07/14/2025
Many have asked what is it like being a campground host? From another work camper site,this best describes it :
CONFESSIONS OF A CAMP HOST: THE FIREWOOD HUSTLE & DUMPSTER DIVE
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be a camp host during peak season, imagine juggling flaming marshmallows while herding raccoons—blindfolded—during a kazoo concert. That was basically my weekend.
It all started with the Great Extra Vehicle Uprising. Apparently, no one this weekend has ever been charged for their boat or second car. Not once. Not in 40 years of camping. Never mind the giant sign at the gate, the website, or the paperwork they signed. “We camp here all the time,” they say, as if that line magically waives fees. I tried that at the grocery store once. “I shop here all the time,” I said. They still made me pay for the pickles.
Then came the Firewood Fiasco. We ran out of bundles by Saturday morning. But no one told the deli, who kept selling wood like we had a forest in the back pocket. Guests showed up with receipts and empty hands, and I had to MacGyver a solution. So there I was—digging through old fire pits like an archaeologist of charred regret—collecting leftover wood scraps. We bundled them, called them “eco-reclaimed artisan kindling,” and sold them with a straight face. Some guy actually said, “Wow, this stuff smells aged.” Yes, sir. Aged since Tuesday.
Meanwhile, the restrooms looked like a paper towel convention had exploded. Kids ran in and out like it was a water park, decorating the place with soap foam and shredded toilet paper like it was a frat party for squirrels. I stopped one little boy and asked, “Where are your parents?” and he just pointed in five different directions and ran off.
Mid-morning Sunday, I watched a father attempt to ride his kid’s bike down the hill, because clearly gravity doesn’t apply to adults. Long story short: gravity does apply, and collarbones do break. We all learned something that day.
The dumpsters? Well, they reached what I call “trashcano” status. Overflowing, uncontainable, majestic. The only logical step was for me to climb in and stomp it down like I was trying out for a sanitation-themed Cirque du Soleil. It’s not glamorous work, but now I know what lasagna, sunscreen, and regret smell like when baked in the sun for three days.
And of course, we had the Double Booking Debacle. Two families, one site. Awkward silence. Tense stares. It was like a camping version of the Hunger Games. We solved it, but not before one of the dads suggested they all just sleep in one big tent “to make it interesting.”
Lastly, the noise complaint: “Our neighbors are playing music too loud!” I walk over. Silence. Not even a cricket. I stand. I listen. I hear a pine cone drop. “Maybe it was earlier,” they say. I nod. “Maybe,” I reply, while questioning my sanity.
So yeah. Being a camp host is a wild ride. But I still love it—mostly because every night, as the sun sets over the smoky remains of mystery firewood, I can sit back, crack open a soda, and wonder… What could possibly go wrong tomorrow?
(Answer: probably everything.)
