Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

The Clinch clan sure

livens up a campsite

As a family, we thought it would be a ton of fun to head out on a camping trip.

Turns out that thinking about it was as fun as it got. It wasn't so much the fact that the campsites were cramped with trash, flies and people wanting to "get away from it all" that got us down. Nor was it that the last site had been condemned by the Health Department. It was the sign posted in the middle of the road that said, "Next Campsite 130 miles."

"Is there anything closer?" we asked the campground host with desperate optimism.

"Well," he replied as he raised a brow, "there is a campground." Then he paused for effect, looked all around him and leaned in. It was as if he were letting us in on the best-kept secret this side of the trees. "There is a campground that very few people know about," he whispered. "It's got wide open spaces, babbling brooks and the best part is.... it's got sweet-smelling outhouses."

Although he made "sweet-smelling outhouses" sound like a good thing, I wasn't so sure. But since the other campgrounds were packed, and the old camper was already stocked with treats, we decided to take a chance.

While the older boys enjoyed a rousing game of Cain and Abel, and the younger two played "last hit," we set off to make camp. The closer we got to the area, the more I began to wonder if we were heading to none other than Camp Cult.

It's not as if the other campers were sporting white flowing robes and shaved heads. No one banged a tambourine or held out a money cup, but they did have flashlight headbands, stylish camping attire and cameras. And I'm not talking your average Polaroid either. No, sir, these kind folks had tripods and extension lenses and great hopes of catching a moment as breathtaking as a mosquito feeding its larvae.

Dare we dream?

As we approached a guy taking a picture of a squirrel, I told the boys to pipe down. It was quite obvious that this man was very serious about what he was doing.

Since his photo-taking opportunity was close to the road, the man motioned for us to slow and wait for him to capture this precious moment on film. I suppose if I had noticed that the boys had rolled down the back windows, I could have anticipated what was about to take place. Instead, I wondered what sort of man expects the world to halt, the air to stand still and the very essence of the forest to bend as he takes a snapshot of a squirrel gnawing on a walnut.

Out of respect to the forest, and a man with a camera, we passed slowly, and that's when my young Huey leaned out of the window, waited for the precise moment and yelled, "Boogey boogey boo!"

Although I'd hoped that we'd never see the man again, and was sure that his stomping and gesturing weren't the native signs for "Welcome," the feeling that we didn't belong doubled when we drove into the campground. Pristine campsites complete with dome tents and yoga mats were set up throughout, without so much as a tree dividing them. It was painfully obvious that reverence was key and that these people had arrived in electric cars to maintain the optimum silence there in the forest.

Imagine their surprise when the dirty old Clinch-mobile rounded the corner pulling the camper. Imagine our fellow campers' chagrin when we got stuck in the mud and had to rock the rig to get out of the hole. Imagine their pure and unadulterated delight when not just one loud and cooped-up-too-long child sprung from the vehicle to help daddy get the vehicle unstuck, but four of the little dears were screaming and running, giggling and fighting!

"Don't you think that we should go somewhere else?" I asked my husband as I swallowed hard.

"There's not another place for over 100 miles," he replied.

"But I'm fairly certain that sign back there warned, 'You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.' "

"Nonsense," he replied. "Our boys are just what this place needs to liven it up a little. Now grab that boom box, the air compressor and the generator, and let's commence to 'get away from it all.' "

Sadly, the guy who was photographing the squirrel alongside the road was camping at none other than the site next to ours. "What brought you here?" he asked as he popped a Prozac.

We had to be honest with him. What could we say?

Sweet-smelling outhouses.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.