I like to think I’m a pretty cheerful sort of person, but I wouldn’t describe myself as a happy camper – only because my lifelong aversion to the idea of forgoing a hotel room for a tent presumably disqualifies me from using the term. Given I once found myself bushwalking while wearing high heels (much to the amusement of a busload of German tourists I encountered mid trek), I’m not sure I am made of the right stuff to risk sharing a sleeping bag with one of the many venomous creatures inhabiting Australia’s great outdoors. So it was with some relief I discovered Stellar columnist David Campbell shares this suspicion of camping, an experience he believes requires otherwise sensible people to settle in for the night in locations “known for John Jarratt-esque serial killers”. As Campbell reveals, however, his disdain for the activity was challenged when his son’s school decided to hold a parent-child camp. You can read for yourself how it turned out. As for me, I’m just glad my sons don’t go to that school.