“Are we there yet?” comes a voice from the back seat of the car. That must be the tenth time I’ve heard the question since we left home. Here we are in the rolling hills of southern Indiana, headed for a state park, where we mean to camp for a night or two.

“Just about,” I say, “I see a sign up ahead that says ‘Park’.” We turn on to the side road and follow it for two or three miles to the park entrance, where we’re greeted by a park ranger, looking for some money, I reckon.

“We’re lookin’ for a campsite,” I say and pay the fee.

“Just follow the signs,” says the ranger. We do so and drive into a very nice campground, where several tents are already set up. The campground is situated in a cove surrounded by forest on all sides. Trees are scattered throughout the campground, giving shade to many individual sites. We drive around accessing our prospects.

“This looks like a good spot,” says Mary, pointing out a site near the edge of the woods.

“Looks good to me, close to the water supply and not too far from the toilets,” I say.

“Look, there’s a place for a campfire,” says one of our girls who is still awake.

While Mary unpacks our food, I muscle out our canvas tent that weighs about forty pounds. I solicit help from the boys in setting up the tent. Now I can relax for a few minutes.

We put up the tent fly over the table, in case of rain or of careless birds overhead in a tree. We are about done with our camp setup. The children go exploring the campground, while Mary and I finish our campsite chores. We sit for a while listening to birds trill their late afternoon songs. The children come back from their exploration. We learn how many campsites tents occupy, and how many by camping trailers. We don’t find out the number of empty sites remaining. Since they are back it must be suppertime.

Everyone eats with a good appetite. We hear cicadas now singing in full voice. It is nearly deafening, especially when we try to talk. We finish supper and the children clean up the dishes. It’s nearly dark now, and time to start the campfire. It is not cold. It’s just that a campfire is one of the most pleasurable things about a campout.

“You kids get out the air mattresses and blow them up while I get the fire goin,” I say. I arrange some kindling in the fire ring and add wood atop. I cheat a little by using some paper as part of the kindling. I soon have the fire ablaze. The cicadas have quieted down with darkness at hand. Their song is replaced by the cricket-like sounds of nocturnal insects.

We gather around our fire in more or less a semicircle. We can see each other’s faces in the flickering light. Each face seems to take on different shapes as the light from the fire varies. It’s a warm night. Some of us must move back from the heat. As we watch, tongues lick upward from the wood as if trying to get a taste of sweet nectar just out of reach. Pale orange and yellow flames dance to a steady rhythm of their own. Their dance steps and colors vary as their fuel is consumed. A piece of wood drops toward the embers, releasing a shower of tiny scarlet fireworks shooting skyward. Our campfire is a thing of beauty. We sit quietly, nearly mesmerized, as the fire burns down to embers. We are all ready for sleep. I douse the fire and we all turn in.

The night has cooled the air. Six of us go into the tent and find our beds. I button the tent flaps, and soon we are all asleep. I am jarred awake.

“Who who, who-are-you. – Who who, who-are-you,” says a voice from high above.

“What was that?” Says one of the children in a voice that sounds fearful that a monster might be invading our tent.

“It’s only a hoot owl stopping by to greet us,” I say. I am intrigued. I’ve never heard a hoot owl so close before. After repeating his midnight greeting a few more times, he leaves and all is quiet again. I resume my sleep.

“Who who, who-are-you,” I am awakened again. 

“I heard you the first time, Go away!” I grumble. After repeating himself a few times he does go away. I try to go back to sleep. I‘m not sure whether or not I go back to sleep before he’s back for an encore. By morning I lose track of the number of his visits.

Its daylight now and I struggle out of the tent, sleepy eyed. The others soon follow. They all look as if our night visitor has affected them as well. After a good breakfast everybody seems to be awake and ready for the day.

“Can we go down to the lake?” someone asks.

“Sure, we can, but not now. We’ll go after lunch,” I say. “There’s a nice trail through the woods that I think you will enjoy. Let’s hike it this morning. OK with everybody?”

“All right! Sounds like a good idea.”

After a little while we head out and find the trailhead half way around the campground to begin our walk. The trail winds around, and up and down through a hardwood forest of mostly maple, oak, and hickory. The grade is mostly gentle, with only a few steep places. I point out features of different trees; leaves, bark, and shape. We take note of the ground cover and see several varieties of fern. We notice wild flowers; trillium, jack-in-the-pulpit, columbine, and many others. As we walk, the wood is very quiet except for a bird song and an occasional gray squirrel foraging for his dinner. 

We are enjoying our walk in the woods when the quiet is interrupted by the sound of a multitude of blue jays squawking up ahead. We soon emerge from the forest into a good-sized clearing. We look up to see a few dozen jays flying in more or less a circle at the edge of the clearing. They fly screaming up to the edge of the forest, turn and rejoin the circle of friends.

“Wonder what has them so excited,” say Mary, as we continue down the trail.

“It must be something near the edge of forest,” I say, as we draw near to where the birds turn away from the forest.

“Look, high in that tree,” one of the boys says, pointing excitedly. We all stop to look where he is pointing.

There on a limb of a tall tree, at the very edge of the woods is perched a big, sleepy looking bird. He has one eye half open, watching his tormenters as they fly by, right in his face. He seems to have an annoyed look about him. We stand and watch for a while, enjoying the show. No doubt that’s the same hoot owl that hooted at us all night.

“This surely serves him right,” we all agree.