Still, though neither offers the solitude and wilderness experience you may be fantasizing about, both parks offer a safe and fulfilling way to spend a day or two on the beach, hiking or biking in the woods, and a night or two under the canopy of trees with plenty of critters scurrying around each night to remind you that you are indeed camping. They are, however, nestled in and among the trees and are somewhat removed from the family and kid-saturated RV campers in other parts of the park.

Though “primitive,” they’re not far removed from potable water, hot showers and bathrooms. Our two area state parks, Huntington Beach State Park and Myrtle Beach State Park, both offer primitive/rustic tent-only campsites. There are tent camping options closer to home in the Francis Marion National Forest south of Georgetown, and while there are wonderful trails for hiking, the camping there is a bit…umm…swampy (Marion wasn’t called the Swamp Fox for nothing). I prefer backcountry camping on the banks of lakes or streams in National Parks or National Wilderness Areas, which are abundant in northwestern South Carolina and western North Carolina, but typically a four- to five-hour drive from the Grand Strand. When you have a few days free, the weather forecast calls for fair skies and moderate temperatures and the urge to merge with nature strikes, you may have to go solo, which is just what I did recently, opting for two nights at Huntington Beach State Park in Murrells Inlet. Maybe, like me, you want to relive those carefree days of your youth? Or discover what you may have missed out on? This is not everyone’s favorite way to spend a night or two, but it may be yours. Oh, and a transistor radio…and comic books. Our camping meant no frills, nylon (or canvas) tents, uncooperative tent poles, Coleman stoves (or wood cooking fires), inflatable and mysteriously leaking ground pads, sleeping bags (too hot or not warm enough), flashlights with dying batteries and ineffective mosquito repellent. But what I have in mind dates back to my recollections of boyhood. You could, I guess, park in front of Walmart and call that camping-many do. Nothing against those who call “camping” anything other than staying at home.

No, when I say camping, I mean something traditional, very 1945, very Mark Trail, Robert Baden-Powell, and all that. And when I say “camping,” I don’t mean hop in a pimped-out RV and plug in to all the comforts of a five-star resort, or even glamping, an upscale version of camping popularized in the last decade. You’ll likely observe your friends, spouses and significant others are all a bit reluctant at the mere suggestion of anything resembling roughing it. I’ve discovered that the older one gets, the harder one has to work at finding camping partners. I noticed by the time my teenage years were waning and the stresses of life began to take over, those opportunities and those camping pals both became scarcer, though my desire to reconnect with nature did not. When we were kids, it was easy to find pals to camp with, whether in the backyard, the back 40, the 40-acre wood, or the short trip to the Adirondack Mountains.

Having grown up on the edge of the wilderness in upstate New York, I have a long and loving history with tent camping - one that started well before I joined the Boy Scouts.

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