The Column: Glamping just isn't in my nature

Glamping?

Easily mistaken as part of the Dr. Seuss vocabulary (“I gleeped, I glurped, I even glamped, I would not eat green eggs and ham…”), the term refers instead to leisure activity favored by vacationers yearning for a meaningful outdoor experience, so long as there are fresh towels and, if possible, air conditioning.

“Glamping is where stunning nature meets modern luxury,” promised glamping.com. “It’s a way to experience the untamed and completely unique parts of the world — without having to sacrifice creature comforts.”

According to the website, posh wayfarers can experience those rare domains in Airstream trailers, deluxe tents (some with bathrooms), barns, tree houses, even snazzy teepees.

This, says Forbes magazine, is camping for travelers accustomed to “the most coveted and beautiful natural destinations” and high-end hotels with “resort-like amenities.”

In the Catskills, one company offers glampers a blissful retreat in cylindrical, Scandinavian-style cabins that come with Pendleton robes and fancy linens. “You’ll never want to leave!” says the proprietor.

Leave?

Here’s news: I wouldn’t be sampling hinterland splendor in the first place.

No Pendleton bathrobe or 400-count percale bedsheet will lure me into a tepee. Even if lodging were perched on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and Bloody Marys delivered by burro every morning, I’m not bunking in barn, treehouse or barrel-shaped Scandinavian cottage.

Do I speak for others when I say the boonies are far more tempting in theory than practice and that Woody Allen spoke with infinite wisdom when he said, “I love nature, I just don’t want to get any of it on me?”

A friend recently said she was taking her older parents hiking somewhere along the Appalachian Trail.

“No kidding,” I asked. “Why?”

“Fresh air, can’t beat it,” she said.

“Don’t tell my kids.”

Going back to the Boy Scouts in Brooklyn, I can’t recall a single good camping experience. None.

Damp bedding at upstate Ten Mile River and, for dinner, a chicken leg wrapped in aluminum foil and tossed in the fire — but not quite long enough to make you forget that the bird likely was clucking around the barnyard a few days before.

Once, my wife, Wink, and I owned a Volkswagen camper — ingenious little vehicle that astoundingly had sleeping space for our family of six. This was when I had not yet grown wary of rustic life and thought the children should come to appreciate provincial delights. I was still young and had much to learn.

Stacked like a tube of Pringles, we found ourselves one night in a Canadian campground.

Black flies swarmed and immediately identified us as targets of opportunity. Desperate, we closed the windows — imagine the accumulated body heat — and imposed an early curfew.

We were a cheerful pint-size touring company meaning no harm and had just fallen asleep when the Hells Angels or an affiliate rolled in. Exhausts thundered, peace massively disturbed.

The bikers silenced their pipes but not their voices. Partying went on and on. Inside the VW, we were a wilted vacuum-packed posse, for sure.

“Fun, huh?” I said the next morning, hoping to improve the mood.

From the sullen crew eating Life cereal and packaged powdered doughnuts, came only a resentful silence.

“When do we go home?” was the question of the day.

Who could have blamed them?

Another time, Wink persuaded me to spend the night at campground in Vermont.

It was one of those commercial places and had a long building with showers.

Dressed in striped pajamas, faded terry cloth bathrobe and sad rubber flip-flops — something less than lumberjack chic — I headed for the facility.

Every shower stall was taken. There would be a wait. Mournful, I sat on rock.

Wink happened to walk by.

“You look miserable,” she said.

“When do we go home?” I asked.

Maybe I would feel differently in more swell surroundings, though why bother when you could be on the couch watching the Mets?

Also, glamping is not always popular with nearby residents. On Long Island, there were complaints when a Suffolk summer camp offered tent accommodations with queen-sized beds and comfy linens.

Newsday reported fears that upscale visitors would tax the water system and wander into neighboring yards.

Folks, you’re safe with me. I’m staying snug and indoors, where I belong.