Crossing the East River on the Brooklyn Bridge, a veritable wall of water reared up on either side of us in the gray-out of a rainstorm indistinguishable from the river below. Naturally, this was followed by bumper-to-bumper traffic on the FDR, a seeming pile-up of similar-minded refugees, enemy chariots, or both.
All in the effort—in our case, at least—to finally inaugurate family camping.
The desire to do so had been brewing in me for years, what with city life and three kids whose feet were far more used to asphalt than grass, to crosswalks than nature walks, and streetlights than trees. Though our youngest is only three, and thus a significant liability to collective sleep in a shared tent, our oldest recently turned nine—meaning there was only so much time before she’d rather die than go camping with her family. [Read more...]