Behind the Wheel: Camping trails from the dusty roads of the Southwest to the Atlantic City Boardwalk

In this week’s Behind the Wheel, Staff Writer Maria Allard shares memories of the camping trips across the country she took with her family as a kid. The photos were taken in slide form in 1979 when the family traveled out West.

METRO DETROIT — It was my first road trip, but I was a baby and don’t remember it.

At 6:15 a.m. on July 26, 1970, my family left our Warren home for a camping trip. The odometer read 40,313 miles and my parents had $497 in cash, plus a credit card. Destination: the California coast.

Every summer my parents, two older brothers and I camped. We’d load up, pile into our Plymouth station wagon and head for the open road with an atlas and state maps guiding us. This was before GPS. Altogether, we camped in 48 states — never made it to Alaska or Hawaii — and parts of Canada.

My dad would have lived in a campground all year if he could. Me, ugh, I hated camping. It was torture: the bugs, no room for my bike, and I missed my friends back home. But the worst part was no TV. That would be equivalent to being without an iPad or cellphone in today’s world.

Each vacation was planned out. We’d go out West, down South or just eastbound and down. We’d drive everywhere: big cities, the country, back roads, major highways. To pass the time, I read Mad Magazine and stayed on the lookout for Volkswagen Beetles.

I might have liked camping if we traveled in a cozy motorhome or shiny Airstream trailer. The first family trailer was basically a box on wheels. By the mid-1970s, my parents purchased a 1972 Apache pop-up trailer. It wasn’t one of those easy ones you crank and all the work is done. This trailer required all five of us to put it up and take it down. We’d all hold different poles and pieces of canvas until it was up. It always took forever.

My least favorite campgrounds were the primitive ones. But there were plenty of campgrounds we stayed at that had it all: a pool, game room, movie night, snack bar, laundromat, and gift shop. The KOA’s were always nice. Sometimes we’d end up at a state park.

With each camping trip — from the mid-1960s through the late 1980s — my parents kept a journal, which I still have. They jotted down the date, mileage, which city and state we were in, the weather, what time we awoke, and people we met. My parents also wrote brief paragraphs about the places we visited. For instance, during our 1974 trip to Yellowstone National Park and the Grand Canyon, we ran into boxing legend Joe Louis at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

“He said ‘I want to shake hands with these little ones,’” Mom wrote. “When we told him we were from Detroit, he said, ‘Say hello to Detroit for me.’ He looks good.”

Even though camping wasn’t my thing, I loved traveling. The trips that really came alive for me were California in ’77 and ’79, Virginia Beach in ’78, and our 1980 journey through Toronto, Montreal, upstate New York, New York City and Atlantic City.

On off-road days we’d go somewhere: a museum, a tour, a hall of fame, a historic site, a landmark, a cathedral or a ballpark. My parents made sure to have one amusement park on the itinerary.

Another great thing was meeting kids from all over. We’d visit each other’s campsites, swim or play pool in the game room. If I had to pick a favorite spot or two, it would be the eastern and western shorelines. There was nothing like being on a Pacific Ocean or Atlantic Ocean beach. I still long for swimming with the waves while smelling saltwater in the air.

The Virginia Beach, Virginia, campground stands out. It was huge with so much activity. Every morning a man drove through yelling “Doughnuts, fresh doughnuts!” from a truck, and every time I went into the game room, Welsh singer Bonnie Tyler would belt out “It’s a Heartache” on the jukebox.

When we experienced car trouble in a small West Virginia town, the only mechanic was out for the day. Stuck, we set up camp somewhere. As dusk fell, the mechanic found out about us and invited my brothers and me back to his house to stay overnight with his wife and kids. His large family reminded me of “The Waltons.” They were so kind. We sat around the kitchen table, had snacks and talked. It was the first time I ever had Country Time lemonade.

I always remember where I was Aug. 16, 1977, when news broke that Elvis Presley died at his Graceland mansion in Memphis. We were getting ready to go to the San Diego Zoo while Dad sat at the picnic table listening to his handheld Panasonic radio.

“Elvis died,” he said, looking up at us.

On our way home, we stopped in Memphis. Fans mourning the singer’s death gathered on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Dad picked me up so I could see Graceland. This was before it was open to the public. The house looked big and so far away in the distance.

My parents are no longer living. I am so glad they took us on all those trips. We saw so much: the Liberty Bell, Mount Rushmore, Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, Redwood National Parks, Dealey Plaza in Dallas where President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, the prairie dogs in Montana, Fisherman’s Wharf, Dollywood, Bob Evans’ original farm in Ohio and more.

A neighbor with two kids bought the trailer at my parents’ estate sale. I hope they got out of it as much as I did. I would not trade the experience for anything. I wish I could do it all over again.