I need your help, Doug,” I pled to my friend, holding my cell phone with one hand and anxiously twisting the wires inside my motor home’s fuse box with the other. “This thing under the sink with all the wires coming out of it — I think it’s broken.”

It was late Thursday evening — day three of a semi-successful mission to prepare our 1975 Dodge motor home for a four-day family reunion. I had been concerned about the “old beast” since mid-May, when I packed her up for an overnight father-and-sons outing in Settlement Canyon. After all, the fading, yellow-striped class C is older than I am, and the relentless winter could not have been kind to her. I was reassured when she rumbled to life on only the second key turn, flooding the musty cab with the sweet fumes of old-school camping.

A running engine was all I needed for that particular trip, because we males are simple creatures. Or maybe we’re just lazy. Either way, we weren’t going to use the fold-down toilet or take showers or bake cookies. Our standards aren’t tough to meet: If the engine runs and the tires aren’t flat, the boys and I are good to go.

But bring the girls along, and suddenly things aren’t so simple. Suddenly things like a broken propane regulator, severe plumbing leaks, and the fact that nothing happened when we flipped on the light switch, are serious causes for concern.

“That baby will run forever,” I remembered Doug telling me after I bought the $800 rig. The electrician-slash-mechanic jack-of-all-trades had owned a similar RV several years ago.

“Everything else on it will fall apart, though.”

He wasn’t kidding.

This wouldn’t have been such a problem for Doug or my brother, or anybody with a trace of handyman sense. If you need your computer network troubleshot, I’m your man. If you need somebody to alpha test your software, I’m all over it. But when it comes to cutting tile or diagnosing a car problem, I’m completely useless.

Luckily, my wife, Meadow, is a savvy, can-do Texas belle with a healthy sense of humor. She re-plumbed the entire system while I very dutifully handed her tools and ran back and forth to Tooele for parts. Three days and several store runs later, we were ready to turn our attention to the rusted enigma under the sink.

The non-stop shopping, packing, and fixing were taking their toll. Stumped and exhausted, we sat on the floor of the dark motor home in the lingering heat, several hours after we had planned to arrive at our camp in Sanpete County.

“Is this even worth it?” We wondered together in some kind of fatigued telekinetic accord.

That’s when I thought to call Doug, who was with his family at a drive-in movie.

His answer was simple: “Take that green fuse box, lift it up about two inches, then drop it.”

Behold, power. Why it worked, I don’t know or care. But the tide had shifted. The winds had changed. We felt like Doctor Frankenstein the moment his hodgepodge creation finally awoke. We finished packing, transferred the sleeping children to their seats, and were soon mountain-bound.

When we arrived in camp the next morning, 2-year-old Coulter’s feet were the first to hit the ground. The dirt roads were covered in a fine peach-colored powder that I swear must be imported from mars. Coulter probed its depth with his pirate sword before belly-flopping into it. His older brothers scampered into the woods while Meadow and I set up camp and greeted relatives. The air at the top of Fairview Canyon was balmy, but comfortable. Every few seconds, a happy birdsong rang out from somewhere in the aspen canopy.

Entering wilderness of any clime is often like passing into a new dimension where memories of torturous trip preparation are quickly replaced with serene awe.

“Dad, come quick! I found a dinosaur grave!” said 6-year-old Bridger as he ran toward me through a dense thicket carrying two large bones. He led me to a pile of rib and leg bones with a cow skull nearby. “It’s gotta be a pleurodon,” he surmised. “It must have been left over from the ancient sea.”

Back at camp, 1-year-old Ella recited her new word, “no,” repeatedly to anybody in sight. Meadow and I sat in our camp chairs, finally able to relax.  

“Yeah, it’s worth it,” we concluded together in some kind of refreshed mental cohesion.

Preparing for a camp can be arduous, but the rewards reaped from a wilderness experience are usually worth the effort. It’s summer — time for fires and s’mores and sleeping bags. Don’t let the sometimes daunting task of trip preparation stop you from getting outside and spending the night there.

Though our family reunion was further away, camping options here in Tooele County are plenty. Both developed and primitive campsites abound for RV, car camping, or backpacking. Most campsites are managed by the U.S. Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and Tooele County.

Popular RV destinations are Settlement Canyon, Grantsville Reservoir, and the Deseret Peak Complex. Car camping destinations are too numerous to list here, but the campgrounds in South Willow Canyon and Clover Springs in Johnson’s Pass are a must. Skull Valley and Middle Canyon are car camping/ATV hot spots, and the remote corners of the Cedar, Simpson, and Deep Creek ranges offer excellent opportunities for solitude. The Stansbury Mountains are covered with trails and primitive campsites.

When planning a camping trip, check available services and plan accordingly. See Tooele County’s 2008 Business and Visitor’s Guide for a countywide camping summary, including detailed land management and fee information. For most destinations, plan to bring in all of your water and pack out all of your trash.  

Whether you’re in a rusty RV with a handful of kids or alone with a pack on your back, you’re trip to Tooele County’s backcountry will be an experience you won’t soon forget.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.