We’ve spent the last two days visiting with some old friends who live in the wilderness of North Carolina. I may be youth impaired and set in my ways, but I can be taught. I’ve learned:

• If the trees next to the trail are shaking violently when there’s no wind, run like hell. The consequences of noncompliance are becoming an afternoon snack for passing bears, or picking boar tusks out of your butt.
• Don’t poke your face up to a hole in the ground to see if something is inside unless you’re into body piercing with venomous fangs.
• Close the roof vents in the motor home at the first drop of rain. There are no circumstances under which you would want a wading pool in your bed.

As with all vacations, something has to go wrong. I assumed it would be my vintage motorhome, but instead it was my vintage knee. Hiking to the showers requires bug spray, patience, and heavy narcotics.

Visiting old friends makes up for a lot of potential maiming from wild creatures. A joy ride used to involve a Fiat Spider with the top down. Now we rocket through the campground at two miles an hour in a golf cart. It’s not the best conveyance for escaping said boars and bears.

As we gossip catch up on news and kvetch, I remind myself that I’m supposed to be taking the moral high ground. “Live and let live,” I think to myself charitably as I squash every spider within a six mile radius. Everybody knows that charity doesn’t apply to eight-legged creatures from hell. It barely applies to my friend’s catty, back-stabbing neighbors. Guess I need to work on my moral high ground.

Today, we’ll say our tearful goodbyes, trust to the gods of RVs, and get back on the road, heading for the beach. I’m thinking that golf carts will not be useful in trying to outrun sharks. Time will tell.