It’s 2am on a Monday night in the quaint town of Sandusky. The heat of the summer sun had died down and Lindsay, my girlfriend, and I are keeping warm in our tent. We set out a few days ago on the trip of a lifetime. We packed up my tiny Subaru and set out to drive to California, where we will live for an indefinite period of time. We should be sleeping because we have five full days of driving ahead of us. Instead, we are woken up by a drunken sing along to AC/DC’s “Back in Black."



What started as a very nice night, quickly turned into hell. After stopping at a local travel agency, Lindsay and I decided on a campground – the closest and cheapest one. As we voyage over, we realize that we really are in the middle of nowhere. Pulling up to the gates, we are met by a shabby rusty gate. “Register Inside," said the little sign.

Inside the little registration shack, which apparently doubled as a “general store," they sell beer and worms. A man named Paul hands us a map with our campsite on it. Back in the car we share our excited ideas for campfires, roasted marshmallows and ghost stories. Paul warned us that someone might be in our spot. “There’s a really old guy down there that doesn’t want to move. If he’s in your spot, you can take any other spot available," Paul told us.

Sure enough, parked in a blue folding chair is an old man smoking a cigarette. We decided to drive a bit further down the road and park in between the next two campsites. This looks as good a spot as any. We quickly set up the tent and run back into town to grab some sandwiches. When we return there is a young guy in his early twenties at the camp site next to us. It’s one guy, how loud can he be?

The campsites all line a river. Lindsay and I take a seat by the river, eat dinner, and watch the sun as it begins to set over the water. Our meal is interrupted by two obnoxiously loud jet skis flying through the channel. As they pass they yell something to the guy next to us.

It turns out that the jerks on the jets skis were staying next to us. “Maybe they won’t be that bad," we thought. After a nice dinner and relaxing by the fire, Lindsay and I were ready to hit the hay. Almost as soon as we settle into our tent, the guys next to us started blasting music from his truck. Here is where it got bad.

Not only are the inconsiderate jerks blasting music, but they only have one CD. One mix CD with the most cliché party songs. I’m talking Sweet Home Alabama, Back in Black…You catch my drift. I guess it wouldn’t been so bad if it were only the four college kids, but this campsite doubled as a vacation spot for white trash. People own trailers at the campsite, which serve as their vacation homes. And they all drive around on golf carts. Pretty soon we were surrounded by the incessant sound of carts driving up and down the gravel path. This little “party" must have been the talk of the town because the party of four turned into twenty.

Sure, listening to the drunken stories from hillbilly trash is entertaining, but I can only take so much. So I shake Lindsay and say, “We’ve got to move. I can’t sleep." So we unzip our tents hatch and get out to see what this raging party looked like. There were a few college kids playing beer pong surrounded by a half circle of golf carts filled with anxiously awaiting hicks. It was a sight to see.

Lindsay and I threw on our shoes and literally picked up the tent, which was filled with bags, an inflatable mattress and pillows. We hiked down the road with it until we couldn’t the noise died down. We finally got to sleep at 3:00 am. We awake the next morning to find our tent in a patch of mud. Just great! The next day we brushed our teeth, packed the car and peeled out of Sandusky Ohio with no intention of ever going back.