I know you all must be clamoring for news of my alfresco lifestyle because it’s been far too long since I’ve hit the road with tremendous gusto.

I finally, at long last, found the energy, or so I thought, to go camping for the first time this whole season.

As some of you may recall, I had a major depression issue for several months this year and was not able to carry out any kind of pleasurable hobbies due to residing in another world.

Since my meds are finally kicking in, I decided to load up the "Camp Lonesome Dove" pull-behind-the-car-trailer, (also known as the Lonesome Dove Express), and head off into the deep wilderness of Pymatuning State Park, Jamestown Facility.

I know, I know, it was quite a long journey and I really took a huge risk by trekking so far from civilization but, I made it safely and after the 20 minute drive, landed securely at a quite lovely and wooded parcel.

Now, if you place your time capsule hats atop your heads, you might remember how I used to impart details of kayaking, hiking, flying about like a whirling dervish and carrying out many other "campy" activities. These would have been in addition to the regular tasks associated with setting up a site, complete with tarps galore, without the aid of humanity.

Well, I'm here to tell you, this outing paled in comparison as I was already exhausted from packing up the Lonesome Dove Express and, by the time I exited the vehicle at my site, I seriously contemplated whipping a sleeping bag into the back of my car and ditching the process of erecting my 13 X 8 sleeping quarters. (It would have been impossible anyway because, not only was the trailer packed to the max but, the entire car resembled a storage closet on wheels.)

I ask you to once again break out the time capsule helmet and head back to last Saturday. Do you remember anything that stood out about the weather conditions that day? I'll give you one clue: A kite would have been torn to shreds due to the delightfully "breezy" atmosphere.

Mother Nature, or Father Wind, decided to play sick tricks with me by causing hurricane strength gusts to consume the region every single, solitary time I attempted to spread out my ground tarps—I’m a tarp queen, if you recall.

After seizing rocks, firewood, the neighbor's infant and other items needed to weight down the four corners of said tarps, I was good to go.

Setting up the tent followed along the same lines as the saga above, minus the infant, of course. (It's crazy but, they do need to be fed, changed and returned to parents from time to time.)

After spewing forth a bountiful and plentiful array of colorful words from the "Truck Driver's Urban Dictionary," (causing many a goose in my path to blush), my tent was up, and I was down. LITERALLY DOWN.

I had been suffering from some back pain prior to my epic jaunt into the great wild yonder. By the time I had my shelter in order, I managed to gimp over to my hammock and throw myself into its welcoming arms. I realize hammocks are armless but, I felt the comfort of a mother's loving embrace once I was anchored within, so just let me be with my terminology, would you?

Moving along, I was not able to harness the sprightliness from one year ago, mind you, to decorate to the hilt as I once did.

However, I was determined to, at the very least, hang my “Camp Lonesome Dove” sign. Even if I had to crawl on my elbows with legs dragging behind in order to do that, I would have. I mean, what grown woman doesn't require such a necessity so that the “roughing it” experience is as homey as feasible?

Switching gears, and I promise this will tie in eventually, and you know my eventually can be about 1,678 words or less, so bear with me.

I’ve noticed that I could be dressed for a total ball and never, in a month of Sundays, would I encounter anyone I knew. However, any time I quickly cover my filth-ridden body with some 1980s hideous clothing, run fingers, rather than a comb, through the hair, (for fear the teeth on said comb would break whilst maneuvering through the rope-like knots), and head to anywhere on Earth, including a campground, I’m bound to run into a person from high school, or someone I once dated, or an individual who is cruising through a state park on a bike and ends up visiting briefly.

You might know where I’m heading now. As I possessed the most charming appearance of a mountain-woman from deep in the Appalachian Chain, complete with smudgy face, a forest of leg hair and an outfit best reserved for Halloween, it happened.

A crazed fan tracked me down and begged me for an autograph. OK, I exaggerate a touch, how unlike me.

The real story goes as follows...I was just getting ready to take a shower and, you can imagine, I was a real charmer. Suddenly, a man on a bicycle coasted in my direction and yelled, “I don’t suppose you’re Lisa by chance?” Looking the way I did, I was tempted to play dumb but, my Lonesome Dove decor gave me away.

To make a long story longer, it turned out that this gent, Lee from Greenville, suffers through my column on a weekly basis. He recognized my setup due to my incessant blathering about all things camp, from previous columns.

So, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Lee for not only being a loyal fan, but for refraining from plugging his nose during our chat. Heck, he even managed to maintain eye contact and was not distracted by my alluring apparel. Thank you Lee of Greenville.

I’m running out of column space, which I’m sure has you in tears, so I shall wrap up this goofy piece in a casual manner.

To sum it up, it rained on Saturday evening but, believe it or not, I made the best of it by lounging about in my quite cozy region known as “Tarpland.”

Good news for my cardiovascular system as I'm certain that I maintained the aerobic state throughout my stay, give or take some hammock naps. It was splendid to get in total touch with my wild-woman side once again, as well.

So, I’m back in action and will attempt to escape the confines of my home, and my mind, on a more regular basis. Aren’t you thrilled to the marrow?

I’m simply issuing a warning. Prep yourselves for future installments of, “The Appalachian Ragamuffin Diaries.”

Now I’m off to lie flat on my back with ice beneath me.