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Happy campers.

In the summer of 2004, we set out to camp across the Great American South in a nylon tent about the size of a residential bathtub.

Bound for Chattanooga, we shot out of town with coolers, every blouse my wife owned and our cat Rascal.

When I protested that Rascal didn't belong on a camping trip,

my wife suggested that I eat a cow patty.

So Rascal spent the entire ride cold around my neck like an orthopedic brace,

and somewhere around Georgiana she managed to nick my eyeball with her back claws.

Yes, my eyeball. Our first night camping in

Greenville wasn't bad, from what I saw with my good eye. The second night, we pulled into Oak

Mountain Park. After scouting for the perfect spot, I finally pitched our tent on hallowed brown

recluse mating grounds.

Rascal licked herself in earnest, while big spiders, big enough to file for health insurance,

procreated on our floor.

The next morning, after tossing our spider-infested tent to the dumpster, we drove to Nacolula Falls Park.

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