As we lounged in the tent, waiting for Ray to return with firewood, I told the girls a little story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Ray and a girl named Amy.

When Ray was a little boy, his family loved to camp, and one of their favorite places to camp was San Diego. They stayed at a place called Campland.

When Amy was a little girl, her family liked to stay in hotels. One of their favorite places to stay in hotels was San Diego. They stayed at a place called Vacation Village.

The story was longer than that — it actually has a plot, Ray and Amy meet (though not at the neighboring Campland and Vacation Village) and fall in love and vacation with their own family — but the beginning pretty much sums it up.

Growing up, I stayed in hotels. Ray camped. And let’s just say we’re both creatures of habit. Not that Ray hasn’t gotten into the groove of staying in hotels over the years. And we have camped. But I have to admit that it’s been a while. A long while.

Recently Ray reminded me we actually haven’t camped since before we got married. And that’s been 11 plus years. Whoops.

This is the summer that will change that. With Sophie so grown-up (speaking in paragraphs, getting herself dressed, drinking iced mochas — or at least begging for them) I had to agree that it’s time. My last good excuse is gone. She’s ready.

But am I? That was the question. With a week-long trip to Yosemite coming up later in the summer, Ray wisely decided a trial run was in order, and booked a night at a campground in Sedona he’d often admired from the road.

From the road. After this past weekend, I now know those are words you don’t want to hear in association with your camp site. I had plenty of time to ponder that Saturday night, as I watched the cars whiz past our tent, just 20 yards away. At least that drowned out the sound of partiers and crying babies.

Ray’s a big fan of backwoods camping. He’s always maintained that in the camping equation, it’s the other people who are the problem. Now I agree. Plus, frankly, I’d rather pee in the woods than in a stinky outhouse. Did you know that “outhouse” is code for super deep hole in the ground? I held onto Sophie tightly, terrified she would fall in and be gone forever. I kept thinking about Baby Jessica, remember her, she fell down a mine shaft or a well or something in the 80s?

Ah, but I digress.

Camping was fun. No, really, I mean it. I had a good time. We have a ginormous tent, Ray cooked on the stove I bought him for Christmas, we had a lovely fire and roasted marshmallows, and now I know that there are some items one should never camp without, namely: paper towels, paper napkins (or at least one of the two), plastic cutlery, and an air mattress. Also Advil PM. 

And I know now that it’s important to research the campground thoroughly, before making a reservation. The setting was lovely — tucked up against Oak Creek (on the side that wasn’t tucked up against the highway), with gorgeous views of red cliffs. We and the dozens of other people we wound up camping with really enjoyed it.

My favorite person was Ben, the clean cut (very clean cut, bald, actually) guy running the campground. He was very excited when we arrived. Ray rolled down his window and here (basically) is what Ben said, pretty much in one breath:

So, this weekend, I gotta tell you, we have the lead singer of the band Linkin Park camping here. If you see him, don’t approach him, he’s a big guy, bald like me with a lot of tattoos, and he’s got an armed bodyguard with him, so don’t make any sudden moves. He’s a real family man, he’s here with his three children from three women, and also his current girlfriend, she’s a Playmate named Talinda. He’s a Christian man, he’s clean now, they won’t be making any noise, nobody will, I’ll make sure of that. You might see us walking around, I’ll introduce you, he’s my good friend, just don’t come near him on your own, okay?

Um, okay.

Great, I thought. Not only has Sophie now taken to approaching strangers and asking, “What’s your name?” she has a new follow up, “What’s your last name?”

In fact, before we’d pulled away, she’d already called out, “You don’t have any hair!” several times to Ben. He was so excited about his friend from Linkin Park he didn’t seem to hear her.

In the end, we didn’t see anyone who looked like he could front a band. And despite his best attempts, Ben wasn’t able to control the noise. Shortly before I heard the birds start tweeting Sunday morning, I heard Ray rustle out of the tent and shout, “Hey! Could you keep it down?” And finally, the partying seemed to stop. The crying babies continued, however.

I must tell you that our girls were downright perfect. They adored the tent and really bonded, playing on the porch (I told you the tent is ginormous) together quietly. They pretended Sophie broke her ankle riding her tricycle and Annabelle made bandages out of wet wipes and a cane out of a stick.

We ate sunnyside-up eggs with our hands and stuck our toes in the creek and watched the stars through the tent’s roof before Ray saved us from freezing by putting the rainflap on. It was nice.

I’ve got to say that I still don’t understand why people camp, simply because of the amount of work involved. Oh, Ray explained, it just seemed like so much work because we only stayed one night. Wait til we camp longer.

Okay, I thought. We came home and Ray unloaded the contents of his Jeep onto the dining room table, where it all still sits, three days later. Hopefully it will get put away before it’s time to pack for Yosemite.

Ray was combing out the fine details of that trip this morning, trying to find a campground that won’t be so crowded, when he suddenly said, almost to himself, “Maybe we should stay in a motel.”

“No!” I said — surprising both of us. “We’re camping!”