, non-judgmental, friendly, happy and outgoing. They’re the kind of people who, when I hear “Jai Ho” at my wedding and say, “TWO LINES! TWO LINES!” they immediately take turns boogieing their way down the middle. And becoming a Wilkes(-Krier) has taught me that it’s not about changing yourself to fit in with the family you married into, plastering on a fake smile and being who you think they want you to be. It’s about being who you are and discovering how well you just happen to fit into their dynamic.

And so off we ventured into the land of adobes and cactus plants and buildings named after Georgia O’Keefe, because while most members of the Wilkes family are California dreamers, the hosts reside in New Mexico, where we’d be spending the days camping and rafting.

We’d been warned about the unrelenting heat and powerful Santa Fe sun, which, turns out isn’t any worse than the powerful Florida sun. And throughout the past few months I’ve come to know the Florida sun quite well. In fact, I’d say we’re even friends, kindly neighbors who borrow a cup of sugar or pick up each others mail when one of us goes out of town. Anyway, I was paranoid headed out west for the first time into the blazing hot desert sun, so we made sure to pack layers. Of course, for me, that meant packing every article of clothing I owned including that one shirt I don’t even like to wear that I only own because I “borrowed” it from Kelsey in 2009.

Being that I’m a packing magician, I thought for days about the most strategic way to pack all of our belongings – mine, which had been stacked out in piles on the dressing table for more than a month (not kidding), and Patrick’s, which included all his golf clothing and gear he would need when he headed to a golf tournament immediately following the reunion. Here’s what I came up with: I drew a venn diagram of all of Patrick’s things, one circle for things he would need only in Santa Fe, one circle for things he would need only in Houston at his golf tournament and the center included t-shirts and shorts he’d wear during both weeks. So everything in circle one and the overlapping area went into suitcase A, which Patrick would bring with him to his tournament and everything in the second circle PLUS all of my stuff would go in suitcase B, which I’d bring back home to Orlando and gosh I’m enjoying the retelling of this packing story and why can’t everyone love packing as much as I do? Because yeah, for probably every person besides me, this paragraph about suitcases is super, incredibly boring.

The only reason I went into the details of our packing situation is to tell you that we’re completely new to camping. I used to go camping with my family as a kid in a camper at a campground, which is snob camping. These days the only camping I do is at a Hotel with four walls and a bed. AND RUNNING WATER. Which, living in the United States in they year 2011 doesn’t seem like a lot to ask for. So in order to bring only what we needed and not two large suitcases filled with every piece of clothing we collectively own, I had to repack several times throughout the course of this vacation. I’m not telling you all of this to complain — quite the contrary — it was actually one of the highlights of the trip, I’d say.

But despite bringing nearly every single thing I owned, I still had to do a bit of shopping to find a sun hat with a strap. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I brought several sun hats. No, none of them have straps. I thought we’d be wearing helmets during the rafting portion of the trip, so I didn’t have the foresight to shop in advance for a rafting hat. I’ll skip the part about how we wandered the streets of Santa Fe trying on hats that either A) were too expensive B) only had straps made out of dead animal carcass (see: leather) C) were too granny-style for my liking and I’d never wear again or D) some combination of all of these. Most of the hats I found that were reasonably priced were the sans-strap type, and seeing as how I have plenty of those, it seemed silly to buy another. But, I went ahead and got one anyway, along with a pair of shoelaces that my genius inventor husband fashioned into a strap with a (FANCY!) slipknot. And this is why I married him.

The hat is, well, large enough to act as a sail for a small-to-medium-sized sailboat. And for my next trick, I shall stand with my hands at my sides and my shadow will be nothing more than a perfect circle. Next showing: high noon.

We drove by some of the most breathtaking landscapes until we reached the Rio Chama and our campsite. We dunked our toes into the freezing water and, as much as I hate cold water, it felt refreshing. It just seemed so clean (Giardia aside) and peaceful. We went to work setting up tents (eh em, I should clarify that they went to work setting up tents while I snapped photos, and my tent magically went up all by itself while I had my back turned). We prepared food, scooped ice into our drink cups and played catch. I remember looking around at all the smiling faces that had come together from all corners of the country – Napa, New York, Santa Barbara, Ann Arbor, Santa Cruz, Orlando – and here we all were, laughing together in Santa Fe.

I joined a few of the ladies who were headed on a short hike up to the restrooms. And, as soon as I heard the word “outhouse,” my day got a lot worse. My poor mother-in-law, Wendy, felt so bad for me, she offered to touch the door handles going into and out of the bathroom for me. If I was going to pee into a giant hole, I told her, what difference does it make whether I touch the friggin door handle?

For those of you who haven’t seen an outhouse because you’re not an avid camper or because you’re not currently living in a third-world country, here’s my advice to you: don’t make the mistake of looking down the hole. It’s been weeks and I still have nightmares that I’ll fall through and DROWN by INHALING the contents of that runny pool of excrement with tampons floating on top. I think it’s best if I don’t talk about this anymore. All that is left to say is that within a window of 30-some odd hours, I used the outhouse only three times, and only to go number one. Luckily I brought an array of soaps in my dop kit – yes, I brought a dop kit on a camping trip – and demanded that someone pour some of our drinking water over my freshly lathered hands. I think it goes without saying that I won the award for Weekend’s Prissiest Little Camper.

My sleeping bag was lime green, which was perfect and lovely and made me excited about sleeping on the ground. It zipped up all the way up to the fitted hood, leaving only a small hole for my face to stick out. The place Patrick and I had chosen for our tent was under a large tree overlooking the river, and the view was magnificent. The sound of the flowing river was calming, but it didn’t help my bladder situation. Surrounding our campground were some of the most awe-inspiring rock formations in all shades, and the colors only became more vibrant as the setting sun kissed them goodnight.

After brushing our teeth (with water from our water bottle and then spitting on the ground), we piled on layered sweats and laid out looking at the sky while bats circled overhead. With no ambient glow from nearby cities, the stars popped brightly out of the dark New Mexico sky. I think we saw about six shooting stars between the bunch of us, but I only saw three. Wendy saw zero. Sorry, Wendy. A consolation prize:

Climbing into our tent was really cozy, and I remember thinking that despite having to pee in an outhouse, I really loved camping.

Unfortunately, that sentiment only lasted about 15 minutes until every bone in my body started to ache. The ground was hard, and beneath my sleeping bag there was only a thin pad and the bottom lining of my tent between me and what felt like a slab of marble. My hip was digging into the ground, so I rolled onto my back, and let me tell you, I didn’t realize just how many bones I have in my back.

I had a doctor who once called me a stegosaurus. It was for a physical when I was in maybe sixth or eighth grade or something, and he put his stethoscope on my back to listen to my lungs. Seated on the edge of the table, I was leaning forward with my back rounded and my elbows resting on my knees. “Wow, look at those bones, stegosaurus,” he said. “I mean, those vertebrae are really sticking out there. Strange.” Yes, he said strange. Never a good day when your doctor looks at your body and goes, “Huh. Strange.”

Funny time to bring up such a non-related memory except that while I laid there, desperate for sleep and unable to draw in full breaths this one memory played in my head like a film strip over and over all night long as the weight of my body pushed my bones against the hard ground. When I couldn’t stand being on my back anymore, I shifted onto one side, but wedged my arm beneath me to try to pad my body. I did that until my arm fell asleep, then rolled to the other side. And this went on all night until it got so bad I just had to sit up; Patrick sleeping soundly.

I heard footsteps in the middle of the night, steps that got louder and more frightening as they neared my tent. I shifted over so that I was on my knees, still zipped inside my sleeping bag with the hood up, mind you, and then wiggled my arm up and out the face hole. I figured if someone was going to unzip my tent, I’d be ready to throw a good punch! Looking back, I realize that this wouldn’t be unlike trying to ward off an attacker with your arm velcroed to the side of your head, but after hours of not sleeping and stressing about having to ration your water to keep from having to pee into a giant cesspool, I sat there waiting, anticipating every step and the moment I would strike, until the steps became more and more distant and then I heard the zipping noise of a nearby tent: it was probably just a relative coming back from the bathroom. I laid back down, my heart still racing. And then my nose started to bleed for the zillionth time since stepping off the plane in Albuquerque.

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