Two years ago now, I took my oldest and one of her friends camping to this mountain lake I love. It’s a rugged area, the campsites all primitive, steeped in nature. Steeped in beauty. We stayed for three nights. As you can imagine, there’s a lot to bring on such a trip. So much, in fact, that I didn’t have room to take any wood.
“What are we gonna do?” she asked.
“I know a place — don’t worry.” And I did. Just before the road that twists and turns to our campsite, there’s a 180-degree, right-hand turn you can make that takes you away from the water and straight up what is essentially the side of a mountain. After a quarter mile or so, the road dips down and offers a gravel drive on the left — one that cuts through a valley of sorts.
It’s here you’ll find a collection of dilapidated trailers, a few broken down cars resting upon cinderblock pillars, a mangy-looking dog or two and this:
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