The tradition of my family's yearly camping trips on the Klamath River never jibed with my desires. Being a dreamy nature-lover, I adored the remote, hilly desert land. I revered the river. I thrilled over wild deer, bats, owls, muskrats, and cranes. But I struggled with the "Enforced Fun." My extended family subscribed to a "have fun or else" philosophy. Anyone who whined or sulked got made fun of and dunked in the river. Every camper water-skied at the reservoir, played badminton with sore losers, and rode swaybacked old horses through the hills. Stargazing was the only form of quiet observation really allowed, and even that was punctuated by outbursts of, "I found the Big Dipper!" "Where?" "Right there, dummy!" after which, children were ushered to their assigned tents to "sleep" (i.e., thrash each other until they dropped). Regular life seeped into the gaps between recreation; moms smacked the whiners. Dads barbecued meat and drank beer. Kids ran wild.

Meanwhile, I wanted to spend hours by the river fantasizing that it was a hundred years ago and I was a pioneer girl scratching out a simple but meaningful life. (As this Laura Ingalls-like girl, I'd do my washing in the river, help Ma cut biscuits, and frolic in the dry grass with my dog. Bedtime I would spend with Pa as he extrapolated on the day's life lessons.) I craved silence, reverence, transcendence from normal life. Unfortunately for me, the adults read my dreaminess and solitude as "sulky"; they rolled their eyes over my languor. The other kids sensed my desire to be alone, and so were at my heels every second.

When I was old enough, I stopped going.

Ten years later, I found myself there again by accident. I was on a plan-free, drifty road trip from Washington to California. Rootless, penniless, post-college, I had nowhere to sleep. On a whim, I snuck onto the grounds for the night. (Technically, the place was a timeshare. I did not belong, had not paid any money, and certainly hadn't called ahead.)

I found a spot on the river, far away from other campers, and rolled out my sleeping bag. I fell back to regard the night sky. The Milky Way still looked like a dense river of stardust from here. The rustling trees, hills silhouetted by moonlight, and dampening air were all just as they had been forever. I breathed in the stinky riverweed scent, listened for owls, let the shushing river sounds wash through me.

The honk of a crane flapping over the river woke me just before dawn. Dew covered my sleeping bag and the grass. I turned over to see the last star of the night burning brightly, then drifted back to sleep. When I woke again, sunlight warmed the river, creating a terrific mist that rose and curled like spirits off the dimpled water. ("Haints," I thought, watching the vapors rise.) A muskrat swam upstream. I watched all of this from my sleeping bag, propped up on my elbows. No cousin came to sit on my back. No mom yelled for me to get up or miss breakfast. Nobody even knew I was there.

It was the best family vacation I ever had.

Susie Hillman (e-mail Susie)

Susie is a Seattle freelance writer and regular contributor to the GoodLetter. She enjoys unglamorous vacations as often as possible. [ Check out a few of her favorite goodthings ]

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