Last time, I shared with you how I started my “roughing-it” camping career by sleeping on the ground in a tent in the Manistee National Forest.

Almost a half-century later, my camping tastes have become more refined — or I just got a whole lot older. Regardless, more refined or less tolerant of pain and agony, my current camping style revolves around a cozy park model, on a seasonal site, in a great little campground/resort in Michigan’s Thumb.

Like many of Pure Michigan’s privately owned campgrounds, Berwagana (free plug, here) offers a lot of activities to keep people busy and entertained. Many of the offerings are typical campground fare, such as swimming, paddle-boating, fishing, lots and lots and lots of wooded trails, playgrounds, mini-golf, horse shoe pits, shuffle board (does anyone who doesn’t live in Florida know how to play?), and (of course) fire rings for making ‘smores.

However, it’s the non-traditional activities that really set Berwagana (another shameless plug) apart from the rest.

I just completed a full week of  “camping” with my 6-year-old grandson. What an adventure.

Apart from swimming at the beach, riding around in my golf cart (gotta have one — it’s in the “Old Guy Code”), and getting ice cream at the camp store (gotta do that ­­­­­­­— it’s in the “Grandpa Code”), the centerpiece of our activities was “Water Wars.”

At 2 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, a herd of kids assembled (as neatly as a “herd” of kids can assemble) on the playing fields, a wide open area large enough to hold a ball diamond and a soccer field. Every one of them was armed to the teeth with squirt guns, spray bottles and other nefarious means of water propulsion.

Everyone within squirting distance was soaked within minutes.

“OK,” I thought, “All of these little kids are drenched. I guess that’s it for the Water Wars.”

In the immortal words or Ron Popeil, “But wait! There’s more!”

That’s when another herd of kids showed up. These were the bigger kids. Not the cute little kids with harmless little squirt guns (and, now, very bulging diapers from soaking up at least three and a half gallons of expended squirt gun ammunition).

These were the bigger kids, the more experienced kids, the kids whose parents come back every year, just for Water Wars. These kids had Super Soakers, and Super-Dooper Soakers, and Better-Call-Noah-The-Flood-Is-A-Comin’ Soakers.

These kids came to play hard and return home wet. Soggy pandemonium reigned.

“OK,” I thought, “All of these bigger kids are saturated. I guess that’s it for the Water Wars.”

In the immortal words of Jimmy Durante, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Soon, a herd of moms, dads and all other manner of adults showed up ­— along with seven wading pools filled to the brim with water balloons. When I asked how many water balloons were in the seven pools, I was told that last year there were 6,000 balloons and this year there was, “a whole bunch more.”

That’s a boatload of water balloons.

Eventually, every man, woman and child (and one old geezer) on that playing field was completely, thoroughly, and absolutely as wet as a teardrop in a rainstorm.

I thought to myself, “OK, how much wetter can we get? I guess that’s it for Water Wars.”

In the immortal words of Gary Coleman, “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?”

Just a few minutes later, seven golf carts came rolling onto the playing fields. Behind each golf cart was a trailer carrying a securely affixed pressurized tank, holding 60 gallons of water. Do the math, that’s 420 gallons of water — under pressure — with a hose and a fire nozzle.

Guess what happened next. Moms, dads, little kids, big kids, and one old geezer — yep — more wet.

“OK,” I thought, “That was fun. I guess that’s it for the Water Wars.”

In the immortal words of Stachieu Fademendowski, “Boy, was I wrong about that!”

Out came a tractor pulling a hay wagon. Securely affixed to the hay wagon was another pressurized 60 gallon water tank. A herd of kids (big, little, adult-but-kid-at-heart) clambered aboard and cruised around the campground, hosing down revelers in the streets — who had also brought to the fight garden hoses and pressure washers

Oh, by the way, while all this was happening — it was raining!

Now that’s how to wage a Water War.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.