With the advent of indoor plumbing, a certain segment of the population became outward bound. Under the guise of a vacation, they pack their belongings and head back to nature to pitch tents, cook over an open fire, and use the facilities God provided in the wild blue yonder. They camp. In the name of adventure, they purchase camping conveniences: propane stoves and lanterns, sub-zero sleeping bags and high-tech nylon tents (all of which sport hefty price tickets if one is to survive in the outdoors with any amount of comfort). Coolers packed with ice serve as refrigerators. Foamies suffice as barriers between rocks and spines. This is not recreation for the faint-hearted, or the thin-skinned. Insect repellent and sunscreens do little more than provide sticky surfaces to which dust and dirt can adhere.

Perhaps if I'd been raised in a "camping" family all this would be deemed fun. I was not. My family's idea of a holiday was driving hell-bent toward the nearest relatives' house and parking in their rec room.

In our late teens my sister and I decided a camping trip might enrich our social lives. Campgrounds are often host to large groups of the opposite sex: outdoorsMEN, fisherMEN, and mountainMEN. The potential was overwhelming. We borrowed a pup-tent from our brother and purchased elegantly flowered cotton bags in which to sleep. We were set.

It took considerable effort to set up the tent our first night out. Exhausted, we sat down to a dinner of potato chips and some packaged cake-type treats. Our hotdogs lay wrinkling in the bottom of an iceless cooler; we'd forgotten an axe to chop firewood. We spent a long night shivering, fully dressed and zipped into our fashionable bags. Sunrise found us kneeling by the river trying to brush our teeth without falling. Although the misadventure proved both interesting and fruitful, we decided in the long run that there were probably easier ways to get a date. We never camped again.

Twenty years have passed since my initiation to the glories of roughing it. I have since married a man of camping descent; together we're raising three wonderful children. Dedicated to the theory that misery loves company, and the fact that nobody likes my company when I'm miserable, we've limited our family holidays to motels and jaunts to our cabin. I never felt our children were missing out, although their combined camping experience amounts to sleepovers on the trampoline, safely fenced in the backyard and accompanied by the family dog.

That is, until a recent family function accidentally pushed me back in time.

The call of the wild, and pictures in a brochure from a resort with the ultimate fishing destination in the Province, beckoned. Quaint, rustic cabins boasting kitchens, hot showers and bordering a sandy beach baited us. We were hooked as surely as those fish would be.

Somewhere there's a course being offered called Fine Print 101, but I haven't found it. Purely by chance, I noticed the list of things to bring strategically placed on the flip side of the glossy photographs. Among the things suggested were an ice-packed cooler and sleeping bags. Something should have triggered, but it didn't.

The elegantly flowered bag, long ago discarded, has never been replaced. It would've been the sum total of our family camping gear, had it hung in there. I resorted to stripping all the bedding off our beds, rolling each pillow and set of sheets in its matching comforter, and tying them tightly with twine. A large tupperware tub sufficed as a cooler.

We loaded the car and set off. We set a leisurely pace, expecting a scenic drive and wildlife appearing in the setting sun. We exited the main highway as the last of daylight flickered through the lodge pole pines. Three hours later, we approached a logging road. We dodged potholes and maneuvered around hairpin turns; signs popped up intermittently, our only indication that we were on the right path. A sense of dread crept up from my toes as we meandered our way further from civilization.

A sprinkle of stars appeared in the sky as our bouncing headlights came to rest on the wooden arched gate of the resort. The cluster of cabins was illuminated by the glow of an omnipresent full moon. The complex appeared abandoned.

The beam of a flashlight caught my eye as I peered into mottled darkness. Finally a faceless voice directed us to our accommodation. The stove had been lit and warmed the sparse interior of our cabin; a variety of candles placed throughout the room gave it a welcoming glow. I felt like a pioneer entering the small log structure. The kitchen sported a table and two benches, counter area and gas range, as well as the wood-burning potbellied heater. A sink, without faucets, and an aluminum bucket were the only plumbing within. The wilderness toilet (mentioned in the fine print in the brochure) was actually code for "outhouse with padded seat" and situated some hundred yards away requiring the aid of a flashlight and a guide to find.

The dog was ecstatic, running between the cabin and car; he appeared the most enthusiastic of our group. We quickly unloaded our supplies, and set to the task of making beds. I cursed the demise of the flowered bag as I pulled fitted sheets around the corners of dingy mattresses.

Candlelit cobwebs draping from ceiling corners and a film of dust covering the floor whispered the essence of a long forgotten fairy tale. I felt an aura of calmness wash over me as we blew out the last candle and snuggled into our bed. The pinprick of light faded slowly until it was impossible to discern if eyelids were open or closed. I swept the air with my arm to reassure myself I hadn't been buried alive and then fell into slumber.

The chill in the room more than the sunlight woke me the next morning. The lone occupant of the cabin, I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. Little more than a wooden tent, I surmised as excited footsteps pounded up the steps.

The door burst open and children spilled in, faces flushed and beaming. The fish are biting, there are rowboats and a dock, squirrels are running up trees and making the dog nuts, when is breakfast and where are our lifejackets? Such enthusiasm was hard to fathom as I rubbed sleep from my eyes. "Ask your dad," I muttered and pulled the comforter over my head.

"Dad" made his appearance. Stubble faced and hat-topped, he began banging around the kitchen area of our tiny refuge. "What are you doing?" I asked from within my cocoon. "Making breakfast," he replied, while clouds of pancake mix billowed over him. Emerging from the dim interior, I found the outside world bright and considerably warmer than the cabin. The picnic table had been set with chipped dishes; blackened pancakes steamed from under a pot lid. The children chowed down, noisily planning their attack on the day ahead. I followed my nose to a pot of coffee steaming on the far end of the table.

Unaccustomed to such commotion, I sought solitude in a lawnchair beneath a tree, and observed the carryings on from a distance -- wildly animated accounts of attempts at fly-casting and boisterous guffaws center stage. I pulled my parka tightly around my flannel nightshirt.

The lap of the waves and the rustling leaves lulled me into a hypnotic state. The warm sun on my face beckoned my mind to wander. How long I sat entranced is hard to determine, the coffee in my mug ice-cold when I returned to reality. I'd entered a new time zone, the camping zone, where minutes are not measured by time pieces.

It was after noon by the watch on my arm. I was still wandering around in my flannel nightshirt. The kids hadn't brushed their teeth or hair. The lake had been paddled, bikes ridden, and the dog lay exhausted in the shade under the picnic table. A fire was being started in the pit, and the perfect wiener stick hunted for.

I washed in water warmed on the potbellied heater and left my cosmetic face zipped in its bag. The world took the dog's lead and slipped into a midday siesta; the sun baked the sand and the lake barely rippled. From time to time a voice would echo from somewhere deep in the wood, celebrating the discovery of some hidden marvel; a giant pine cone, the perfect skipping stone or, most interesting of all, the droppings of some wild creature. The children sparkled with the wonder of it all.

The day lazed through my fingers. The nightly campfire prompted tales as only an outdoor blaze can do. My children sat speechless in the amber glow and listened as my youth became part of the "olden days" when fish were plentiful and pop was a dime a bottle. There was a smoky magic in the air. Heavy limbed, we climbed beneath our comforters to drift to sleep on the bed of adventure. Somewhere in the corners of my mind, the image of an elegantly flowered bag appeared. A smile wiggled its way through the folds of material and magically appeared on my face. I felt it there. Closing my eyes, I drifted on that smile, back through the years. Perhaps in years to come, my children will drift on a cloud of comforters and awkward campers back to this time, this place and find comfort in the memory of a camping adventure.

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