Kamping

Well, as far as spending the night in the trailer goes, I'm no longer a virgin.

My original plan was to "boondock" for free and spend the nights at truck stops, but my friend George made me all paranoid about getting attacked in my sleep, so I stayed at campgrounds during the harrowing journey (more on that later) to Denver.

And I didn't just stay at campgrounds, but sometimes at "kampgrounds." Run by KOA. The Kadillac of kampgrounds.

They were nice places, as campgrounds go: clean restrooms, hot showers, decent food.

But then as the KOA motto goes, "It's not camping, it's 'kamping.'"

OH! And I almost forgot the most important part: the electricity in the trailer actually works, and it didn't burn down in the night.

Anyway, that first night, in Terre Haute, Indiana (after spending six hours of highway driving, constantly fighting to keep the trailer under control, on the road, and in my own lane), I slept comfortably. . .

. . . until I was awakened in the early morning by a sound like this:

"HWAWH! HWAWH HWAWH HWAWH HWAWH!"

My first thought, coming out of a deep sleep, was that it was some kind of alarm.

Something was on fire.

Or we were being bombed!

Then, being the grandchild of Kentucky farm folk, I realized what it was.

A donkey.

Braying "good morning" from a nearby field.

Like they say, "It's not camping, it's 'kamping.'"