Fifteen weeks ago, right here on LIME, against my better judgment and my gut instincts, I declared publicly my intention to go camping. Specifically, I said I'd like to answer the question, Camping: fun or miserable? Only later on did it dawn on me that I'd actually agreed to find a remote wooded area, pitch a tent there, sleep in it, build a fire, cook over it, and then tell you how it all went.

What on Earth was I thinking?

I own exactly zero camping equipment and have even fewer camping skills. I've only been once before as a child, where there were adults who took charge. As I recall, the alleged fun lay in an array of self-inflicted difficulties, from not showering to cooking and eating with inferior utensils. I have no knowledge of where one might find a campsite, but I do know this: it's not as easy as wandering around in the woods, eyes cast downwards, like I'm looking to spread out my towel on the beach. No, this would require effort. And research.

To clarify, I'm open to the idea that there's fun buried somewhere beneath the layers of inconvenience and musty tarp. I welcome any chance to cook over an open flame, for example—but am I alone in thinking that the very idea of "roughing it" sounds contrived? That at least some of the time, it's more about outdoorsy bragging rights or mocking the clueless city slicker? I mean, if sleeping under the stars is all there is to it, I can do that in my own backyard. But when I press my camping-fan friends on it, they seldom mention more than the sparkling night sky overhead. What won't they tell me?

In planning my big forest getaway, I turned to the search-by-activity function of the California State Parks website, which gave me 117 options for campsites on five pages of search results. Looking at them all, my eyes glazed over, like I was a first-time tourist to New York City, staring at a freshly unfolded subway map. Where do I even begin?

Thankfully, fate intervened. Friends emailed to say they made reservations for a drive-in campsite in Portola Redwoods State Park, about an hour away, and would I like to join? Our site would be at the end of a long, winding road, nestled into a redwood grove at the bottom of a deep canyon, protected from civilization as well as the cold Pacific wind. The site had a fire pit and even coin-op showers—a definite selling point for someone looking to ease into things.

I put out an A.P.B. on a tent, sleeping bags, lantern, and anything else more experienced campers might tell me to bring. Then I compiled my own essentials list:

• water
• nuts
• seasonal fruit and vegetables
• fresh basil-garlic sausages (Note to self: do grass-fed beef hot dogs exist?)
• coffee, espresso pot, and/or French press
• plastic cocktail shaker

It occurred to me as I planned, excitedly yet apprehensively, that done right, camping might just be the ultimate Zen getaway, part of learning to coexist with life's obstacles. Or it could be masochism defined, as I've suspected all these years. Either way, I would soon find out.