Camping

My dad camped somewhat frequently as a child, so my family tries to venture out into the "wilderness" at least once a year. I love camping. I attribute this love, however- to my Oregonian background, rather than that intrinsic passion which so many "outdoorsy people" exhibit. I don't like bugs. I don't like smelling like smoke. But I love hiking- rain or shine. I love sitting around a campfire listening to my brothers educate me on the 50+ ways to roast a marshmallow. (Actually they roast anything they can get their hands on.)

While we were cooking dinner Friday night, Jerome disappeared inside the car and somehow got his sweatshirt hooked on Gabe's fishing line. Have you ever tried to unhook a two-year-old from a line? It's nearly impossible.

We actually camped beyond the lake, right in front of a dam that keeps countless tons of water from flooding the valley. Andre and I spent a lot of time speculating how quickly our campsite would be washed away if the dam broke. That's us, always thinking of the worse case scenario;)

While Susanna and the boys chucked rocks in the lake, I read a book and took pictures.

I'm going to say loud and clear so there will be no doubts: we are hilariously inept campers.
Years ago, one of my brothers (who shall remain anonymous) only brought one pair of pants and ended up in my sister's pink leggings on the way home.
A few years ago a couple raccoons decided to investigate the back of our suburban. THEY TRIED TO EAT MY BAGELS. NOT OK.
Then there was the time we forgot a sleeping bag. Or the time the handle to our frying pan malfunctioned and next thing we knew we were looking at the contents of the pan lying in a miserable little heap covered in dust.


This picture of my sister makes me smile. Susanna loves camping, as long as no fire ant hills are involved. She is petrified of fire ants. And frankly, I don't blame her.