Our family has not been camping since the twins were born. We gave our nifty two room tent to a couple more inclined to such adventures, and it has seen a few sites. More than it did in our basement anyway. 

 

There were lovely times spent in Yosemite, the Redwoods, and along the beaches of California. A less stellar time was a weekend in Albuquerque, when not only did the kids get sick but two of our tires went flat. Fortunately John was proactive enough to fix the first one before the other followed suit. Not sure how one gets to the local garage with a pair of flats. Then there was the incident when the bears broke into our in-laws car, in search of peanut butter. I listened to the commotion from the thin protection of my sleeping bag. 

 

Anyway, I recall the regular occurrence of two separate reactions, each time we made the plunge into the great outdoors. 

 

"This is marvelous! Why don't I do it more?"

 

and

 

"This is a huge hassle. How did I forget and do it again?"

 

After awhile I began to recognize the responses, and let them float by. That was indeed how I felt at the moment, either because the kids were exploring the woods, and dinner was cooking over a fire, or the bugs were horrendous and the lantern wouldn't light. 

 

I suppose if I wanted a pristine experience I should have leaned toward high end resorts, rather than nothing more than a canvas wall between me and the local wildlife. And yet my impression, based on no research whatsoever, is that even the guests at exclusive hotels can get miffed. Annoyed. Downright ornery. 

 

Perhaps the problem is that I am relying on the premise that a "good" experience is one that goes according to plan. My plan.