It's 3AM and all five of us are stretched out every which way across the floor of our tent. My best friend and her two kids, my husband Tom and I are all packed into our new "family sized" tent which is supposed to be big enough for a family of six. But we can barely squeeze in two adults and one very small child.

THE WILDS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE

The tent is pitched on rocky ground and I squirm and roll from side to side, trying to get comfortable with rocks that feel like daggers poking me in the back and ribs. It's impossible to sleep. Everyone is snoring, even the kids.

Here we are in scenic, wondrous, beautiful New Hampshire. Nearby is Franconia Notch State Park. According to its official website, the park is "one of America's top ten most beautiful state parks."

"This stunning natural wonder will leave you spellbound as you stroll the path from the Visitors Center to the Flume and back," according to the website.

Sounds great.. But, as it turns out, our campground is located right off a main road and not in the pristine wilderness we had all imagined. In fact this "family campground" is right next to an interstate truck route. The rumble of eighteen-wheelers punctuates the snoring.

"We may as well camp in your backyard," says my friend Dede, taking a look at our campsite and choking back a laugh, "We drove six hours to get to the land of quietude, and meanwhile here we are with giant trucks driving by 50 feet away." OK, so she has a point.

FROM MAUI TO MASSACHUSETTS

Dede and her children, Sean and Chloe, came from Maui, Hawaii, where they live, to visit us in Massachusetts. They traveled 6,000 miles from "paradise" in search of quaint and charming New England and it is my job to deliver it.

Maui is a beautiful island, 3,000 miles from California. It's always warm, it always has blue skies and enough great beaches to satisfy the tastes of tourists who swarm the island. But Maui is always the same. Believe it or not, it can get a tad dull. "Rock Fever" is common, especially for kids.

"Maui's boring. The only thing to do is go to the beach and no one goes to the beach, except tourists", is six-year-old Chloe's and eleven year old Sean's constant refrain, "There's nowhere to go and nothing to do."

LOOKING FOR ADVENTURE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES:

So, Dede and her kids came to New England looking for adventure and excitement, (along with good ice cream and Dunkin Donuts). What could be more adventurous and thrilling than an old-fashioned New England style camping trip to the wilds of Northern New Hampshire.

After what felt like a three day drive to New Hampshire's White Mountains (in reality only about five or six hours), we all pile out of the car to take in the sights and sounds of nature. It quickly becomes apparent that we aren't alone in the woods. In fact, families are packed in, almost wall to wall, in adjoining campsites. While everyone scatters, Tom pitches the tent.

The next order of business is of course, cooking out. We attempt to do this using the campsite fireplace. I have never been able to cook anything in less than two days on an outdoor fireplace. This is no exception. No matter how we poke and prod the coals, our foil wrapped potatoes remain medium raw.

So, we do what any smart campers would do. We all pile back into the car and head for the closest McDonald's. After a less than satisfying fast food dinner (in my opinion, anyway) we head back to the campground for toasted marshmallows and ghost stories.

Marshmallow toasting is a fine art. A good, sharp stick is essential. So is the wrist action. Proper turning of the stick, covered with the oozing, gooey white blob on the end, is a must. Without these finely honed skills, a toasted marshmallow soon becomes a black, burned, very "well done" inedible marshmallow.

"EE-OW", my marshmallow's black, " wails Chloe as her brother picks his white glob off the stick.

"Are we supposed to eat this thing", asks Sean, with more than a touch of pre-teen sarcasm.

LIGHTS OUT

After the failed marshmallow roast, somehow, we all manage to get into pajamas and sleeping bags. We settle into the tent, packed together like a pile of puppies. We squirm around on top of each other, trying to get comfortable. The temperature in the tent is at about one hundred degrees, or at least it feels that way. So, we open the window flaps. In comes some air along with some bugs and no-see-ums.

As promised, we start the ghost stories.

"It was a dark and stormy night," my husband begins, trying to recall the only ghost story he knows. His story is interrupted by the blaring horns and bright headlights of the passing trucks.

The ghost story soon turns into a joke fest as the absurdity of our less than authentic wilderness camping trip sinks in. We're all rolling around the tent laughing, giggling and having a great old time.

Then we hear the approach of footsteps. Someone shines a flashlight into our tent,

"No laughing in there," says a Voice from the other side of the tent. We peek out and see a six-foot tall woman Ranger dressed in a Ranger Uniform. "It's after 9PM" the Voice booms, "No more laughing.

So much for solitude.

THE DAY AFTER

Somehow we all make it through to morning. Since no self-respecting bear would waste a minute of time at our highway campsite, there is no real threat of wildlife predators. This seems to be one of the few "perks" of our campgrounds. That and a bathroom fifty feet away.

As the groggy campers wake to face the day, Dede decides to imitate everyone's snoring style.

"I couldn't sleep," she complains, "Everyone was snoring, You were the worst" she says snorting in imitation. "OOH, WEE-AH, OOH, OOH- WE-AH, OOH," that's what you do."

The whole group chimes in. I am not pleased. In fact I am not a "happy camper." But there's no turning back.

RAINDROPS ARE FALLING ON MY HEAD

Our plan for the day is to hike The Flume Gorge in Franconia Notch State Park. No one seems to notice the dark storm clouds as we rush around, throwing on clothes and tying sneakers. It's a hot day so we leave the window flaps of the tent open. This is not a good idea, as we are soon to discover.

Once we reach the Flume, we begin our trek. The Flume is an 800-foot long granite gorge at the base of Mount Liberty. The walls are ninety feet high. Finally, we see what we came for-- nature in all its raw power.

Then it starts, one drop at a time. OK, we think, we can deal with a little rain. We march on, unfazed. Then, hail the size of quarters starts to pummel us. Chloe and Sean have never seen hail. They start to scream. The trail back to the Ranger Center is at least a half-mile away, which at this point seems as close as Maui.

So, we do what any group of close-knit friends would do on a camping trip. We scatter. It's every man for himself. We all run for shelter, wherever we can find it. Or most of us, anyway.

For some reason Dede is standing in the middle of the boulder strewn trail, not moving. "Go on without me," she tells the kids," I can't move."

It seems that her legs have stopped working. They are frozen. Then we all stop in our tracks. What to do? We are being pelted with hail. It stings. Chloe starts to panic, terrified that her mom will be stuck forever, right there on the trail. Now I understand how hikers climbing Mount Everest must feel.

I really don't recall what happened next. But miraculously we all made it to a shelter, huddling together with other trekkers. We wait out the storm and after what seems like days, we find our way back to the car.

BAIL OUT

It would have been nice--really nice-- to have a warm and dry tent to snuggle in, back at the campgrounds. No such luck. When we return, we discover that the tent is flooded with three inches of rainwater. We left the windows flaps open, remember? While it was hailing at the flume our tent and everything in it was getting soaked.

The kids want to leave. My husband wants to leave. Dede wants to leave. But, I want to stay. I didn't come all this way to roll up my tent and go home, I think to myself. I refuse to give in or give up on our camping adventure.

So, I get down in my hands and knees and start to bail out the water, cup-by-cup, inch-by-inch. I don't know how long it took or how I did it, but I mange to bail out the entire tent. I hand the wet clothes and sleeping bags on a tree to dry. We're all set for another night, minus the raw potatoes and the burned marshmallows.

POSTSCRIPT

The rest of the trip is rather calm, at least by comparison. We take a tram up Cannon Mountain, walk by Echo Lake and have a nice hot turkey dinner at a restaurant on the way home.

The kids vow never to go camping again. Dede claims that camping is better in Maui and never lets me forget the fact that I brought her and the kids to a campground next to a superhighway.

I am a failed camping trip leader. I never want to hear the word "camping" again. On the way back to Massachusetts, the kids beg for another ghost story. My husband picks up where he left off, "It was a dark and stormy night"

Then, almost four years later, when I start to write this story, I talk to Tom, Dede, Chloe and Sean about our camping trip from hell. They recall the trip with enthusiasm, almost fondly, remembering every tiny detail that I had blocked out of my mind. When I ask Chloe what her best memory is, she says "Tom telling ghost stories in the car and Mama not being able to walk."

Dede still hasn't gotten over the fact of the campsite's location or my snoring.

But Sean, who has developed a strong distaste for camping-says he would do it again. I am stunned.

Maybe Dede was right. A camping adventure with friends, no matter how wild, crazy and unpredictable it turns out to be, is the stuff of memories.
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