The Asphalt Forest

It is late at night, and the drowsy little group of explorers hurries through the darkness. Their rations.are low and the drinking water gone. It has been a long and arduous journey; now the rewards are at hand. The nuclear family is about to start a week of nuclear camping. The camp includes: a swimming pool, a laundromat, a supermarket, a billiard academy, a miniature golf course, and fence-to-fence asphalt and plastic grass.

This is camping? It is indeed, a Southern California transmutation of the American pioneer spirit. For years, camp grounds across the U.S. have been growing increasingly effete, but some sort of new mark is set by Campland, just off the heavily traveled San Diego Freeway. Essentially, Campland is a 42-acre parking lot that can accommodate 800 assorted trailers, mobile homes and just plain tents. For a fee that ranges from $4 to $6, depending on the size of lot, a family can pretend it is camping out while still enjoying the delights of suburbia. Television addicts can plug in their sets, Jacuzzi fans can return to the swirl, and if Mom forgot her hot pants back in San Berdoo, she can replace them at Campland's own boutique.

No Wild Animals. There is no lack of activities. A favorite pastime is climbing the 88-ft. observation tower to admire the view. To the east is a splendid vista of the traffic-jammed freeway, exhaust smoke billowing into the air, while across the bay is Sea World, an aquarium aswarm with tourists and back-dropped by San Diego's busy Lindbergh International Field. Inside the camp's palisades, the pace is equally lively. Cars roll endlessly along the asphalt alleys while children splash in the tepid water of the bay.

The simpler joys of the wilderness are not quite as accessible. Only a few saplings struggle for survival among the exhaust fumes. Wild animals are nowhere around; the nearest deer are at the local zoo ten miles away and even pets are banned in some parts of the lot. Many campers prefer to eat at the local beaneries, but a few still cook on their own fires with supplies from a local supermarket. "They're really roughing it today," says Supermarket Clerk Vic Gerouche as he bags Styrofoam cups, Tortilla Chips, Rice-A-Roni and four hunks of bubble gum for a camping family.

No Grass. Conveniences like these, however, are regarded by many inmates as a fair exchange for the shortage of real flora and fauna. "I like being able to run over and pick up a loaf of bread," says Mrs. Marcia Reese, waiting in the laundromat for a load of nappies to dry. "We enjoyed the quiet last week in the woods, but until my kids are out of diapers, this is more fun." For older kids, Campland is a mixed bag. Young Jeff Andreoli complains that he cannot play baseball or football: "There's no grass here." Karen Folts, 13, thinks the pool parlor is right on: "I like this place because there's a bunch of cool guys around. When my parents go camping in the wilderness, I stay home. It's boring."

Campland is no bore to Owner Yale Willis, an oilman who is growing increasingly wealthy on his investment. "It's almost unbelievable that people come here in such numbers," he says. "Perhaps it's because people raising families can't afford hotels. We are really one of the greatest baby-sitting organizations in the country." Ever since Campland opened two years ago, says Willis, its steaming asphalt expanse has been chockablock full. Now, with its success assured, he plans to branch out to Mexico, where a network of 22 Camplands is scheduled to rise over the next several years. After that, it can be only a matter of time before someone decides to pave over Colorado.

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