Let me start out by saying that I spent much of the month of July traveling with my beloved husband of three years, John, spreading the vegan love. We traipsed and rambled through this great country of ours, during which we endured daddy long-leg creep-outs (mine alone), raccoon raids, campfire curses and all the other humiliations familiar to those on the open road. A confession I must quickly make and then run and duck: I am not a natural camper. Yes, I love picturesque landscapes with dappled light, but postcards fulfill that longing without the risk of poison ivy exposure. Of course I love seeing animals gambol and dart about, but mostly I feel as though I'm invading their territory and they'd much rather be left alone. Eating on picnic benches with impolite words scratched into the wood while carpenter ants crawl over my legs and mosquitoes bzzzzz around my head just isn't my idea of a relaxing meal. Am I missing something? Furthermore, though the idea of sleeping in a tent is romantic, what about the spiders that crawl on you while you're unaware? Will they lay eggs in your unsuspecting ears? (And to those who scoff -- yes, I'm talking to you, John -- have you ever researched the brown recluse spider? Jiminy cricket, those guys doesn't mess around.) Must I also mention the neighbors who roast dead animals on the campfire two away from yours, the smell of burning wood and flesh sticking in your curly hair all night? And the bites, scrapes and cuts you've sustained during the day that demand to be tended to before you can sleep but you can't find the ointment since you can't find the lantern because, genius, it's dark. What about that? Hmmmm? Well, despite my admittedly urban roots, I made it, and I have to admit, I actually enjoyed myself. Yes, in the clean, calm and refreshingly predictable comfort of my apartment I can do this. And I should mention that my various phobias and neurosis shouldn't reflect upon John, because he grew up in a semi-rural setting, and despite a contentious relationship with the fire gods, generally adapts to this kind of setting quite well. He is still a Boy Scout in good standing. Except for the fire thing. Which I will detail later. (Tee hee!) So this is the story: we planned to go to AR2001 to meet other cool activists, sell a few shirts and hang out with friends. We planned to do the same thing at the NAVS Summerfest. In between the two events was a week in which to frolic, so we looked at an atlas and decided to go to West Virginia. Why? Because neither of us had ever been there, and we'd heard it was beautiful. What's more, we decided to camp. Why? Well, we have a great tent that we rarely use, it's cheap and I really, really wanted to get away from city life for a while. I know there's an Ellie Mae Clampet inside me that's dying to get out. (By the way, she did use rope as a belt. She liked to tend to her critters. Early vegan role model, perhaps?) Speaking of Ellie Mae and all things countrified, we rented a pick-up truck to lug our stuff and really get into the spirit of the trip as well as indulge John's latent inner-cracker. (It was embarrassing to John, but we have these mannequin-like forms that we use to display women's clothes. The truck was packed up so high passing motorists could just see these perfect plastic women's breasts stacked up behind John's seat, which made him feel like some sort of yokel pervert.) So we got to D.C., home to AR2001 and a few other things, without incident, though it did take us two hours just to get out of Chicago. We arrived at nearly 5 am. Work started at 8:30 the next morning. For John, that is. When I emerged bleary eyed but still ready to greet the day, it was almost lunchtime. Perfect timing -- woo-hoo!