During my growing up years, camping with my folks, was never at a campground. Even now, I believe it was something at the very core of my father's being, that kept him from embracing using his hard earned money to camp. It's something we may have teased him about, as we were raising our own crew of minions.
The favorite spot, for a number of years, was Dry Creek. The space where our pick-up and canopy (and later, the camper) was parked, along with the friends and family vehicles, was probably created for water trucks to fill up during slash burning or forest fire season. There were plenty of trees and a fisherman's path to and along the creek.
Come morning, the men would leave early with their poles and creels and then the women and children, would take chairs and head down to the rocky beach. We'd take off our shoes and socks and cool off our feet or, if you were me, you'd build a rocky dam.
Years later, when we had families of our own, we'd tease dad about his camping spots. And tell our children that their grandpa was perfectly fine with camping on the shoulder of a highway or in an abandoned rock pit, and enjoy the looks on their faces. Thankfully, the littles never asked about the bathroom situation.
Love, K
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