In our case, family camping is a bit like the chicken and the egg. Did we start camping because we couldn't afford the more traditional American vacation (hotels, planes and Disneyworld)? Or because it seemed like a fun thing to do which had the fringe benefit of being cheap? Whatever. Barring some isolated disasters (referred to in our family as "interesting moments"), our camping trips are the highlights of our days.

We've learned some important lessons along the way. Bring more than one pair of shoes, for instance. This was found to be a good idea while hiking after a rainstorm, and my then-six-year-old son noticed that he was walking shoeless. After a frantic and time-consuming search, we found his shoes buried under six inches of sticky mud, several yards from where he first noticed them missing. Holding the slimy pair gingerly, we climbed down an embankment to wash them off in an innocuous-looking stream . . . which had a sneaky and tempestuous undertow. The shoes loosened from our grip: we watched helplessly as they were carried downstream, never to be seen again.

Then there was the time we left the tent door open. To this day, the person responsible claims that it was not a careless act, but rather a deliberate one, whose purpose was to air out the tents (just as easily accomplished by unzipping screened windows, mind you).

The sky was getting dusky and we all smelled a bit of woodsmoke. The beginnings of a campfire intended as our dinner's grill made the air hazy; we moved slowly with the unhurried ease of satisfaction from a long day's peace. Suddenly, a noise.

"Daddy! Something's in the tent!"

"No, it's just the rustle of a squirrel's tail," my husband replies poetically.

"No, Daddy! Squirrels' tails aren't black with white stripes!"

We look at one another, our eyes growing larger and larger. We fight the urge to scream in unison like some ridiculous cartoon, "SSSSKKKKUUUUNNNNKKK!!!!!" Heck, we are a living, breathing cartoon.

"What should we do, Daddy?" my daughter wails.

"Nothing!" my husband snaps in a fierce whisper. "Absolutely nothing!"

We glance with peripheral vision towards our tent, as though looking through the sides of our heads will somehow lessen the chances of confronting the skunk. What we see is not a skunk, but three skunks: a mom and her babies, settling in for a last-minute power nap before that evening's forage.

The mom circles the inside of the tent, much as a dog does while seeking just the right spot to settle, and finally plunks down amidst the puffery of the sleeping bags, her babies similarly comfortable. A long, very long twenty minutes later, she rises, refreshed. Her babies are nudged from dreamland and they saunter daintily out of the tent. In one last act of nonchalance, Mama Skunk stretches mightily, then yawns gustily. I could almost swear I see her wink at me, as she continues on her way, followed by the babies, out of sight.