I remember back when I was a kid (some would argue that speaking in the historical tense is an oxymoron), camping. I'd like to say they were what shaped my love of camping that I now have. Why are you smiling? You think you know where this is going?
You see, when I was growing up, we used to camp once a summer for a week or so. And when I say camp it wasn't sissy camping. We'd sign a will, and head into the wilderness, leaving a trail of bread crumbs. Let me be the first to tell you it's extremely hard to follow the trail back when it has been left on a lake. doesn't work...when you are canoeing. No one would hear from us the entire time. That's because we were hours and hours from the nearest town. Then there was the little fact that cell phones were non-existent. At least to us.
But weeks before we could even get to the point where we feared for our lives, my dad would hand out chores to my 3 siblings and I, to make sure all our gear and supplies were accounted for. Wait a minute, let me think...I actually don't know if he handed out those chores to us, but in either case, it makes for a good story, so I run with it. Anyhow, I do know that getting 2 or 3 tents out, sleeping bags, tarps, canoes, paddles, hatchets, lanterns, toilet paper, potatoes and just about anything else a person would need for disappearing from the face of the planet, took a long time to get ready.
My dad would then carefully pack the mountains of gear into his old Ford pickup, strap it down along with the canoes and off we'd go. And go. And go. Can I just tell you how long the last 3 hours are bouncing over dirt logging roads? Add to that the dust kicked up by the loggers barreling by, and now you are painting a perfect picture of misery.
Then, once out on the lakes, we would paddle until we were spent, (sometimes 127 miles a day!) before Dad would mercifully and cheerfully exclaim "oh, look, here's our camp site!". Mind you, this after we had already passed by 38 other perfectly acceptable sites. We would have to summon up the last bit of energy left in us, empty the canoes, lug all the gear up to the campsite, and set camp up (sometimes slaving away until the early hours of the morning) before we could eat, sleep or go swimming.
In the evening, we'd build a fire, making sure it was smokey as possible, not so much as to suffocate us, but rather to futilely ward off the black flies, or as I affectionately call them, vultures. Not that the fire would help much when it rained, which it seemed to frequently enough. On those occasions, we would huddle 15 feet away from the fire under the tarp and pretend we were having a wonderful time, all the while shivering.
Upon waking in the morning, Dad would announce that it was a fine day to set off down the lake. After breakfast we would disassemble camp, you know the one we just set up the night before? That one. We would then pack all the gear back into the canoes and with aching muscles, start out on the next 142 mile leg. Why we couldn't stay at the same site for another day or two was never explained. It remains a mystery.
Finally, we'd come about and make the grueling 3 hours back over those horrendous roads, and then on back home, where we would have to unpack all the gear and stow it away for the next year.
Where's the circle? Ahhhh...glad you asked! The kid grew up, (poetic!) and quit camping. No circle yet. Well, "quit" is so definite. Maybe more like postponed until such time as it could be done to my liking. Which I finally discovered with the Casita.
And along with the Casita came the preparation of all the camping equipment. I thought about assigning chores to my kids, but then, I figured it was best handled by me. And then, once I got all the gear together; lanterns, toilet paper, potatoes and just about anything else a person would need for disappearing from the face of the planet, I'd pack up all the equipment into the vehicle. I would take great pains to make sure each item was loaded with the most efficient use of space. The family would then climb into the vehicle and we'd head out on the 3 hour drive to the campground.
Upon arrival at the campground, I'd cheerfully announce "we're here!" to the cheers of our kids. Then they'd ask "can we go swimming now?" To which I would reply "when we get the Casita set up". To a chorus of groans.
In the evening, we'd sit around the campfire, roasting marshmallows unless it rained and then we'd sit in the Casita, away from the elements. Maybe play a game of cards. And pretend we enjoyed being a bit cooped up.
The next morning, I'd get up and pronounce that we would need to leave the campground in 2 hours, so we'd have to get packed up and ready to leave.
We'd drive the 3 hours back home, where we would have to unpack and disassemble all our gear and stow it away for the next adventure.
Full circle.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Drum Roll...Ladies and Gentlemen...Moose Hillock!!
I really do want write about more than where we stayed and what was wrong with it, yet how we loved it; but now is not that time. You see, this past weekend we went to one of the places we absolutely love. Well, "love" meaning if the weather is fine, the temperature is warm, the kids are happy, we didn't forget things, and the bears don't take a fancy to having us for afternoon tea. That kind of love. Conditional.
Now I must stop here and become less depressed. I was very buoyant when I set about to tell the tale of one of our favorite campgrounds. Then I had to go list all the criteria that needed to be present to have a good time here, and it sucked the fun right out it did. A moment, please...There, I feel better, thanks for your gentle encouragement. I can now continue.
While I could be predictable and say what was wrong, I think I'll change it up a bit. Get out of a rut, try something new.
So lets start by getting there. There are a couple of ways to get there from here, wherever here is. I find that two ways are good and one is boring. Three guesses which way we went. Wrong. Wrong. Ok, maybe not totally wrong. We have always gone the boring way due to the fact that it was the flattest way. I wonder if that's why I hear so much "are we there yet?" And my kids even chime in too!
Suffice it to say that the most scenic way is over the Kangumangus Highway. I say "over" because that is exactly what you have to do. You know the Himalayans and the paths the sherpas take? It's not like that. If it was, you'd never make it to Moose Hillock. Mainly because the Himalayan Mountains are across the ocean and it would be a tough swim for the sherpas. But if you have lived all your life in Kansas, it might seem as mountainous as, ok still not even the Himalayans.
But what you will be rewarded with if you take that route is beautiful, quintessential New England scenery. The road winds by rivers and up several thousand foot mountains. Rugged granite mountains which in the fall are covered in brilliant color. No, the granite doesn't change color. If it did it would be the 1st wonder of the world. It's also kinda neat too, because you go through some quaint little towns.
Just about the time you travel up and down enough mountains to make you question your sanity for taking that route, you see the sign for Moose Hillock. You can exhale and mutter ”this the last time I'll ever take advice from a stranger about traveling!".
When you make it up to the main entrance of the campground (yes up. They add one more insult to your overheated vehicle-the road up to the campground is relatively steep) your will be generously rewarded for your efforts with...not much. Yes you read that correctly. The building is rather...ummm...non-descript. By now you are thinking "way to go! Not only did you blow out my engine, you brought me to the middle of nowhere to see nothing!". You see how good I am about reading your mind now? Uncanny!
After checking in, and driving around the building you will start to see my life wasn't destined to be lived in a padded cell. I may be on to something after all:
Ahhh, now you are starting to see my enthusiasm! 65,000 gallons of sheer glory. And don't worry if you are of the age where the pool and it's waterslide don't appeal to you. You too will be grateful for my recommendation when you start to drive to your site.
Let me just say, this campground covers the entire top third of the state of New Hampshire. You can drive for hours and not get to your site. What's that? I can't be serious? Yeah, you're right. We just get lost with all the loops, and end up driving aimlessly about. And since their is no cell signal, we can't call the office to have them send out a search party. But it is indeed, a big, spacious campground.
You also will notice that the sites are very large and private, relatively speaking. They took the notion of years gone by when being a neighbor meant you were at least within 5 miles of the nearest house, and incorporated that. While there are some semi-open sites, most are nestled amongst trees, providing shade, which can be a bonus on hot days. These huge sites also have huge fire pits which just beg for cool evenings, or at a minimum, a place to set up all your chairs around and pretend there is some reason for doing that.
There is a stocked fish pond where young and old can fish, although a sign states that only kids under 12 can keep one fish per day. Ummm...even if I weren't a vegetarian, with the looks of the water, you can have our kid's fish. I will say though, it is a great pond for catching crawfish and salamanders. And breeding mosquitoes.
The nice camp sites aside, let's face it, people come here for the pool. I don't know the dimensions, I'd guesstimate it to be roughly the size of Lake Huron. It creates it's own weather system, along with el Nina. They keep the water at 82 degrees which is warm enough to stay in hours at a time. How do I know this? I have an 8 and a 12 year old, who after 3 or more hours have to beg me to get out of the pool. The pool is three and a half feet deep, except for one small area that dips down to five feet.
The obvious attraction is the water slide that winds it's way around the broken down ship. I can personally attest to the fact that even as a 40-something-year-old geezer, I'm racing up the stairs to beat that 9 year old kid (not mine) (right behind me) to the slide. We even may throw an elbow here or there, or stick out a leg for the other one to trip over just to get the advantage. It's that addicting. They even throw impromptu evening swims.
They play a mix of island-style music over loud speakers that adds to the whole "yeah, it could happen that Black Beard's pirate ship sailed up into the White Mountains and got shipwrecked in the middle of woods" theme.
Then there is a snack bar next to the pool, with "straw" covered cabanas where you can sit and enjoy an overpriced meal while watching your kids or grandkids bake like lobsters in the pool. Since the only WIFI available at the campground is accessible around the pool area, these cabanas serve as a shaded place to keep you connected. Except why would you want to be sitting there when the pool is only feet away? Or maybe it's just me.
All in all, if you find yourself stuck in the middle of nowhere on purpose, this is the place to to be stuck!
Now I must stop here and become less depressed. I was very buoyant when I set about to tell the tale of one of our favorite campgrounds. Then I had to go list all the criteria that needed to be present to have a good time here, and it sucked the fun right out it did. A moment, please...There, I feel better, thanks for your gentle encouragement. I can now continue.
While I could be predictable and say what was wrong, I think I'll change it up a bit. Get out of a rut, try something new.
So lets start by getting there. There are a couple of ways to get there from here, wherever here is. I find that two ways are good and one is boring. Three guesses which way we went. Wrong. Wrong. Ok, maybe not totally wrong. We have always gone the boring way due to the fact that it was the flattest way. I wonder if that's why I hear so much "are we there yet?" And my kids even chime in too!
Suffice it to say that the most scenic way is over the Kangumangus Highway. I say "over" because that is exactly what you have to do. You know the Himalayans and the paths the sherpas take? It's not like that. If it was, you'd never make it to Moose Hillock. Mainly because the Himalayan Mountains are across the ocean and it would be a tough swim for the sherpas. But if you have lived all your life in Kansas, it might seem as mountainous as, ok still not even the Himalayans.
But what you will be rewarded with if you take that route is beautiful, quintessential New England scenery. The road winds by rivers and up several thousand foot mountains. Rugged granite mountains which in the fall are covered in brilliant color. No, the granite doesn't change color. If it did it would be the 1st wonder of the world. It's also kinda neat too, because you go through some quaint little towns.
Just about the time you travel up and down enough mountains to make you question your sanity for taking that route, you see the sign for Moose Hillock. You can exhale and mutter ”this the last time I'll ever take advice from a stranger about traveling!".
When you make it up to the main entrance of the campground (yes up. They add one more insult to your overheated vehicle-the road up to the campground is relatively steep) your will be generously rewarded for your efforts with...not much. Yes you read that correctly. The building is rather...ummm...non-descript. By now you are thinking "way to go! Not only did you blow out my engine, you brought me to the middle of nowhere to see nothing!". You see how good I am about reading your mind now? Uncanny!
After checking in, and driving around the building you will start to see my life wasn't destined to be lived in a padded cell. I may be on to something after all:
Ahhh, now you are starting to see my enthusiasm! 65,000 gallons of sheer glory. And don't worry if you are of the age where the pool and it's waterslide don't appeal to you. You too will be grateful for my recommendation when you start to drive to your site.
Let me just say, this campground covers the entire top third of the state of New Hampshire. You can drive for hours and not get to your site. What's that? I can't be serious? Yeah, you're right. We just get lost with all the loops, and end up driving aimlessly about. And since their is no cell signal, we can't call the office to have them send out a search party. But it is indeed, a big, spacious campground.
You also will notice that the sites are very large and private, relatively speaking. They took the notion of years gone by when being a neighbor meant you were at least within 5 miles of the nearest house, and incorporated that. While there are some semi-open sites, most are nestled amongst trees, providing shade, which can be a bonus on hot days. These huge sites also have huge fire pits which just beg for cool evenings, or at a minimum, a place to set up all your chairs around and pretend there is some reason for doing that.
There is a stocked fish pond where young and old can fish, although a sign states that only kids under 12 can keep one fish per day. Ummm...even if I weren't a vegetarian, with the looks of the water, you can have our kid's fish. I will say though, it is a great pond for catching crawfish and salamanders. And breeding mosquitoes.
The nice camp sites aside, let's face it, people come here for the pool. I don't know the dimensions, I'd guesstimate it to be roughly the size of Lake Huron. It creates it's own weather system, along with el Nina. They keep the water at 82 degrees which is warm enough to stay in hours at a time. How do I know this? I have an 8 and a 12 year old, who after 3 or more hours have to beg me to get out of the pool. The pool is three and a half feet deep, except for one small area that dips down to five feet.
The obvious attraction is the water slide that winds it's way around the broken down ship. I can personally attest to the fact that even as a 40-something-year-old geezer, I'm racing up the stairs to beat that 9 year old kid (not mine) (right behind me) to the slide. We even may throw an elbow here or there, or stick out a leg for the other one to trip over just to get the advantage. It's that addicting. They even throw impromptu evening swims.
They play a mix of island-style music over loud speakers that adds to the whole "yeah, it could happen that Black Beard's pirate ship sailed up into the White Mountains and got shipwrecked in the middle of woods" theme.
Then there is a snack bar next to the pool, with "straw" covered cabanas where you can sit and enjoy an overpriced meal while watching your kids or grandkids bake like lobsters in the pool. Since the only WIFI available at the campground is accessible around the pool area, these cabanas serve as a shaded place to keep you connected. Except why would you want to be sitting there when the pool is only feet away? Or maybe it's just me.
All in all, if you find yourself stuck in the middle of nowhere on purpose, this is the place to to be stuck!
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Silver Springs Campground
Have you ever had one of those deja-vu moments, when you instinctively know you have been in the exact situation before? I haven't...I was just wondering. Well, anyhow, if I were to have that experience, this campground would be what triggered it. No, I did not forget to take my meds today (well, I actually don't have to take any, maybe that's my problem?)
You see, as I was sharpening my quill and adjusting my spectacles in preparation of this post, it struck me-this campground is as perplexing as Saco River Family Campground in North Conway, NH. For most all the same reasons. I can hear you saying " well then, don't waste my time telling me about it." But I ask, how sporting of me would that be? I dare say I would have no fun at all. So I continue.
Oh, but here's a Twilight Zone moment. The campgrounds are similar (and yes you are dying to know how), one is named Saco River, and one is in Saco. Ok, that's all the comparisons, but for a moment, I was like "whoa!".
So back to the campground. When driving in you are struck with the fact that that while not run down, it's not meticulously maintained.
The playground equipment looks vaguely reminiscent of the one in the old atomic bomb film I saw as a kid. Then there is the hodge-podge of park model homes, inter-dispersed with seasonal travel trailers up on blocks. The interesting thing is, there are some very well maintained seasonals, and the right next to them, some that look like they were placed there shortly after Noah's ark touched down. While this sounds dumpy, it's really not just a striking juxtaposition.
Then there is the road in the campground. The thought that came to mind was "this must be what the astronauts encountered when they landed on the fake moon in the film studio!" While not as large of craters as they constructed for the moon landing, you do feel compelled to jerk the steering wheel wildly about in a vain attempt to being permanently lost in one of them. You will be happy to know we were not lost.
When we arrived at our site, it was apparent the aesthetics was not considered in the placement of the sites. At the back of the site directly to our left, and about 6 feet away was the back end of a seasonal trailer. Then, to our right, there was a site big enough to fit a small town in. It rained one evening, and the next morning when we awoke, literally half of our campsite was a pond, while the town's site was high and dry. But at least we had 3 trees on our site to provide us with ample shade and tree droppings.
I hear you saying "Now that's what I call a lesson learned! Now just learn how not to blog." But wait, you'd be wrong on both accounts. This is where it becomes interesting. You see, the Casita camping/campground experience is not always measured by the condition of the road or playground. Nor is SOMETIMES the condition of your fellow camper's domicile. Ah-ha! Your interest is piqued, no?
Ok, so why did I then waste precious moments of your life complaining about things that do not matter? Gee, I wish I knew. Anyhow, on with the enthralling review, don't you agree?
While yes, there are some things that might cause a knee jerk reaction, if a person were accustomed to life at the Vanderbilt Estate, I highly doubt you are that person. The things that keep drawing us back year after year for a weekend or so are more than manicured grass.
For instance, the campground is literally right next to the Eastern Trailways Bike Path which you can access from the campground and ride for miles in either direction. A lot of it through the woods, and some through towns. While not teaming with people, it is used by bikers, walkers and joggers so you don't feel too isolated.
Then, there is there is the proximity to the coast and some pretty neat beaches. Old Orchard Beach is only a couple miles away, as is Scarborough Beach State Park and Higgins Beach. The water at these here is warmer than other beaches just up the coast 30 miles. Don't know why, but I'm not complaining, especially when I am cajoled into the water by my two kids with promises of extreme entertainment and fun. You'd think by now, I'd have figured it out, but I fall for it every time.
Then there is what I consider the biggest intangible, the campers at the campground. Since most of the campers are seasonals, it is a given that they will be rude and condescending right? Have you not read anything I have typed? If you had, you'd know the answer. Oh, you do? Here then, here is your golden star. Well done. Everywhere you go around the campground people will wave and say hello. Just plain friendly. Remember our neighbors, the ones 6 feet from us? Not the ones in their own town...well, they brought some clothes over to our site, thinking we had hung the up on their clothes line. Turned out, they belonged to family members staying with them, but your missing the point. They didn't complain, set fire to them or glare at us. Just put them on our picnic table. It's those type of things that make it fun to camp there.
And the pool. Clean, refreshing and deep. This can provide you a brief moment of sanity while your kids enjoy frolicking about. And the beauty of it is, while they have rules posted, they really don't need them. Every time we have been there, both kids and adults have been very well behaved. To the point where you start wondering if you are in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Don't get me wrong, everyone's having fun, but not in that obnoxious way, you get used to at campground pools.
So now you can start to see why it is somewhat difficult to label this campground as good, bad or mediocre. It all depends on what you are expecting. Plus, who needs labels anyway? I usually just end up ripping them off whatever they are attached to. More comfortable that way. And yes, we will be back.
You see, as I was sharpening my quill and adjusting my spectacles in preparation of this post, it struck me-this campground is as perplexing as Saco River Family Campground in North Conway, NH. For most all the same reasons. I can hear you saying " well then, don't waste my time telling me about it." But I ask, how sporting of me would that be? I dare say I would have no fun at all. So I continue.
Oh, but here's a Twilight Zone moment. The campgrounds are similar (and yes you are dying to know how), one is named Saco River, and one is in Saco. Ok, that's all the comparisons, but for a moment, I was like "whoa!".
So back to the campground. When driving in you are struck with the fact that that while not run down, it's not meticulously maintained.
The playground equipment looks vaguely reminiscent of the one in the old atomic bomb film I saw as a kid. Then there is the hodge-podge of park model homes, inter-dispersed with seasonal travel trailers up on blocks. The interesting thing is, there are some very well maintained seasonals, and the right next to them, some that look like they were placed there shortly after Noah's ark touched down. While this sounds dumpy, it's really not just a striking juxtaposition.
Then there is the road in the campground. The thought that came to mind was "this must be what the astronauts encountered when they landed on the fake moon in the film studio!" While not as large of craters as they constructed for the moon landing, you do feel compelled to jerk the steering wheel wildly about in a vain attempt to being permanently lost in one of them. You will be happy to know we were not lost.
When we arrived at our site, it was apparent the aesthetics was not considered in the placement of the sites. At the back of the site directly to our left, and about 6 feet away was the back end of a seasonal trailer. Then, to our right, there was a site big enough to fit a small town in. It rained one evening, and the next morning when we awoke, literally half of our campsite was a pond, while the town's site was high and dry. But at least we had 3 trees on our site to provide us with ample shade and tree droppings.
I hear you saying "Now that's what I call a lesson learned! Now just learn how not to blog." But wait, you'd be wrong on both accounts. This is where it becomes interesting. You see, the Casita camping/campground experience is not always measured by the condition of the road or playground. Nor is SOMETIMES the condition of your fellow camper's domicile. Ah-ha! Your interest is piqued, no?
Ok, so why did I then waste precious moments of your life complaining about things that do not matter? Gee, I wish I knew. Anyhow, on with the enthralling review, don't you agree?
While yes, there are some things that might cause a knee jerk reaction, if a person were accustomed to life at the Vanderbilt Estate, I highly doubt you are that person. The things that keep drawing us back year after year for a weekend or so are more than manicured grass.
For instance, the campground is literally right next to the Eastern Trailways Bike Path which you can access from the campground and ride for miles in either direction. A lot of it through the woods, and some through towns. While not teaming with people, it is used by bikers, walkers and joggers so you don't feel too isolated.
Then, there is there is the proximity to the coast and some pretty neat beaches. Old Orchard Beach is only a couple miles away, as is Scarborough Beach State Park and Higgins Beach. The water at these here is warmer than other beaches just up the coast 30 miles. Don't know why, but I'm not complaining, especially when I am cajoled into the water by my two kids with promises of extreme entertainment and fun. You'd think by now, I'd have figured it out, but I fall for it every time.
Then there is what I consider the biggest intangible, the campers at the campground. Since most of the campers are seasonals, it is a given that they will be rude and condescending right? Have you not read anything I have typed? If you had, you'd know the answer. Oh, you do? Here then, here is your golden star. Well done. Everywhere you go around the campground people will wave and say hello. Just plain friendly. Remember our neighbors, the ones 6 feet from us? Not the ones in their own town...well, they brought some clothes over to our site, thinking we had hung the up on their clothes line. Turned out, they belonged to family members staying with them, but your missing the point. They didn't complain, set fire to them or glare at us. Just put them on our picnic table. It's those type of things that make it fun to camp there.
And the pool. Clean, refreshing and deep. This can provide you a brief moment of sanity while your kids enjoy frolicking about. And the beauty of it is, while they have rules posted, they really don't need them. Every time we have been there, both kids and adults have been very well behaved. To the point where you start wondering if you are in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Don't get me wrong, everyone's having fun, but not in that obnoxious way, you get used to at campground pools.
So now you can start to see why it is somewhat difficult to label this campground as good, bad or mediocre. It all depends on what you are expecting. Plus, who needs labels anyway? I usually just end up ripping them off whatever they are attached to. More comfortable that way. And yes, we will be back.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
You Know It's a Bad Day
So fast forward to 2012. (See how smoothly I start this entry, like I've been blogging all along? Brilliant!) What? My post rate for my blog is nothing but atrocious? I confess, I know it and I admit it. I think that is part of the reason we had a bad day-in May. It's really not so much Karma as Murphy. Things were going along too well and Murphy could not sit by idly let that happen. He knew I needed to blog. See how mythical persons watch out for your well being?
Now that we fast forwarded lets rewind. Kinda reminds me of the scene scene in the movie Willy Wonka, when Mr. Wonka gets confused. Somehow, on that level, I feel a kinship. I won't blame you for your befuddlement. But it won't help me with my story, so read on.
This year, unlike last year, I did not have the camping season planned out in March. I just wasn't motivated to. Maybe my sub-conscience knew what the future held. If it did, why the hay didn't it tell me?! Could have saved me countless nights waking in abject terror begging for my mommy. Continuing...
The season started out the week before Memorial Day with me calling campground after campground trying to find an available site. I finally called the Twin Mountain, NH KOA. Fortunately, they knew I had procrastinated and had saved me a site. Are you kidding me? I'm dreaming here. But how cool would that be?
Anyway, that Friday we loaded the venerable Astro Van with all our supplies, thrown in at the last minute, along with firewood and 2 dogs and a kid or two to make the trip more enjoyable.
Oh yeah, a bit of background, so rewind again. I promise you won't lose your place. I had at least had the presence of mind to make sure the van was serviced, spending enough money to fund a small nation for weeks on end. Stuff like the A/C pump, rods of some sort or another that they "said" would keep the wheels attached steering wheel (yeah, like I'm going to believe that! I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. It was the day before!) And then there were other things like 2 new tires, an oil change. Man, we were stylin'! I did not, however take the same attitude toward the Casita. Just drained the pink stuff, hooked up to the van and called it good.
Back to the weekend. We had an uneventful trip to the campground (where does the bad begin? Wait a second, you're patience will be rewarded). I got everything hooked up and was just about to imaginarily doze off in my imaginary recliner chair when my wife calls out "there's no hot water, did you turn it on?" I went around to the heater, checked the switch, "yes dear, it is on. It takes a little bit for the water to heat up the first time out". Ten minutes later, "it's still not hot! Can you look at it?" After the next hour or so drenching my shoes and pants from the water gushing out of the release valve, "Forget it! I'm just going to switch on the propane! Dumb thing! I hate it!" At least the propane heater worked.
Then it struck me like a feather dropping on my head-I blew out the heating element. I didn't make sure to fill the 6 gallon holding take before I turned the power switch on. Lovely! Like I'm going to be able to explain that at the next monthly meeting of Manly Men Who Know What They Are Doing. I'll be the joker who has to wear the T-shirt reserved for the least deserving Man sporting "But I can iron a shirt really well!"
The next day was glorious, so we went for a hike to the top of a lovely little hill. Little is a term which is interchangeable with "For the love of pete! If I have to take one more step, I'm going to hurl myself down this mountain and be a snack for the bears!"
Sunday again was a most pleasant day, so we drove the 38 or so miles down the White Mountains to a little amusement park called Storyland. What a day! We laughed. We cried. We were moved.
Here is where the tale takes a dark and sinister turn. Where everything that is good and decent in the world really isn't. When we got back to the van, and fired it up, I saw the battery light come on. I kinda ignored it, because, well, I have no reason. We started back up the road toward the campground (yeah, that would be 38 miles) with the battery light on. We got about 5 miles, when the battery needle thingy on the dash dipped down to its "orange-is-bad" area. Then, the Bermuda Triangle suddenly extended up to NH, and forced all the gauges to quit. Even the speedometer.
Now I was scared, but not wanting to have to wear the T-shirt at the next meeting, I pulled over and popped open the hood and started muttering. Unbeknownst to my family, I was saying "if I had a pair of socks, my feet would be more comfortable". But to them I'm sure it sounded like "nope, the battery wire is tight, and I can see no melted parts or arching sparks". Since I truly am clueless, I got back in, started it back up, noticed the needle was still low, but drove on.
Another brief diversion to paint you a picture. Imagine some of the prettiest scenery around, big tall mountains dropping sharply to a valley, where the road meanders along beside a stream. And it is so pretty because a lot of it is untouched by civilization, for a good 26 miles...yeah, you know where this is going.
We made another 5 miles before the van completely died. As what little luck we had, would have it, it died in a small engine repair shop driveway. The last repair shop for 26 miles. Of course, that's where the luck stopped as it was Sunday about 6PM. It was closed and would be until Tuesday.
My daughter and I walked a half a mile to a local restaurant, and asked for a phonebook and a phone since my cell phone had died (and you thought you were never going to hear of our pain and anguish. Aren't you glad you stuck with it?!). I made a call to AAA who said they could tow the van to a garage, and someone could look at it...Tuesday. I see a reoccurring theme here! I ask you, what good is that, when we are 26 miles from our Casita, and there are no motels with vacancies for miles?
Not knowing exactly what to do, we walked back to the van. As we approached I saw a relatively old man bent over the hood of the van and the beaming face of my wife. She said that he was the owner of the shop, who lived nearby who saw we were having trouble. He had a battery/alternator tester machine, a within an hour announce that our alternator was toast. I asked if his shop could fix it, he assured me they could...Tuesday. Gall dern it!
Upon hearing that we had separation anxiety from our Casita, he said "I have new Interstate battery in the shop that I can put in your van that should get you up to your campground. The battery in the van is not the proper size anyway. And I'll loan you the charger to recharge it back up to get back here...Tuesday"
We were overjoyed and filled with gratitude. Our luck was re-ermerging once again, and the birds were chirping a bit more melodically. We drove the 26 miles without using fans, the radio or anything which would draw the precious life out of the new battery.
When we got back to the campground, we noticed dark storm clouds approaching. Since we had a freak windstorm rip off our awning the 2nd year we owned our Casita, dark storm clouds always leave me standing in a puddle. I strapped the awning and posts down tight and moved our kids tent under the awning. About 9:30PM, the wind really picked up and I could hear the vinyl part of the awning flapping wildly about. I went out, and tried to wind the awning back in, but the inner spindle just merrily turned, without pulling the awning in. I was devastated. How were we to drive the 152 miles home...Tuesday...with the awning out?
Again it brings to mind the scene from the movie RV. In it, they are in such a hurry to leave a campground and some overly friendly neighbors, they forget to reel the awning in and drive off with everything dangling. Hilarious for them. Us? Not so much.
When I awoke the next morning, I rushed out, fully expecting to see the awning in tatters, and the poles bent into some fantastic modern art piece. I was shocked. Everything was fine. I then got the awning winder thingy out, again fully expecting to repeat the same nauseating results of the night before. Once again, I was shocked. It rolled right in, as it normally would.
Tuesday. Has that day been mentioned before? I drove the van back to the shop, making a point to be there at 9AM, when the guy said it would open. I figured that with a crew of mechanics, the alternator should be swapped out and we'd be on the road home in no time. Instead, I was greeted by the older gentleman who said he was going to do the job. Old and frail and a chain smoker with a knee that was to be replaced in a few weeks. I will spare you the miute-by-minute agony, and will just say that by 2PM, the alternator was still on, the poor guy was literally spent, and said he had to take a break to rest. All the while, I had been his assistant. Now that is terrifying!
Again, as luck would have it, his secretary had a son who was an ASE certified mechanic
and she called him to help bail the guy out. He arrived shortly with his jack-of-all-trades buddy and by 3:30PM had the new alternator back on. The battery light was off and everything was good, except for the price. $870 for the new battery, the alternator and the labor.
But I can still hear you saying "well, I'm glad everything worked out, and you finally had your happy ending" Are you kidding me? The bad day isn't over!! On the way back up to the campground, guess what? The battery light came on. By this time I had become an ASE certified mechanic, and it was easy for me to diagnose what the problem was-the battery was low, due to the drive down to the shop, and would take a little while to recharge. I got back to the campground, hooked up the Casita, and off we drove, back down the same road I knew by heart now. When we got a mile or two past his shop, the gauges went dead. My wife said "turn around and take it back to that guy!" Somehow the joy we felt for him on Sunday evaporated like dew on a hot day. I refused on 2 grounds. One, he had closed his shop and said he was going to take some major pain meds, and I didn't think he could work on it. Two, it obviously was not the alternator like he said it was, so why would he now know what was wrong?
Our van died the second time at 4:50PM, in a Penske truck rental shop. I went in and asked the lady in the office if there was a shop nearby that was still open, and if the mechanic could tow the van there. Two customers overheard me "oh, our mechanic is right around the corner, about a quarter of a mile. You want a ride there?" Like I'd refuse that!
The mechanic said he'd look at the van, and put an auxiliary battery on the car to get it to his garage. 2 hours later, he had it figured out. It was not the alternator to begin with. A wire that runs to the alternator has to travel by the exhaust manifold, it got hot, melted, and shorted out. However, he did take the time to show me that the starter, which I guess is made from some ceramic-type substance was literally on it's very last leg, and that I should not turn the motor off until I got home. He charged $152.
Thats all, right? Nope! We got it home, and the next day went out to start it and...and...dead. We called a tow truck, who towed it to the Chevy dealer who put a new starter on and found $5000.00 more in work that needed to be done. We agonized for days and days about whether we should get the things fixed or not, but came to the conclusion that it would not be worth it, as it had 110,000 miles, and was our tow vehicle. After that bad day in May, no thanks. So we ended the day on a bright, cheery note:
Now that we fast forwarded lets rewind. Kinda reminds me of the scene scene in the movie Willy Wonka, when Mr. Wonka gets confused. Somehow, on that level, I feel a kinship. I won't blame you for your befuddlement. But it won't help me with my story, so read on.
This year, unlike last year, I did not have the camping season planned out in March. I just wasn't motivated to. Maybe my sub-conscience knew what the future held. If it did, why the hay didn't it tell me?! Could have saved me countless nights waking in abject terror begging for my mommy. Continuing...
The season started out the week before Memorial Day with me calling campground after campground trying to find an available site. I finally called the Twin Mountain, NH KOA. Fortunately, they knew I had procrastinated and had saved me a site. Are you kidding me? I'm dreaming here. But how cool would that be?
Anyway, that Friday we loaded the venerable Astro Van with all our supplies, thrown in at the last minute, along with firewood and 2 dogs and a kid or two to make the trip more enjoyable.
Oh yeah, a bit of background, so rewind again. I promise you won't lose your place. I had at least had the presence of mind to make sure the van was serviced, spending enough money to fund a small nation for weeks on end. Stuff like the A/C pump, rods of some sort or another that they "said" would keep the wheels attached steering wheel (yeah, like I'm going to believe that! I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. It was the day before!) And then there were other things like 2 new tires, an oil change. Man, we were stylin'! I did not, however take the same attitude toward the Casita. Just drained the pink stuff, hooked up to the van and called it good.
Then it struck me like a feather dropping on my head-I blew out the heating element. I didn't make sure to fill the 6 gallon holding take before I turned the power switch on. Lovely! Like I'm going to be able to explain that at the next monthly meeting of Manly Men Who Know What They Are Doing. I'll be the joker who has to wear the T-shirt reserved for the least deserving Man sporting "But I can iron a shirt really well!"
The next day was glorious, so we went for a hike to the top of a lovely little hill. Little is a term which is interchangeable with "For the love of pete! If I have to take one more step, I'm going to hurl myself down this mountain and be a snack for the bears!"
Now I was scared, but not wanting to have to wear the T-shirt at the next meeting, I pulled over and popped open the hood and started muttering. Unbeknownst to my family, I was saying "if I had a pair of socks, my feet would be more comfortable". But to them I'm sure it sounded like "nope, the battery wire is tight, and I can see no melted parts or arching sparks". Since I truly am clueless, I got back in, started it back up, noticed the needle was still low, but drove on.
Another brief diversion to paint you a picture. Imagine some of the prettiest scenery around, big tall mountains dropping sharply to a valley, where the road meanders along beside a stream. And it is so pretty because a lot of it is untouched by civilization, for a good 26 miles...yeah, you know where this is going.
We made another 5 miles before the van completely died. As what little luck we had, would have it, it died in a small engine repair shop driveway. The last repair shop for 26 miles. Of course, that's where the luck stopped as it was Sunday about 6PM. It was closed and would be until Tuesday.
My daughter and I walked a half a mile to a local restaurant, and asked for a phonebook and a phone since my cell phone had died (and you thought you were never going to hear of our pain and anguish. Aren't you glad you stuck with it?!). I made a call to AAA who said they could tow the van to a garage, and someone could look at it...Tuesday. I see a reoccurring theme here! I ask you, what good is that, when we are 26 miles from our Casita, and there are no motels with vacancies for miles?
Not knowing exactly what to do, we walked back to the van. As we approached I saw a relatively old man bent over the hood of the van and the beaming face of my wife. She said that he was the owner of the shop, who lived nearby who saw we were having trouble. He had a battery/alternator tester machine, a within an hour announce that our alternator was toast. I asked if his shop could fix it, he assured me they could...Tuesday. Gall dern it!
Upon hearing that we had separation anxiety from our Casita, he said "I have new Interstate battery in the shop that I can put in your van that should get you up to your campground. The battery in the van is not the proper size anyway. And I'll loan you the charger to recharge it back up to get back here...Tuesday"
We were overjoyed and filled with gratitude. Our luck was re-ermerging once again, and the birds were chirping a bit more melodically. We drove the 26 miles without using fans, the radio or anything which would draw the precious life out of the new battery.
When we got back to the campground, we noticed dark storm clouds approaching. Since we had a freak windstorm rip off our awning the 2nd year we owned our Casita, dark storm clouds always leave me standing in a puddle. I strapped the awning and posts down tight and moved our kids tent under the awning. About 9:30PM, the wind really picked up and I could hear the vinyl part of the awning flapping wildly about. I went out, and tried to wind the awning back in, but the inner spindle just merrily turned, without pulling the awning in. I was devastated. How were we to drive the 152 miles home...Tuesday...with the awning out?
Again it brings to mind the scene from the movie RV. In it, they are in such a hurry to leave a campground and some overly friendly neighbors, they forget to reel the awning in and drive off with everything dangling. Hilarious for them. Us? Not so much.
When I awoke the next morning, I rushed out, fully expecting to see the awning in tatters, and the poles bent into some fantastic modern art piece. I was shocked. Everything was fine. I then got the awning winder thingy out, again fully expecting to repeat the same nauseating results of the night before. Once again, I was shocked. It rolled right in, as it normally would.
Tuesday. Has that day been mentioned before? I drove the van back to the shop, making a point to be there at 9AM, when the guy said it would open. I figured that with a crew of mechanics, the alternator should be swapped out and we'd be on the road home in no time. Instead, I was greeted by the older gentleman who said he was going to do the job. Old and frail and a chain smoker with a knee that was to be replaced in a few weeks. I will spare you the miute-by-minute agony, and will just say that by 2PM, the alternator was still on, the poor guy was literally spent, and said he had to take a break to rest. All the while, I had been his assistant. Now that is terrifying!
and she called him to help bail the guy out. He arrived shortly with his jack-of-all-trades buddy and by 3:30PM had the new alternator back on. The battery light was off and everything was good, except for the price. $870 for the new battery, the alternator and the labor.
But I can still hear you saying "well, I'm glad everything worked out, and you finally had your happy ending" Are you kidding me? The bad day isn't over!! On the way back up to the campground, guess what? The battery light came on. By this time I had become an ASE certified mechanic, and it was easy for me to diagnose what the problem was-the battery was low, due to the drive down to the shop, and would take a little while to recharge. I got back to the campground, hooked up the Casita, and off we drove, back down the same road I knew by heart now. When we got a mile or two past his shop, the gauges went dead. My wife said "turn around and take it back to that guy!" Somehow the joy we felt for him on Sunday evaporated like dew on a hot day. I refused on 2 grounds. One, he had closed his shop and said he was going to take some major pain meds, and I didn't think he could work on it. Two, it obviously was not the alternator like he said it was, so why would he now know what was wrong?
Our van died the second time at 4:50PM, in a Penske truck rental shop. I went in and asked the lady in the office if there was a shop nearby that was still open, and if the mechanic could tow the van there. Two customers overheard me "oh, our mechanic is right around the corner, about a quarter of a mile. You want a ride there?" Like I'd refuse that!
The mechanic said he'd look at the van, and put an auxiliary battery on the car to get it to his garage. 2 hours later, he had it figured out. It was not the alternator to begin with. A wire that runs to the alternator has to travel by the exhaust manifold, it got hot, melted, and shorted out. However, he did take the time to show me that the starter, which I guess is made from some ceramic-type substance was literally on it's very last leg, and that I should not turn the motor off until I got home. He charged $152.
Thats all, right? Nope! We got it home, and the next day went out to start it and...and...dead. We called a tow truck, who towed it to the Chevy dealer who put a new starter on and found $5000.00 more in work that needed to be done. We agonized for days and days about whether we should get the things fixed or not, but came to the conclusion that it would not be worth it, as it had 110,000 miles, and was our tow vehicle. After that bad day in May, no thanks. So we ended the day on a bright, cheery note:
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Casita Owners are the Dumbest People in the World
This past week we spent camping in Bar Harbor, Maine. I'll blog about that soon, but in the mean time, I'd like to take the opportunity to tell you I am absolutely bereft of any intelligence. As in plain stupid. I'll wait for the chorus of "Amen!" to die down. Applaud if you feel the need.
I realized this, this past week, but reading today about another Casita owner selling their trailer to get a Class C motorhome confirmed it. You see, it's like this...
When we bought our Casita on June 20, 2007 at 7:59AM, I thought by doing so, I would be saving the world, and protecting the environment for our two very young children because the carbon footprint of this magical trailer was so much smaller than other trailers out there...ah shucks!! I can't keep this up and maintain a straight face at the same time. Those thoughts never crossed my mind in a million years.
What really happened is that we drank the fiberglass website-induced Kool-Aid, believing that the hype we read about Casita's or Scamp's or Escapes's being a vastly superior trailer was true. Propaganda. Misinformation. I know better now. How do I know this?
Let's start with the cost. While reasonable compared to an Airstream, if you compare the cubic foot to that of, say a Jayco, well forget it. So strike one.
They must be more economical to tow, right? Uh, no. Not unless you are towing with a V-8. I can say this with the greatest of confidence because I have towed the Casita with 2 V-6 vehicles, and in both cases got between 10 and 13 MPG. C'mon! That's almost as bad as a Class A diesel pusher. As the line in the movie RV goes, "we might as well stay home and set fire to an oil field!". Strike two.
Fine, I know they will last much longer than the stickies-fiberglass never dies. Ok, while this sounds good on paper, I have seen a fair number of original Scotty's the past few years that have to be about as old, or older than the earliest fiberglass trailers. Oh sure, they might not be the rule, but point is, there are other old trailers out there besides fiberglass. Strike three.
There is no question they require less maintenance being composed of only 2 pieces of fiberglass. Really? What about the 7,263 rivet holes drilled through those 2 pieces of fiberglass? And that was that dripping on my face from a rivet the other night while it was raining outside? What? I wasn't supposed to notice that? Strike four.
Here's an argument that is irrefutable. The stickies are just too big to maneuver around in some campsites. Here I must admit, there may be some truth. However, who is laughing about the size of the trailer when it is 54 degrees outside and the 4 of us are huddled around the picnic table, racing to eat our once warm food which is rapidly turning into a block of ice? We have tried the indoor thing in the Casita, but within moments it resembles a game of Twister. It's at that time, when my head is mashed against the window by someone's foot, that I look over at that nice 32' 5th wheel and wonder what it would be like to actually sit in a recliner, reclined, and let the patter of rain lull you into a midsummer's afternoon nap. Strike five.
I could go on, but I don't need to. Why? Because all the strikes against the Casita is what makes us love it so. To a lot of people, it would make no sense to try and understand why we so willingly want to be considered dumb. They don't understand that some of the "flaws" are what makes it special. Go out there and try to find a stickie that will tug at your heartstrings every time you pull into it's campsite. Yup, it's those esoteric things that make us willing to be so dang dumb. So sue me.
I realized this, this past week, but reading today about another Casita owner selling their trailer to get a Class C motorhome confirmed it. You see, it's like this...
When we bought our Casita on June 20, 2007 at 7:59AM, I thought by doing so, I would be saving the world, and protecting the environment for our two very young children because the carbon footprint of this magical trailer was so much smaller than other trailers out there...ah shucks!! I can't keep this up and maintain a straight face at the same time. Those thoughts never crossed my mind in a million years.
What really happened is that we drank the fiberglass website-induced Kool-Aid, believing that the hype we read about Casita's or Scamp's or Escapes's being a vastly superior trailer was true. Propaganda. Misinformation. I know better now. How do I know this?
Let's start with the cost. While reasonable compared to an Airstream, if you compare the cubic foot to that of, say a Jayco, well forget it. So strike one.
They must be more economical to tow, right? Uh, no. Not unless you are towing with a V-8. I can say this with the greatest of confidence because I have towed the Casita with 2 V-6 vehicles, and in both cases got between 10 and 13 MPG. C'mon! That's almost as bad as a Class A diesel pusher. As the line in the movie RV goes, "we might as well stay home and set fire to an oil field!". Strike two.
Fine, I know they will last much longer than the stickies-fiberglass never dies. Ok, while this sounds good on paper, I have seen a fair number of original Scotty's the past few years that have to be about as old, or older than the earliest fiberglass trailers. Oh sure, they might not be the rule, but point is, there are other old trailers out there besides fiberglass. Strike three.
There is no question they require less maintenance being composed of only 2 pieces of fiberglass. Really? What about the 7,263 rivet holes drilled through those 2 pieces of fiberglass? And that was that dripping on my face from a rivet the other night while it was raining outside? What? I wasn't supposed to notice that? Strike four.
Here's an argument that is irrefutable. The stickies are just too big to maneuver around in some campsites. Here I must admit, there may be some truth. However, who is laughing about the size of the trailer when it is 54 degrees outside and the 4 of us are huddled around the picnic table, racing to eat our once warm food which is rapidly turning into a block of ice? We have tried the indoor thing in the Casita, but within moments it resembles a game of Twister. It's at that time, when my head is mashed against the window by someone's foot, that I look over at that nice 32' 5th wheel and wonder what it would be like to actually sit in a recliner, reclined, and let the patter of rain lull you into a midsummer's afternoon nap. Strike five.
I could go on, but I don't need to. Why? Because all the strikes against the Casita is what makes us love it so. To a lot of people, it would make no sense to try and understand why we so willingly want to be considered dumb. They don't understand that some of the "flaws" are what makes it special. Go out there and try to find a stickie that will tug at your heartstrings every time you pull into it's campsite. Yup, it's those esoteric things that make us willing to be so dang dumb. So sue me.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Who Says Fiberglass is Better? Hmpfff!!
What would spring be if it weren't for the pain and anguish of getting the venerable 'ol Casita out of mothballs and ready for another season of abuse in the cold, rainy state I affectionately refer to as Misery....uh, I mean Maine. And sure, just because our trailer is old and decaying (it's a 2007 after all!), I guess I still thought fiberglass trailers were superior to stickies. I thought that until a few weeks ago. Let me tell you how my mind was changed.
It was one of those rare mornings here in the Great State of Maine, that prefect blend of being awake AND actually wanting to work. Combined with a ray or two of sunshine, and the hamster wheel in my head started spinning. That is never a good thing.
I had noticed previously that the frame of the Casita had a bubble or two of rust here or there which is something completely unacceptable. What this would translate to is that in 40 or 50 years there would be a complete disintegration of the frame which carries our beloved fiberglass egg. Never mind we'd be dead and gone by that time, or too old to care. The thought of rust bubbles eating away was too much to bear.
So I grabbed my drill, one of those abrasive wheel thingys and a piece of cardboard. That, along with Permatex Naval Jelly and a can of Rustoleum brush-on paint and I was good to go. I kissed my wife goodbye, told her it would take an hour tops and started the long journey to the other end of our driveway (maybe 75 feet) to start the process.
When I crawled under the trailer, I realized how foolish I had been to let those hamsters loose in my head. There were bubbles all over the frame instead of here and there. However, realizing how priceless our decrepit trailer was to the family, I took a deep breath and started "grinding" all the evilness away.
This process took slightly less time then it took the Egyptians to create all 3 pyramids, during which the grinder made an intimate acquaintance with my chin and throat while spinning slightly faster that the speed of light. Take my word that skin loses to the brushy bristles hands down. After taking time off to have a half dozen blood transfusions, I finally had all the offending rust removed from the frame. Even though the grinder/brush/bristle thingy took the paint completely off leaving gleaming steel, I still applied the naval jelly, in-between gasps of pain due to the fact that I had been laying under the trailer for literally hours.
After letting that dry in the wind and sun I commenced applying the paint. It was somewhere at this point I starting cursing all the fiberglass elitist's and their argument that fiberglass trailers were superior to stickies due the fact that a lot less maintenance was required. In less polite company, they have a word for that, but since we are a bit erudite, I'll leave it unspoken. All in all I spend over 5 joyless hours (my wife kept sweetly asking "I thought you said it would only take 1 hour, why so long?"). At this point I could barely muster enough strength to grunt, so I let that be my answer.
In a way, it would have been fun to have photos of the process, but maybe it's just as well I didn't take any or have any taken. It would have opened up painful memories that are better left to slowly fade into a slow oblivion.
So I have come to an obvious conclusion; if you want to keep something in good shape, it takes work regardless. Now where is that bag of potato chips?
It was one of those rare mornings here in the Great State of Maine, that prefect blend of being awake AND actually wanting to work. Combined with a ray or two of sunshine, and the hamster wheel in my head started spinning. That is never a good thing.
I had noticed previously that the frame of the Casita had a bubble or two of rust here or there which is something completely unacceptable. What this would translate to is that in 40 or 50 years there would be a complete disintegration of the frame which carries our beloved fiberglass egg. Never mind we'd be dead and gone by that time, or too old to care. The thought of rust bubbles eating away was too much to bear.
So I grabbed my drill, one of those abrasive wheel thingys and a piece of cardboard. That, along with Permatex Naval Jelly and a can of Rustoleum brush-on paint and I was good to go. I kissed my wife goodbye, told her it would take an hour tops and started the long journey to the other end of our driveway (maybe 75 feet) to start the process.
When I crawled under the trailer, I realized how foolish I had been to let those hamsters loose in my head. There were bubbles all over the frame instead of here and there. However, realizing how priceless our decrepit trailer was to the family, I took a deep breath and started "grinding" all the evilness away.
This process took slightly less time then it took the Egyptians to create all 3 pyramids, during which the grinder made an intimate acquaintance with my chin and throat while spinning slightly faster that the speed of light. Take my word that skin loses to the brushy bristles hands down. After taking time off to have a half dozen blood transfusions, I finally had all the offending rust removed from the frame. Even though the grinder/brush/bristle thingy took the paint completely off leaving gleaming steel, I still applied the naval jelly, in-between gasps of pain due to the fact that I had been laying under the trailer for literally hours.
After letting that dry in the wind and sun I commenced applying the paint. It was somewhere at this point I starting cursing all the fiberglass elitist's and their argument that fiberglass trailers were superior to stickies due the fact that a lot less maintenance was required. In less polite company, they have a word for that, but since we are a bit erudite, I'll leave it unspoken. All in all I spend over 5 joyless hours (my wife kept sweetly asking "I thought you said it would only take 1 hour, why so long?"). At this point I could barely muster enough strength to grunt, so I let that be my answer.
In a way, it would have been fun to have photos of the process, but maybe it's just as well I didn't take any or have any taken. It would have opened up painful memories that are better left to slowly fade into a slow oblivion.
So I have come to an obvious conclusion; if you want to keep something in good shape, it takes work regardless. Now where is that bag of potato chips?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
This Campground Just Plain Confuses Me!
So trying to honor my commitment to blog more this year, I thought that I'd take the time to become perplexed. Not a hard feat to accomplish, but just maybe you can empathize slightly with the paradox that confronts me.
But first, let's go back in time-it's perfectly ok to groan and think "can't he ever make things simple? Does it always have to be the most circuitous way to the point?" Even I think that from time to time, it's just usually after I have already spent multiple hours crafting the most perfectly verbose posting ever, and it just kills me to think of deleting any of it...my how I can drag on!!
So this is the story. We started our camping season in style this year, oh, wait, a little more background before the story unfolds, please bear with me.
Last year, we did ad-hoc camping. It might help if I knew what that was, but since I don't, I'll give the definition I think it should be: "not planning the camping season ahead of time, but rather a few days before the weekend, frantically calling all the good campgrounds in search of availability".
I would usually be pleasantly told "Sorry we're booked solid". Click. I don't think I need to bother you with the disappointment and make-do campgrounds, do I?
So this year, in mid March, I determined to push the envelope and proceeded to list all the places we wanted to camp, and then methodically called them all to reserve. I can't say for certain, but I am starting to think that this could be a little less stressful for me...I know its a revolutionary concept, and might prove too successful. The expectation will now always be there. Oh the pressure!!
Anyway, back to the semi-present. Our first camping trip was Memorial Day Weekend at Saco River Family Camping in North Conway, New Hampshire. The gratuitous disclaimer: we have camped here several times before.
Continuing on to my confusion (because I know that's what you really want anyway)...
The campground itself is a mix of nice and mess, the first conflicting ingredients. How is it that some sites can have well manicured grass while others are a hodge-podge of grass patches, a little sprinkling of gravel and a hefty amount of dirt? The latter being the perfect storm for a bonafide disaster should it rain (which it did). And how is it that we never get the grassy sites?
Add to that the fact that most sites have the obligatory 122 ft long 5th wheels, the huge pickups needed to haul them and because of this, are very close to your site-got the image in mind? And with the huge rigs come the capacity to bring huge amounts of stuff. And they like putting their stuff all over their sites. Now don't get me wrong, we aren't the model of thriftiness when it comes to what we bring either; a pop up tent, grill, bikes, an outdoor stove, clothes line off the back of the Casita, computers, iPads, toasters, collapsable trash cans and the likes. But they have capacity to haul more and they know how to do it!
Did I mention the boom boxes? I think most campers here think that it's a prerequisite to bring a stereo system of some sort, and then play competing music on it-I kid you not. There was a pop station playing in the site next to us, oldies across from us, and the next row over was playing country. Then about 10 trailers down lively celtic music was playing. My wife and I ponder this simple thought: "does everyone think that everyone else wants to listen to THEIR music?" Rhetorical.
So by now, you are wondering what there is to like, right? I know you are thinking "what's confusing? An open and shut discussion! End of story. Boy this guy is thick!" But it's not that easy. Even with the big rigs, the stuff and the unrestrained music, people are still pretty friendly if you are (we are talking New England after all!) and if you don't want to be, they are happy to ignore you. Perfect.
Then there is the campground itself. Apart from a number of dirt sites, the campground has a lot of large, well maintained grassy areas, perfect for exercising a dog or a kid. I do not mean we played fetch with both at the same time, in case that was where you were headed.
Additionally, the campground has, say, almost a half mile (could be a less, didn't measure it) of paved road which is perfect for kids to ride bikes on. Oh, and don't forget nightly tractor rides-a must-as long as it's not me riding!!
The bathrooms are clean, although it appears that the inspiration for the size of the stalls came directly from the oompa loompa's. The showers looked satisfactory as well, however much to our delight, we have never had to use any since we got our Casita. Wait, we didn't camp before-well, that was easy!
They have a nice, heated saltwater pool, that while small for such a large campground, was not overcrowded. It slopes from 1 ft to 7ft in the deep end.
And the reason it's not overcrowded is another big selling point of the campground. It is right on the Saco River. Again, just guessing here, but I wager at least a thousand feet of frontage on the river. You can get inner tubes and walk up to the upper side of the campground and float to the lower side or you can opt to canoe 5 or so miles down the river to the campground. They have canoes you can rent and they will take you to the spot up river where you start from.
And then, to boot, they have Audubon Society trails that start right from the campground. I do not know how long they are because we could not find out; I had to beat down the mosquitos that were trying to airlift my children to their nest or whatever they live in. Yes, they were that bad. The mosquitos, not my kids.
Then, of course, you are in the heart of the White Mountains, within an easy 15 minute drive from the Kancamagus Highway (an incredibly beautiful road through the White Mountain National Forest), and literally a minute away from some pretty dangerous outlet shopping.
So now you are starting to understand why I've scratched nearly all the hair from my head. That's what I like telling myself anyway, takes some of the the sting away from my 7 year old son saying "ah, look at the cute little bald head that my daddy has" when he looks at it. I guess it could be worse-I could actually be bald...back on track, where do these things come from?
On the one hand, the amenities are pretty awesome, on the other hand, the actual camping experience leaves a bit to be desired. We have gone there both this year and in the past because what it offers outweighs the negative-if it must be termed that way.
But for me, it is as clear as "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" I told you it was THAT confusing! Sometimes I hate it and sometimes I love it.
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