After almost four years on the road, I have learned that most campground problems fade when we treat these little rectangles of earth like temporary neighborhoods. Gravel instead of sidewalks, trees instead of streetlights, but still neighbors who sleep, cook, and relax just a few feet away. When I remember that, my choices get softer and kinder.
The lesson that stuck first was about space. A site may not have a fence, yet it is still someone’s yard for the night. It can be tempting to shave off a few steps and cut between chairs to reach the bathhouse, but I think about my childhood backyard and the day a passerby kicked our dog while cutting through. That memory is enough. I take the longer path. Privacy and safety are worth the extra steps.
Campfires ask for the same kind of care. Woodsmoke smells wonderful, yet moving firewood moves pests, so buying locally matters. I check for burn bans, keep water nearby, and never walk away from a live fire. If I need to run inside, someone stays with the flames, and before bed the fire is truly out. Good fires are cozy. Loose fires are trouble.
Sound travels in the open air. Families disagree sometimes, and voices can rise before we catch them. When I feel tension building, I take it indoors and lower my tone. Door slams and shouting ripple through a loop of sites faster than we think. Calm voices help everyone rest, including the people inside my own rig.
Pets come with us because they are family, and that means we keep them close. A leash keeps them safe from cars, wildlife, and their own curiosity. Friendly dogs can still knock someone down, and some neighbors are genuinely afraid. If I leave Vixen in the rig, I set a comfortable temperature, close the blinds so she is not on patrol, and turn on the TV for a little white noise. Then, always, I pick up after her. It is not glamorous, but it is kindness you can measure step by step along a path.
Cat travelers have their own rhythm. Friends who are full-time with a kitten use a crate on drive days, keep the litter box in the shower, empty it before moving, and seal waste in a trash bag for the proper bin. No sprinkling litter in the woods. No tucking it behind a tree. It seems small, but small choices add up to a place that feels cared for.
Shared spaces hold our collective fingerprints. In the bathhouse I try to leave only the steam behind. Flush, tidy the stall, and swipe stray hair from the sink. It takes seconds and turns a stranger’s next moment into a small relief. I think of it as housekeeping for the village.
Boundaries keep neighbors comfortable. I do not step into a rig without knocking, even if we are friendly. I do not open storage bays, and I do not “just check” someone’s basement area while they are out. Respect is not complicated. It is simply choosing to let people keep their things and their space to themselves.
When we pack up, I like the site to look as if the wind swept it clean. Fire rings are not trash cans, so plates, cans, and food waste go in the dumpster, not under the last log. Cigarette butts belong in a little ashtray, not across the gravel like confetti. Hosts and owners work hard to keep these places pretty. Meeting them halfway is the least we can do.
Wind teaches its own etiquette. I secure chairs and tables before heading out, and the awning comes in if the breeze starts to build or if I will be gone for hours. I have watched awnings tear even when they were tied down. A tidy site is safer too. Some parks ask us to keep only a mat, a table, and a couple of chairs outside. Mats and pop-ups can harm grass, so I ask before spreading out. Less clutter lets the landscape shine.
Every park has its own rhythm, so I read the rules when we arrive. What was required at the last stop may not matter here, and what was casual there might be important now. One rule that never changes is speed. Five miles per hour is not a suggestion. Kids chase balls, pets slip a collar, and a squirrel can dash at exactly the wrong moment. I would rather arrive a minute later than carry a weight I cannot set down.
Evenings are when comfort either gathers or frays. I keep music low enough to stay inside our space. If we have a drink, it goes in a cup or a koozie, and coolers get closed and put away so curious kids cannot help themselves. Bright exterior lights look lovely on a rig, but I turn them off by quiet hours, so someone else’s bedroom does not feel like noon.
If the grandchildren are with us, I keep them close the way I keep Vixen close. We talk about not cutting through sites, not running into the road, and not raiding unattended coolers. Parks are wild edges stitched to our porches, and wildlife does not always warn before it appears.
What I love most about campgrounds is how quickly a helpful spirit spreads. When I see a newcomer wrestling with hoses or leveling blocks, I offer gentle help. They might decline, and that is fine. They might accept, and the evening will feel brighter for both of us. We were all new once.
In the end, campground etiquette is just love in practical shoes. Respect the space, tend the fire, soften the noise, keep pets and kids safe, leave places better than you find them, and treat every neighbor like someone you might need or might be able to help. When we do, the whole campground exhales.