Camp Stories: Revisiting Old Haunts, Rereading Old Books

We go camping over the Fourth of July, ostensibly for our dogs who have been prone to become drooling, shivering messes if we stay in town and attempt to survive the "celebrations" of our fellow citizens that turn our normally quiet, tree-lined neighborhood into a booming, smoke-filled, fiery war zone. No fireworks here. Our favorite getaway spot is a small, primitive campground midway up Mt. Adams in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. Called Paradise Creek, it's nestled in the deep old growth forest north of Carson, Washington, at the intersection of its namesake Paradise Creek and the Wind River. With no electrical hookups and rusty-but-potable water pumped from a creaky old-fashioned cast iron hand well pitcher pump, it (mostly) discourages the big rigs and generator-dependant types from rumbling through the tents and small trailers dotting the two loops. We realized on this trip that we've been camping there almost every year for the past 20 years with our tent and queen-sized…