TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

I took an end-of-the-season camping trip last weekend and it made me reflect upon the types of people encountered when in the great outdoors. I suppose you have to be a camper to fully understand the truth behind what I'm saying, but if you're not, take my word for it and then schedule some trips next summer to see for yourself.

First, and I list them first because of the correlative annoyance they present to me, are the music enthusiasts. Now, I'm a big fan of music but it takes some gall to presume that the 100 or so people in the surrounding 500 yards of their campsite want to listen to the exact same music they are blasting, and for the amount of time they desire to listen to it. Maybe they think their campsite is surrounded by soundproof barriers instead of, um, air, but I don't get the entitlement that causes someone to crank it up full volume.

Second, there are the drunk pyros. These folks are almost as annoying as the music enthusiasts, but at least their folly is only proffered under the cloak of night when I have my earplugs in anyway. These people look normal and are even friendly when the sun is up, but when the orange sky starts dipping into purple, and they start constructing a 17-foot pyre while the backup beer coolers are brought forth, it's time to hide the children and zip the tent. These people will get louder with every flip-pop of a beer can. Then, they'll burn every piece of wood in a 10-mile radius, getting even louder still. This will continue unto about two or three in the morning.

Third, there is the stray kid. I never know who this kid belongs to but I sure wish someone would put a bell on him so I know when he's coming and quickly hide the food. I often wonder whether this kid's parents are epically unaware of his whereabouts or whether he's the smallest, most brilliant hobo I've ever met. I mean, being a kid is the perfect cover when you're a huge freeloader.

Fourth, there are the stay insides. Big motorhome folk. Though the perfect campsite neighbors because you never hear or see them, I still find it an oddity that they even bother in the first place. Having a posh penthouse on wheels must be a glorious thing, but step outside every few days people! Even the fluffy terrier perched on the dashboard is holding up a "Help me!" sign. He wants to feel the earth on his paws.

Fifth are the morning alarm clocks. Do you really think you're allowed to sleep in while camping? If so, you should be at a resort, not elevated upon a dirt pad. Fine, I'm just justifying this because it's my kids who are the alarm clocks. They're up at 6 a.m., bouncing off the walls of our trailer until we unlatch the doors at 7:30. I would hold them back until later, but I don't think our plywood walls could maintain that sort of elongated damage, so you'll have to forgive me. I should mention that if I ever do let them out prior to 7:30 and they wake you up, you should consider it revenge as I've thus classified you as being in either the first or second group.

Sixth, there is the great talker. He's going to talk to you, your family, your dog, even your hubcaps if they showed a wee bit of interest in hearing him out. I actually like this dude. OK . . . this dude is my husband. I try to call him in for a contrived emergency by the time you're serving up your dinner -- I think he used to be one of those stray kids -- but I really don't see the harm if he's jawing it up with you while I get a few chapters read in my book. Plus, the friendliness of his role seems to deflect the severity of my role, the final camping type.

The enforcer. Me. I'm the one asking you to turn your music down. I'm the one calling the cops at 2 a.m. because of your drunk raucous. I'm the one walking your kid back to your trailer and falsifying a cougar spotting so you keep him close, and I'm the one slipping Fluffy a paper clip and a nail file so he can get out and smell the ocean breeze. It's a compulsion, really, and I hope it helps to know my husband is teaching me some breathing techniques. Still, I won't budge on the loud music.

Ah, camping. It's a splendid mashing together of a group who should've stayed home and cleaned the garage.

Heather Ijames is one of three community columnists whose work appears here every Saturday. These are the opinions of Ijames, not necessarily The Californian's. You can send email to her at heatherijames@hotmail.com. Next week: Inga Barks.