The time of our lives

For two years, we pretended we were camping. My four-year-old great niece, Maxley, would drive my motorhome to the park and announce thirty-seconds later we had arrived. We would then pretend we were camping in Florida, or Michigan, or wherever, right there in my driveway. Last weekend the pretending gave way to real camping.

I made reservations at nearby Fort Mountain State Park for Sunday night. For those of you not familiar with state park camping, typically you can get a reservation for a weekend in the spring, summer, or fall with no problem—provided you book it before your children are born. But if you camp Sunday through Thursday after the local schools start, you can reserve a site a day or two in advance. So that’s what I did.

No more pretending. We were really going camping! A little after noon on Sunday, I strapped in one excited little girl, and we drove off in what she calls my tiny house. Our trip would be one adventure after another—all firsts for her. Along the way, we stopped in a parking lot for a snack. We stopped in another lot for a bathroom break. Traveling with a bathroom on board is one of the best perks of motorhome-life, especially with little ones.

We stopped at the overlook just before the park entrance to take pictures of the mountain behind us. The wonder in her eyes delighted me. Fortunately, I sent the pictures to her parents and grandparents from there because that was the last cell connection we had for the next twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, though, none of us knew that until it was too late. I’m sure her momma worried all night long because she didn’t hear from us, but we were fine. In fact, we were more than fine. We were having the time of our lives.

As soon as we got settled into our campsite across from the campground hosts, we put on our suits and walked to the beach.

“I’m so excited! I’ve never been to the beach! The sand is soft like Grandma’s sandbox!”

Before I set our towels down, Maxley ran into the water, where she met a girl named Sophie.

Maxley laughed. “Sophie? That’s a dog’s name!”

Sophie’s sad face promptly led me to apologize to a five-year-old and explain that our friends have a dog named Sophie. The girls played and played in the water. With no apprehensions, they borrowed flotation devices from friendly strangers. Upon request, Sophie’s dad and I threw the girls in the water again and again. Then, the water changed from refreshing to cold. The sun was fast approaching the horizon. After hugs, pictures, and goodbyes, Maxley and I trudged back toward our campsite.

“Joy, will you carry me on your back? My legs are hurting.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” How can I say no to that?

After a quick shower in my tiny house, we started a fire, prepared our meal, and ate at the picnic table, watching the flames. Finally, it was time to roast marshmallows. Maxley enjoyed holding the stick to the coals. But for future reference, she said she prefers them “cold out of the bag.” We doused the coals with a bucket of water. She rolled the awning in and turned the porch lights off. She remembered we needed to take another shower to wash the lake and the smoke out of our hair. Maxley amazed me with how brave yet cautious she was in the lake, around the fire, and in the shower.

Monday morning, she asked to go back to the lake to play with Sophie. She settled for the playground and a hike to the fire tower. Sophie’s dad had suggested we go to the fire tower to see the view of the mountains. After the playground, Maxley helped me put everything away. I buckled her into her car seat, and we drove to the top of the mountain for the hike. I thought the climb to the fire tower would be too much for her, but she said her legs were not hurting like on Sunday. The first-time hiker stopped and waited for me every 100 yards.

“I just want to check on you, Joy. Are you ok?”

“I’m breathing heavily, but I’m doing fine. These steps are so big. I don’t know how you are climbing this mountain so fast. Thanks for checking on me, sweetheart.”

After fifteen minutes of serious climbing, we found the fire tower locked. Bummed, we explored a bit and headed back down—with her checking on me every time she thought I lagged too far behind. At the end of the trail, we picnicked at a nearby pavilion. The watermelon had never tasted so sweet. A park employee directed us to a short hike to an overlook where we took the selfie pictured above.

Now after 3:00, we drove to the dump station so I could dump the tanks full of shower and toilet water. Exhausted, she asked if she could take a nap. I let her lie on the bed while I went outside, but a minute later, she joined me and even helped with the dumping process.

Maxley picked up the sewage hose. “This looks like my Slinky.”

“Yes. It does. Uncle Tom calls it the stinky slinky.”

She laughed.

When the tanks were empty, we buckled in and said goodbye to the park. Within minutes, my little niece was fast asleep. I had to wake her up an hour later when we arrived at her place. We had the time of our lives camping for real. No more pretending. She’s already inviting friends to come with us on our next real camping trip.

By the way, my legs were sore on Tuesday. The four-year-old’s were just fine.