The Hills Are Alive

It's that time again.

For the 13th year in a row, we will be packing the Acura MDX until it can be packed no more. We will fill every nook and cranny and hidden emergency trunk space with all manner of camping gear.

Fire starter kits that will never be started.

Emergency space blankets that will never be taken from their emergency space blanket packets.

And dried beef stroganoff that will remain in powder form unless some grizzly bear rips through the campground, eats all our lime flavored Tostitos chips and handcrafted hard salami, and leaves us nothing in his wake.

Unlike years past, we will not be bringing the kids in tow. They have reached that age when, first of all they don't like being referred to as kids. And second of all, they are just way too cool to "camp."

And while this breaks my heart it also gives us license to stock up on California state-approved herbal medicine and their carefully prescribed medicinal use.

It also allows us permission to revisit nearby attractions that may not have been so attractive when we visited them a long time ago.

The BristleCone Forest for instance, featuring trees that are older than modern civilization, dating back 4000 years ago, was a brutal sun-baked hike for some of our whiny 7 and 8 year olds. But now, without the crying and complaining, it may warrant another trip.

Likewise, minus the youngins', we might also summit the mighty Kearsage Pass, an 11 mile hike with 2500 foot gain in altitude.

There can be no doubt that without the kids running around, the camping trip will take on a different dynamic.

If I know anything about human behavior I think it's safe to say that the kids, ours and our friend's, will be visiting the place long after this 44 year old has written his final tagline. They'll be reliving memories. Memories, we all had a hand in making.

Hopefully, they'll be drinking rum and cokes, scouring the campground and taking their children on a laugh-filled, imaginary snipe hunt.

"Wugga-wugga-wugga, here snipe!"