Fingers Burned, Lessons Learned

My hands tell the story better than words ever could.

They ache, but it’s a good ache, the kind that comes from hard work and not some arthritic disease that makes the fingers twist and bend like old branches, all gnarled and knobby. No, sir; these hands worked this week, by God, and worked hard. There are nicks and scratches aplenty, on both hands and on both sides, all of them scabbed over by now, a couple still flaring slightly red, others healing nicely. The marks are evidence of the aforesaid work, whether it was outdoorsy-manly work such as sawing dead rhododendron trunks into firewood, or knuckle-busting under the hot hood of the Mazda wagon, or just moving branches away from the trail while Jean and I were hiking.

Looking at the backs of both hands, they’re tan, the veins with their bluish tinge standing out in relief against the brown and red skin. There’s black there, too; despite hours of intense scrubbing, what seems like a day’s worth of OPEC production is embedded in my cuticles and under every single fingernail. When I turn my hands over, it’s no better; the blackness is sunk deep into the swirls and whorls of my fingertips, making it look like a bailiff should be handing me a towel before he leads me off for a mug shot. Add the patches of super glue decorating various fingernails, and it may be weeks before I rid myself of this grunge. Last but not least, the remains of three thin blisters cross the pads of my thumb, forefinger and the middle finger of my right hand, the result of grabbing a pot handle from the camp stove. I think the middle finger might have a permanent scar.

When I look at my hands, I can see an encapsulated version of my vacation, the good, the bad, and the ugly. To be honest, it may well have been my best vacation ever. In any case, it was one hell of a good time.

On the Monday following Labor Day, Jean and I took off for the hills of Transylvania County, North Carolina, for a week of car camping at Cascade Lake. The drive was uneventful yet pleasant, with Americana and Bluegrass playlists from the iPod scoring the trip. We sang along with Lucinda, Loretta, Emmylou and Steve Earle as we drove, stopped every couple of hours for some light yoga stretches or a sandwich, and by twilight we were established at camp with tilapia kabobs sizzling on the campfire.

The next day began our vacation proper. We filled our days that week with all kinds of outdoor activities: Floating down the Davidson River on innertubes, hiking mountain trails along the Blue Ridge Parkway, visiting waterfalls and taking photographs. We drove along twisting mountain roads just to enjoy the scenery. And the nights! They were wonderful: Cooking over a campfire, playing music (Jean on guitar, myself on the washtub bass) to an audience of crickets and owls, gazing at the canopy of the Carolina night sky filled to bursting with stars, and cozying up together in our double sleeping bag in the tent. Life, as they say, was good.

And then came Friday.

We slept in that morning, packed leisurely, and finally got on the road toward home sometime around noon. We stopped for a soda and a snack on the outskirts of Brevard, just before we started into the twisty-road mountain proper, and I said something then that would cause Jean to tell me later, “You know, you really should listen to your instincts.”

What I said was this: “Maybe we should just go back the way we came.”

We didn’t.

U.S. Highway 64 wends it way through the mountains of western North Carolina, twisting this way and that before eventually making its way to Chattanooga. It is a beautiful passage through national forest land, and I wanted to drive the winding mountain roads, see the vistas around the crest of every ridge, and enjoy the scenery along our way home. And we did, for the most part.

Except for one thing: The car started acting up somewhat once we got into the mountains. Nothing major, just some engine hesitation which we thought was due to a temporary repair to an air intake. But the farther we drove, the worse the problem became, and the demanding terrain did not help the situation. I finally pulled over in the small town of Cashiers, where I got to work under the hood. Fifteen minutes later we were back on the road, and it seemed like I might have made things better for a little while. But it wasn’t long before the car was herking and jerking again, so I made another stop in Ducktown, Tennessee, with the intention of making a proper repair before we began the last leg home.

So I got to work. When I removed the air intake, intending to fix it, I failed to notice that three water lines were connected beneath it. Removing the air intake caused me to break a small t-shaped plastic valve. Take it from me: Under the hood at a convenience store in the mountains of east Tennessee on a hot afternoon in late summer is the last place you want to hear a loud popping noise followed by hissing and the smell of antifreeze.

I quickly made a brief review of the situation: It is late on Friday afternoon in bumpus Tennessee; there is no Mazda dealer within at least a hundred miles, and probably not even a wrecker service in town; and Jean is on the verge of either tears or cussing me like a road dog. I cannot accurately convey the emotion I felt at that moment of realization. I might have looked like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” when he dropped the lug nuts into the snow, or perhaps Napoleon on the first day of winter in Russia, or even the Huns on running into the Great Wall of China for the first time. Sort of an “oh-shit-what-now-what-did-I-do-dear-god-what-next-we’re-screwed” look.

Of course, I couldn’t let that happen. With a set jaw and a mind full of determination, I went into the convenience store and returned minutes later with a screwdriver with interchangeable heads, one tube of super glue, a roll of hose wrap, and a gallon of coolant. Twenty sweat-and-grease-stained minutes later, we were back on the road and headed for Atlanta.

For, oh, just about an hour.

To be honest, I thought things were looking pretty good. We were back on four-lane roads and I was babying the car, driving the speed limit and trying not to do anything taxing to the engine or the cooling system. After about 45 minutes, I finally began to relax just the tiniest bit, thinking that we might actually make it home, when I both: a) noticed the temperature gauge swing violently to the hot end of the scale; and b) heard Jean say in my ear, “Oh no… there it goes.”

I pulled over to the side of the road and popped the hood, greeted by a puff of steam. I tried to make the same repair I’d made an hour before, but to no avail. I spent thirty minutes sweating and cussing over the engine before I finally decided to throw in the towel and call a tow truck.

By now it was dark, and a sense of panic was descending on Jean, and with good reason. Our trip home took place on Friday because Jean was scheduled to teach a new kid’s yoga class on Saturday morning in Homewood. Here, sitting in our car in the dark on the side of the road in north Georgia, it began to look like we wouldn’t make it. It was a quiet wait for the two of us.

After about 30 minutes, our tow truck showed up and Jeremy, the driver, had the car on the back of the flatbed in no time. Jean and I piled into the front of the truck with Jeremy and began reviewing our options. Our first choice was to replace the part and get back on the road, so we asked Jeremy to drive us to an AutoZone, which he did. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the part. Neither did O’Reilly’s. Or Advance, the last auto parts store in Jasper, Georgia which stayed open ten minutes late to see if they could help us out.

We brainstormed for a minute, and got the idea that a U-Haul might be in order. If we could get a truck and a tow dolly, we could lug the station wagon home. I know it is hard to understand, but can you believe that there are no U-Haul locations open at 10 o’clock on a Friday night in Jasper, Georgia?

It looked bad. Real bad. So I did what any man would do in such a spot: I called my mom.

As it turned out, we were not far from my Aunt Betty, whom my mom called for us (I know, I’m a bad nephew. I didn’t have her number in my cell phone. I do now). After several back-and-forth calls from the cab of the tow truck, we worked it out so that Betty would pick us up at seven in the morning, then let us use her car for the day. It looked like we might have an answer.

Jeremy dropped us off in the town of Canton, where he deposited us at a Microtel for the night and we tried to get some sleep. I didn’t sleep much, for I couldn’t help worrying about what would happen on Saturday morning.

Turns out I shouldn’t have worried so much. Betty arrived as scheduled, and after we dropped her off at her place in Woodstock (about a 20-minute drive) we were soon on the interstate and headed for Birmingham.

We got home that morning about 10:30, giving Jean just about an hour to shower and leave for class. I also had important work to do. I immediately set about finding the part I needed, locating one at the local Mazda dealership. After a quick bite to eat, I was back on the road to Canton, listening to football and old country music on the radio. It was an uneventful drive, and following a stop at a Wal-Mart for a couple of tools, I was back under the hood of the station wagon in the parking lot of the Microtel.

I was being a good deal more mindful this time while I was working on the car; the thought that I might break the new part I’d just purchased haunted me. I was doing well, however, when I got stuck. A bolt was holding the battery platform in place, keeping me from getting to what I needed to get to, and I didn’t have a socket wrench with which to remove it.

I was just about to walk back across the enormous parking lot to Wal-Mart again, when a man walked out of the hotel exit towards the car.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” he said, “but could you use some help?”

I looked the man over. I saw “Deliverance”; normally, I’m wary of strangers in small mountain towns. He was burly, with a white bandana on his head, and worn jeans. He looked like a biker; as it turned out, he was a biker. But at that point, with sweat running from every pore and my frustration near the boiling point, I didn’t care.

We swapped introductions; he told me his name was Mike, he was from Texas, and he and his wife were here for a bike rally. I explained my situation, and he motioned for me to follow him over to his bike, where he unlocked a trailer and pulled out a box of tools.

“I don’t know if what you need is in there,” he said, “but you’re welcome to use them.” His wife had come out of the hotel by this point, walking to her own bike parked next to Mike’s. “He’s having car trouble,” he told her as he motioned towards me, then he turned back to me.

“We’re heading out for dinner,” he said. “Can I trust you?”

I nodded dumbly.

“All right then,” he said, and mounted his bike. He called out “good luck!”, and with a rumble, he and his wife were gone.

Turns out there was a socket set in the toolbox, and I was able to quickly get the new valve in place. Once I got some new coolant poured into the system, I tentatively cranked the car and crossed my fingers.

It worked. And it didn’t leak. I literally let out a holler.

I wrote a quick note of thanks to Mike and placed it in his toolbox, which I left for him at the front desk of the Microtel. Then I drove my car back to my aunt’s, turned back around for her to return me to Canton and the station wagon, and finally headed home around six o’clock.

The drive home was tense; I was constantly worried that my repairs would not hold, and I could not get the Auburn – Clemson game on the radio until I was almost back to Oxford. But I persevered and got home just in time to see fourth quarter of the game, and Jean had a cold beer and dinner waiting for me. Not the perfect end to a week of vacation, but definitely a good one.

So what did I take away from all of this? Here are five things:

1) The sense of place has power

At the beginning of our trip, when we left Interstate 20 just outside Greenville, South Carolina on Monday and turned onto highway 25 four the drive into North Carolina, I began grinning like a four-year-old on Christmas morning at the first glimpse of the mountains to the north of us. My grin wasn’t caused only by the knowledge that we would soon be reaching our vacation destination after a long day of driving (which made me quite happy indeed), but also because it almost felt to me like going home after a long visit to a foreign land.

It could be my fondness for rolling green mountains; perhaps it is the little bit of Cherokee blood in me that recognizes these hills and hollows as home; or it could be something else entirely. Whatever the reason (and I don’t think the reason is as important as the feeling), I absolutely love the mountains of western North Carolina. Being there feels right to me. It’s odd, somehow. I’ve never lived in the area, and my family doesn’t come from there (with the exception of my grandparents who lived in northwestern Georgia, but that area is not quite the same), and unless you count infrequent visits to the region for camping trips, I’ve not spent much time in the Blue Ridge. But the place is powerful to me. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find myself living there within the next decade.

2) Sometimes you just have to unplug

One of the major reasons I enjoy camping is the ability to truly get away from it all. For a full work week, I didn’t touch a computer, I was out of cell phone range unless we drove into Brevard for groceries or on our way somewhere else, and I didn’t even think about turning on a television.

It was wonderful.

I’m no luddite; I like having the internet and cable and constant access to information. It’s necessary in today’s society. But for a week, I didn’t worry about updating my facebook status or checking on a gazillion tweets or any of the other electronic distractions that normally fill my days.

As a result, I’ve returned recharged (as it were) with a re-discovered creative energy and determination that I’ve been missing for months now. It feels great. Getting away from it all made me realize how to better use the tools at my disposal.

3) Teddy Roosevelt was the man

Thank goodness for the foresight Teddy Roosevelt had in creating national parks and national forests. We spent hours in Pisgah National Forest and on the Blue Ridge Parkway, enjoying the pristine beauty of the area.

However, not far from where we camped, there was a mining operation on a small mountain. Where the surrounding mountains were green and beautiful, this one was scarred and ugly. I had to think that if it had not been for President Roosevelt, so much more of the area would look like that mining operation. So I am grateful for his foresight in protecting the natural wonders of our country. I believe that if the stewardship of the land had been left to private hands, the hills would be stripped bare in the name of commerce. As it is, our government has protected these lands for the enjoyment of all Americans and for the preservation of true natural wonders. Thanks, Teddy. A grateful nation enjoys your legacy.

4) Mindfulness doesn’t stay at home

While our vacation was in whole an absolutely wonderful experience, I could have made things even better had I been more mindful at times. For one, I wouldn’t have blisters on three of my fingers from grabbing a hot pot handle off the camp stove. For another, we might have avoided the car trouble that led to our misadventures on the way home.

Peace and relaxation are delightful, but you’ve got to keep being mindful about what you do. Otherwise, you end up with burned fingers and a hefty towing bill. Trust me on this one.

5) There are still good people in the world

When we were having our car troubles at the end of the trip, I learned that not everyone in the world is selfish and out for themselves. Jeremy, the tow truck driver, went above and beyond the call of duty in helping us search for a part for the car and a place to stay for the night. Mike the biker showed more faith in a stranger than many people have in their own families, trusting me enough so that he went on his merry way with nothing more than my word and a handshake that I wouldn’t steal his tools. And of course, there was my Aunt Betty who let us use her car while I worked on getting our vehicle back together. With so much animosity in the world today, it’s nice to see human beings actually acting human.

Headed for the hills -- part VI

Full and happy following a good breakfast and plenty of coffee, we head out of the restaurant and back into the rain. We drove back to the campground to find the camp store open, so we stopped before heading back to the campsite.

The store is nice, with a large porch outside and nicer people inside. A woman, who I guess is in her mid-fifties, helps me with the check-in process. It's easy (they actually preferred that I write them a check), and I also purchased a couple of bundles of firewood, some fire starters, and ice for the cooler.

Loaded down with provisions, we headed back to camp to get ready for our canoe trip. We packed a cooler with lunch (as well as some beer and wine) and filled a dry bag with a camera and other items we will need on the river. Then it was time to head back out.

We hauled our stuff back to the camp office where a beat-up old van was waiting to take us to the river. We were joined by several families who were also going to do some paddling, although we were the only ones headed out on the 10-mile trip. And then we were off through the countryside, driving along winding back roads for fifteen minutes or so until we came to the put-in for the long paddle.

By now the rain had stopped, and we were both practically beaming as we walked down a gentle slope to the riverside. It wasn't long before we had the canoe in the water, and with a friendly wave, we said goodbye to the other canoeists and shoved off.

Almost immediately, we came to a small bridge, then the first big bend in the river. When we came around it, it was like we'd left any kind of civilization far behind. There were no cars to be seen or heard, and no people around, either. All was quiet and peaceful, with green meadows rising on either side of the river. I can't really explain the feeling of peace that came over me that morning; everything was beautiful and verdant, and I practically expected Julie Andrews to top one of the hills and start singing from "The Sound of Music" as we passed. Row after row of fir trees topped the hills as far as the eye could see, rhododendrons climbed the walls of sheer rock faces along the riverside, and occasional flocks of geese paddled quietly downstream. I couldn't stop goggling at it all; I wouldn't have been the least surprised to see Snow White leading a line of happy woodland creatures along the riverbank.

One of the things that surprised me the most was the number of cows we saw along the river. Every so often as we paddled along, we would come to a field where cows, bulls and calves would start lowing in unison when they saw us. For some reason, I was completely entertained by the sight of a half-dozen of these animals wandering around a dilapidated school bus.

The geese were also entertaining. Most of the time, they would swim slowly away as we approached, but one time we decided to head straight for a flock floating peacefully in the middle of the river. As we got within twenty feet or so of the group, they suddenly took flight, splashing and honking, making a splendid sight. It was truly amazing.

After a couple of hours of easy paddling, we decided to stop for lunch. We found a spot where a small shoal led onto one of the meadows, and we pulled the canoe onshore. After a nice picnic, we hopped back into the canoe and headed back downriver.

It wasn't long before we ran into three inflatable boats, each filled with three men. One was paddling, using two oars to navigate, while the other two fished for trout. They seemed to be having almost as good of a time as we were, and we exchanged pleasantries as we passed by.

A short time later, we found a rock outcrop in the middle of the river that seemed to be a good place to stop for a swim. The water was cool and clear, and we had a good time scrambling around on the rocks.

After the swim, we came to a large series of rapids. Our drivers had warned us about these, and suggested that we stay far to the right for the best passage. But I think we went too far to the right, leaving the main flow of the river and heading to the side of a small island in the stream. While we may have avoided the rapids, we ran into a shallow, rocky patch that required more getting out of the canoe and pulling rather than expert paddling.

It was hard work, but after about 10 minutes or so we were back into the main part of the stream and headed back to camp. There was time for one more swim, and about half an hour later we paddled up to the take-out point, tired but very, very happy.

To be continued...

Headed for the hills -- part V

It is funny how different people react to different situations. Take Jean, for example. Despite the rain and lack of anything similar to air in the air mattress, see was completely unaffected and slept like a rock for the rest of the night. On the other hand, I tossed, turned and grunted throughout the darkness, unable to sleep for more than half an hour at a time. When dawn finally made its watery appearance, I was tired (obviously) and achy (the result of lying on wrinkled vinyl all night).

I awoke first and found two things: 1) it was still raining, and hard from the sound of it; and 2) a good deal of water had found its way into the tent. Our midnight efforts at dam building in the dark were obviously not up to snuff.

I woke Jean, and we began to clean up the mess, with the rain pattering steadily on the top of the tent. But something happened that morning, something completely and utterly cool: We shrugged it off without a second thought. Where it would have been oh-so easy to start to bitchin' and moanin' about the wet and the mess and so forth, we didn't. We smiled and got to work. This was our vacation, and a little bit of rain wasn't going to spoil our fun! We made the best of it, cleaning out the tent as well as we could before we thought about doing something about breakfast.

Our stomachs were growling, Jean and I both needed coffee in the worst way, and we had a 10-mile paddle ahead of us later in the morning. A good breakfast would be invaluable. We had plenty of food, but it was all designed to be eaten cooked (I've never been one much for raw eggs). My plan all along had been to do all our cooking over an open fire, so we did not bring a camp stove. Even though from inside the tent it sounded like it was raining much harder than it actually was, it was still a very soggy morning. Building a fire in such weather would be difficult; not having any firewood made it impossible. I made a quick trek to the camp store to see about getting one of the handy bundles of wood they sold, but I found it closed, not to open for another two hours.

When I got back to camp, we made the only decision available: We would go into the town of Independence to see what awaited us there.

We got into the car and headed back toward civilization. This was our first good glimpse of the landscape, and both Jean and I were suitably impressed. We were surrounded by steep green hills, many topped with row after row of fir trees, others home to rolling meadows and cattle. Although the morning was gray and overcast, it was a beautiful sight. We passed a few barns but very few vehicles on our ten-minute drive into town.

I say "town" because Independence is one, albeit one with but a single traffic light. My first impression was that it was little more than a slightly wider spot in a very narrow road. An old courthouse sat in the small square along the main drag, and it was here that we turned to see what we could find in the way of vittles. We drove past the local high school just beginning to hum with Friday morning activity, then past a small shopping center with a grocery and a Mexican restaurant. A block or two further, and we were back into the countryside. We turned back around, and eventually pulled into a small restaurant across the street from the high school.
The sign outside proclaimed Aunt Bea's Express, and when we walked in the door, we found the place a good two-thirds full. We checked the menu; it consisted of short-order grill items, much like a diner, with a fairly extensive listing for breakfast items. A procession of locals walked to the counter and placed their orders, including a cheerleader in uniform who got a biscuit before walking out the door to school. We guessed it was pep rally day. A posse of old men sat and talked in one corner of the restaurant; like in small towns across America, the town's elders were holding morning court over coffee and scrambled eggs.

Jean and I got in line and placed our orders, and it wasn't long before we both had piping hot plates in front of us, with steaming black coffee in styrofoam cups on the side. I tore open two small packets of sugar and dumped them into my cup, then grinned at Jean as I stirred the coffee. It was going to be a good day.

To be continued...

Headed for the hills -- part IV

It wasn't long until the kabobs were grilled to perfection, with the tilapia flaking off in steaming hunks. The grilled onions, green peppers and squash provided a crunchy accompaniment, and sweet potatoes (cooked scout style, wrapped in foil and shoved deep into the coals to bake) rounded out the meal.

Maybe it was because we were ravenous following the day's drive and the work we did to set up camp, or maybe it was because of the pastoral setting with the river gurgling behind us and the clouds parting to show more stars than I've seen in years, but for whatever the reason, dinner was indescribably delicious.

I leaned back in my chair, took a long pull off my beer, and smiled at Jean. "It really doesn't get better than this, does it?"

It was a shame that it didn't last.

The first hint that the situation was going awry came when we went to make our bed in the tent. We were putting sheets on the air mattress when looked at me with a touch of concern.

"Can you hear that?" she asked, her ear pressed to vinyl near the foot of the mattress.
I moved to where she sat and placed my ear where hers had most recently been. There was no doubt about it -- the hiss that reached my ears could mean nothing else but a leak.

We searched and searched, but could never find the source of the hissing, and despite unplugging and re-plugging the valve for the mattress, as well as using the automatic pump to put some more air into it, the leak remained.

Fortunately, it seemed that the leak was minor. Even after fifteen minutes of futile detective work on our part, it seemed that the leak wasn't so bad that we couldn't sleep on the mattress. We shrugged at each other and continued making the bed, then got in for a good night's sleep.
It turned out to be no such thing.

Sometime in the night, I awoke to find Jean leaning over me, shoving wadded clothing into small piles alongside the outer edge of the tent. I was damp, my back hurt, and it didn't take long for me to figure out what had happened. The rains, which had gratefully stopped while we set up camp and ate dinner, returned after we fell asleep. Unfortunately, the ground cover I put beneath the tent was too small to encompass the entire footprint of our shelter -- and as such, could not keep water from seeping into the tent around the edges.

Jean woke after she put her hand in a large puddle during the night. In an attempt to keep the center of the tent -- and out now-completely-deflated air mattress -- dry, she used our clothes and whatever else was in the tent to create as a makeshift dam. I gave her a hand, and once we were satisfied that we wouldn't be washed into the river as we slept, we snuggled back down and went back to a fitful, restless and uncomfortable sleep.

To be continued...

Headed for the hills -- part III

The rain (which turned to a heavy, intermittent mist by then) and the dark made it difficult to see, especially since I wasn't exactly sure where I was supposed to be going. I knew this much, however: Our destination was just beyond the bridge over the New River -- or so showed the satellite view from Google maps that I checked before we left Birmingham. Sure enough, we found the bridge, and were over it before we knew it.

I peered out the windshield, searching for a sign or some other indication that we actually were where we wanted to be... and then, glory! The headlights caught a neatly-lettered sign off to the left of the road: New River Campground. I slowed, turned in, and pulled down a steep drive to the riverside. The office was closed, but we were fortunate to find a woman -- I assumed she was an employee -- who told us where we to go. We drove slowly down the one-lane road of hard-packed dirt, past a few scattered tents and a couple of large RVs humming in the darkness until we found campsite number 25, the one to which we were assigned. At last, we reached our destination.

I felt we were quite lucky because the rain had pretty much stopped for the moment, but I was still quite eager to get camp established -- there was no telling when the bottom might fall out. We got out of the station wagon and quickly surveyed the site. It was bordered on the front by the camp road and on the rear by some trees and the steep bank of the New River which gurgled happily below. A large oak tree stood at the front of the site. A picnic table, lantern stand, and fire pit completed the scene. We had no immediate neighbors for the night.

We opened the hatch of the station wagon and began pulling out our equipment. Lighting was the first issue to address: Jean grabbed the industrial-size flashlight while I set the two Coleman lanterns to blazing. Next, we both worked on putting up the canopy over the picnic table so we could have at least some shelter should the rains start again. It's a brand-new piece of equipment, so there was a bit of a learning curve involved (directions are not always easy to decipher, especially by lantern light), but after a few minutes we prevailed.

At that point, the knowledge that we had at least a little bit of shelter lessened our sense of urgency enough so that we could actually start the vacation part of the trip -- which, naturally, involved alcohol. We pulled out the cooler and I opened a bottle of chardonnay for Jean before cracking the top of an ice-cold High Life for myself. We clinked our beverages together and then leisurely got back to work.

We knew we wouldn't have a whole lot of time for dinner (what with all the driving and setting up camp, not to mention the threat of more rain), so we prepared accordingly, bringing charcoal and lighter fluid with us on the trip. After a few minutes, I had the coals blazing and I turned my attention to setting up the tent. As I wrestled with shock cords, poles, stakes and the air mattress, Jean was preparing a fantastic dinner. It wasn't long before our tent was up, tilapia kabobs were sizzling on the grill, and Jean and I were able to sit back and relax and enjoy ourselves. In less than half an hour since our arrival, we turned an empty campsite into our home away from home.

To be continued...