It may just be that I’m getting old, but I’m coming to the conclusion that camping for the sake of camping really isn’t all that much fun. Camping with a purpose (hunting, quads, drinking with the girls, rodeoing) is great, and I’ve done so much of it in the last ten years that it may have masked my dislike of the pure camping experience. It’s not good of a time with just the three of us; kind of dirty, hot, and boring.

We did all of the right things:

We got in before dark, set up camp, and ate hot dogs and junk food.

We went for walks, including to an Indian grinding rock where we saw a wild turkey.

We looked at animal tracks, and found clear sign of a small bear in the vicinity.

We took a drive, looked at the old log cabin (which falls down further every year) and did a little four-wheeling.

We played in the creek, doing a little gold panning, some dam building, and lots of rock splunking.

We shot the BB gun until it broke (I’d forgotten the pellets to the air rifle.)

And by shortly after lunch, I was completely tired of the “We’re bored” whining going on, mostly emanating from John. Seamus would have been happy to play with Hot Wheels in the dirt or go make boats to float down the creek, but without someone to play with, he didn’t want to. And John didn’t want to do anything fun at all, not even learn to drive. He was ticked because none of his friends went, and I wasn’t willing to let them go exploring too far out of my sight with people sighting in rifles somewhere in the valley.

So we packed up and came home, almost exactly 24 hours after we’d left. Seamus still got his bit of camping, and I got a shower. Since they couldn’t stir themselves to do anything interesting, they can go watch TV until their brains rot, for all I care. I was doing very well not to bite John’s head off by the time we left; he was pushing every single button I have. Fun; the kid that I don’t mesh with wonderfully is well on his way to becoming a surly teenager.