We are home.

Safe and sound.

No bears — not even a sighting, to the dismay of three members of our little foursome.

And my histrionics? Totally justified, in my sick little mind. In fact, I’m already getting worked up for next year’s camping trip — there is sure to be one next summer, if not before. And I will go, and I’ll try to be happy about it, but the truth is that I am simply not a camper.

Empty spaces make me claustrophobic. Our camp site was perfectly lovely, as such things go, and as far as I was concerned, could have been located in Flagstaff, two hours north of home, rather than two days north (and east). Lots of pine trees. A few squirrels. Noisy generators. And Old Faithful? Um, yawn. Maybe I just didn’t have a great view.

We did have a lot of family togetherness — mostly in a good way, particularly yesterday afternoon in the final hours of the trip, when we were all punchy, making up our own Double Rainbow songs (which is more obvious a sign of our society’s decline, that Double Rainbow video or Annoying Orange?) and suffering Ray’s Czech death metal.

I gathered a few epiphanies and some funny stories I’ll share when I’m done unpacking, but to be honest, none had to do with the purity (or lack thereof) of the camping experience.

Hey, big cities aren’t for everyone, either.

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