As I grow older, the number of things I enjoy about camping gradually declines. Right now, I’m at the stage where the two things topping my list of “What I love about camping” are the first cup of coffee while sitting near the campfire in the morning and the first beer in the evening, same location. Everything in between those two events isn’t quite the same as it used to be.

My wife and I recently returned from a camping trip. They say getting there is half the fun. After this trip, I disagree. The drive to the campsite alone is getting to be too strenuous for me due to various factors, all of which seemed to pop up on this one trip.

If you have traveled at all lately, you have most likely noticed nearly every highway in the nation is under road construction. You can’t drive 20 miles before encountering another one of those dreaded orange “Road Work Ahead” signs. And not just on major thoroughfares either.

Seriously, we sat and waited 15 minutes for our turn to pass through a one-lane construction zone stretching so far out in the boonies that we were the lone car in line. But we were not alone. Ahead and behind us, there was something like a hundred cows waiting, too. And let me tell you, they were not cutting the flag guy any slack—the angry mooing was quite intimidating.

Even when I’m stuck in the middle of an endless row of idling semi-trucks in one of those dreaded “expect long delays” spots, I get nervous due to the memory of all the clunkers I owned as a kid which invariably chose to die in the worst possible situations.

That’s another thing that made this particular drive to our favorite area more stressful: the fact that our ’94 Dodge van is starting to run as though it feels the same way about all this camping stuff as we do. Nowadays, it runs in a manner that makes the hills feel hillier and the bumps feel bumpier.

Finally, you arrive at the campsite. I learned a long time ago to be leery when I pull into a campsite that, at first glance, appears to be perfect. After shutting off the van motor, I like to just sit in the vehicle for a bit, not opening any doors or windows. If you soon notice hovering outside the windshield a cloud of mosquitoes wearing tiny bibs and slobbering like Pavlov’s dog, you might want to reconsider that particular spot.

Let’s say the coast appears clear of mosquitoes. You unload your gear and get all settled. Then, as soon as you sit down to rest in your cute little camp chair—which after several days will generate serious back trouble—the flies show up.

This always amazes me, and I can’t help but wonder: they have a million acres of forest full of critters in which the flies could easily dive-bomb to their hearts’ content with little chance of being swatted. And yet they all show up here and take turns buzzing near my ears! This last trip, I had flies as big as hummingbirds smack me in the side of the head, nearly knocking me out of the camp chair. Mountain flies are particularly brawny and bold, so they merely laughed at my wimpy bright orange fly swatter. Maybe next time I’ll bring a bright orange baseball bat.

That is if there is a next time. Because on top of the mosquitoes and flies driving me out of my mind, one has to also deal with other noisy humans camping in the vicinity. My wife and I just like to chill, listen to the birds, catch a cool breeze, and hike a tranquil trail. I guess when we can’t do that anymore it’ll be time to sell the old camper van.