The thought of camping fills me with dread. Lumpy ground, cold stinky tent. The washroom, if it exists, is filthy, with a wet, dirty floor covered in flip-flop marks, and an impressive collection of dead deer flies. Or it’s a spider-infested, shit-laden outhouse. But is this suburban camping? Maybe the real Tabasco can be found further afield away from loud-mouthed fellow campers and their ghetto blasters. Pitching a tent on a clear smooth rock overlooking a pristine spring-fed lake with only the chorus of loons and frogs lulling you to sleep could be both beautiful and soul-nurturing. For some people.
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