We’ve camped at the same place every summer since I was a baby. I know those bike paths, trails and hidden creeks as well as I know the backyard I grew up in.
When we were little, we spent an entire week up at Sugar Pine Point. The 4 hour drive seemed interminable — we’d snack on crackers and Capri Suns, itching to get out of the car. Once we finally pulled up to the campsite, we’d burst out of the car and beg our dad to take our bikes down so we could whiz around, handlebar streamers flying.
Hot afternoons were inevitably spent at the beach or the pier. I had thicker skin when I was little — I’d jump into the water with no fear, and spend hours in the icy lake. After crawling out, shivering, my sister and I would tackle the largest sandcastle known to man.
Nowadays, I look forward to the trip just as much — but we can only get away for a weekend. The drive feels shorter, but is just as much of a pain. I have to borrow my stepmom’s bike, and my days at the beach are spent trying to get a tan.
In some ways, it’s better. We sip beers around the campfire instead of hot cocoa — but still roast marshmallows for s’mores, of course — laughing about how weird we were when we were little, and how we’re all still completely weird now.
I fully intend on bringing my kids here one day.
PS: Just for kicks, I had to post this amazing photo of Seth from camping 5 or so years ago. He will kill me for this one day: