Kamping

We go on a family camping trip every summer and have done that for the last dozen years.  Kunkel Kamp involves my husband and me, our kids and their kids — twelve of us.  Normally we choose a different state park, national park or national forest campground every time but last year everyone seemed so enamored of the place we were, it seemed a no-brainer to go back there a second time.  We had campsites right next to the beach — sites that my husband had procured for our group by getting up super early and snagging, the first day that it was possible to secure reservations.  We could hear the pounding surf and feel the spray.  We could step out the door of our tents and be right on a beautiful Pacific Ocean beach.  So when our family was together last weekend and arranging our summer outing, I was stunned to discover that some of the people in the family would opt for the forested mountains in the middle of the state, rather than the beach.  “It was so windy, it was hard to play card games,” one person said.  “There was sand in the tent and everywhere,” another noted.  “I’d rather swim in a lake than in the ocean where there might be sharks,” one of the kids chimed in.  Of course it was windy and naturally there was sand — we were literally on the beach, for heaven’s sake.  I love camping on the beach so much, it never occurred to me that some of the very people who share my DNA might not feel exactly the same.  We took a family vote, the beach narrowly won and no one was unduly upset by the democratic decision.  Next year, we probably owe the forest-in-the-mountains people their due.  It’s only fair.