There's an odd movement afoot: glamping. Ah yes, by now you've no doubt heard of this hybrid that would've, until a few years ago, been thought an oxymoron: glamorous camping. Essentially, it's where you pay exorbitant rates for someone to build you a tent-bedroom in the wilderness that far outstrips the comforts of your actual home.
Did the Donner Party find camping glamorous? No party was had there. Did the actual or video-game pioneers of the Oregon Trail? One word: dysentery. And, to a lesser degree, I myself can't report too many good nights' sleeps out in the wilderness. Born and raised in Colorado by an Eagle Scout, the St. Johns spent plenty of vacations under the stars and, once I hit high school, my friends and I started heading into the Rocky Mountains, where our parents couldn't count up all of our empty 40 bottles.
I enjoyed almost all of it, aside from, say, pulling ticks and the night I accidentally kicked my rolled-up sleeping bag into the Gore Creek. But make no mistake: aside from a few fresh trout dinners my father prepared over a campfire, none of it was fancy. Camping isn't supposed to be. It's antithetical to its proposition. So, what was to be thought of this mishmash that would make all of our ancestors -- yes, every single one of them -- roll their eyes in shame? I took my agreeable girlfriend, Brielle, to a swanky campground near Vail to find out.