A bull moose charged from the woods miles from civilization, which today means no cell phone service, and smashed into a car containing five of our family members.

The same five abruptly abandoned our lake’s Fourth of July boat parade when our boat was swamped by a lake version of a tsunami.

All of this provided our own version of fireworks before the actual excitement that accompanies the annual celebration of independence.

Past family history should have presaged that calamity had not subsided, but we naively assumed the nighttime flurry of small rockets midair on the Fourth was the end of high anxiety and goose bumps.

But the next day, we launched another of our old-but-family-favorite boats. It sank.

The sinking was particularly disheartening given our hope, which was bountiful as the boat slipped from the trailer and its motor hummed with life at the first turn of the ignition key.

This looked like a year of redemption for the old boat. It had started. The engine actually cranked over a time or two and then, kaboom, it was idling at full speed.

It eased out of the right-of-way and into the open water. At full throttle, it fell back into old habits and began to sputter, lose speed and, finally, stall. Engine failure soon became the second-worst problem on the boat when its inhabitants quickly realized it was sinking.

At this point, we were only three days into a week’s summer vacation at camp. Some of us had taken the usual Maine vacation, which means you drive an hour or two or three but stay in Maine to relax and regenerate.

Others had traveled from the heart of Manhattan to escape the tension, heat and hustle of the big city.

On the fifth day, our family discovered you could be hauled before the local kangaroo court of elected village officials and threatened with fines for cutting trees on your own property. Of course, the officials couldn’t quite locate the local ordinance, which was new, they said, and apparently not yet in print.

Or maybe the town’s copier was out of order. Either way, you could take their word for it that you violated an ordinance and agree to plant six new 12-foot-high trees, or you could start the meter running on $100 per day in fines.

Six generations ago, our family made its living cutting, harvesting and selling lumber. Talk about folks rolling over in their graves. You call this a break from stress?

Well, actually, we do.

So much so that today, when we sweep up the daily mouse droppings and the dead ants that are part of camp life, pack the cars and shutter the doors for a few weeks, everyone will be moping, shoulders will stoop, frowns will hang from the faces of young and old.

It’s been a another great week at camp, another seven days that add even more time to the more than 60 years we’ve come to the deep, verdant woods and blue, clear, spring-fed waters of Maine.

This year, we had the great fortune of 80-degree, sunny days. The heat made the cold lake water seem more invigorating and refreshing than ever. We swam in the morning, when the lake was calm and shimmered like glass; at midday, when a few waves might splash into your face; and at night, before an approaching crescent moon illuminated week’s end.

We ate as a family, all of us at the same time, each night on the screened-in porch overlooking the lake. Television, video games, iPads and cell phones worked in some places but not in others. It did not matter. They were barely in use. On the table were Maine’s fresh fruits, new vegetables, fish, and artisan cheeses and breads.

On our minds and tongues were often the forbidden dinner topics in most settings: politics and religion. News issues should be forbidden for us but are not. A few egos and feelings might have been bruised but nothing permanent. Lively discussions amid a peaceful, languid setting.

There was the company at dinner of the friend who shares the familiarity of Maine roots, family and even similar businesses. One of his most influential teachers was an aunt who died tragically young of cancer but not before deeply touching the lives of many Bangor High students.

We waxed nostalgically about the great Maine traditions of camp life and vacations almost always taken in Maine.

We fell asleep to the call of loons and awakened to the same haunting but lovely cadenced voices of nature.

It was a perfect week.

The moose knocked out a car headlight, smashed a fender and smacked a side-view mirror flat against the car. The driver recalls seeing only long, gangly legs and the moose’s right eye parallel to his, while he tried to gauge the beast’s height.

No one was hurt, not even the moose, who continued on down the dirt road.

The swamped boat was drained. Aside from a few bruises, its occupants were unharmed.

We beached the sinking boat just before complete submersion, bailed it, and hauled it back to the shop for repairs. It is 30 years old, but we’re not giving up on it.

The fight with bureaucrats over the right to cut down trees on our own property diagnosed as diseased by an arborist has not been settled.

Camp life is uniquely Maine, starting with the many definitions of what constitutes a camp. All we know for certain is that a Maine camp is not a cottage.

And any time spent at camp is almost always perfect.

Richard Connor is editor and publisher and CEO of MaineToday Media, which publishes the Kennebec Journal, Morning Sentinel and The Portland Press Herald/Maine Sunday Telegram.