HELL IS LOVELY THIS TIME OF YEAR!

Every year advertisers think up new ways to tempt us to part with large wads of cash to have the "dream vacation" we've yearned for. They dangle sun-kissed beaches and turquoise water before us. They flash images of majestic peaks topped with snow, or hip urban streets where neon-lit parties last ‘til dawn.

Not once do these ad gurus show us pictures of hell. And yet, that is the location that every one of us is guaranteed to travel to at least once in our vacationing lives. Like Cher and her boy-toys performing at a concert, hell comes in a variety of shapes that change from scene to scene.

Hell may be a hotel room in Miami with broken air conditioning and amorous cats howling their love for one another below the window.

It could be the tent with the rip in the netting that lets in seventeen million mosquitoes that drain you so dry that your arteries collapse.

It might be the broken-down Volkswagen in the middle of Nevada with the lone mechanic gone for the week-end and a man offering you a ride with an alliterative double-barrel name composed of nicknames - like Billy Bobby Bud or Parole-Violator Pat.

Yes, hell comes in many forms and every vacationer has been to, if not its capital city, one of its many sprawling outposts.

Although John Denver proclaimed that West Virginia is "almost heaven" I found it to be "dead-center hell" during a July junket that was supposed to be a restful family escape from the steaming urban swamp that is Washington, D.C. in the summer. We'd rented a charming little cabin on a river so that we could gambol in the cool water and frolic in the flowery meadows and slumber without sweating through the sheets, mattress, box springs, frame and floorboards themselves.

Upon our arrival, however, I discovered that, contrary to what I'd maintained throughout 5^th grade, geography was important and by God, I would use it in my life. There I was, all grown-up and just learning that a state may have "West" in its title but that doesn't mean it's far enough west to be cool in the summer. Apparently, you could stick "West" in front of any old state and not have to meet basic truth-in-advertising requirements. This could be a marketing break-through for Alabama and Arkansas: "Visit West Alabama!" "Relax in West Arkansas!" and there would go hapless tourists by the thousands, thinking that it's gotta be a lot cooler than hotter-than-Satan's-butt East Alabama and East Arkansas, but they would be wrong.

West Virginia in July is mind-shakingly boiling. Upon our arrival,we staggered into the cabin and huddled there, the air conditioner roaring like the turbines of a jet airplane. It was too loud to speak, we had to sign to each other to communicate. It was like a week-end at Helen Keller's.

Eventually we dragged ourselves out into the sweltering day, making a beeline for the river. Unfortunately, the rushing sun-dappled river of the advertised photos was a dispirited, algae-choked tract of liquid goo after months of evaporating heat. And there was something else we couldn't quite place. To put it delicately, the river didn't seem as fresh as it could be.

That's when we heard the sound of chickens crowing nearby. It seemed an odd time for chickens to be yodeling their hearts out since it was four in the afternoon. God knows I'm no farmer but I do know rudimentary barnyard etiquette from having read Little House On the Prairie approximately nine thousand times as a child, and I can testify that no self-respecting rooster is crowing at four in the heat-sodden afternoon.

The sound was coming from somewhere nearby. Standing knee-deep in the tepid water, trying to ignore the smell, I scanned the horizon for some clue as to where a flock of chickens would have parked themselves to crow. That's when I saw it. A long, low, windowless building on the hill directly above our cabin. Hmmmmm, I thought, who'd build a house with no windows? Who'd build a squatty windowless house and stick it on a hill where a bunch of chickens evidently like to hang out? And then I knew. It was a huge chicken shed run by some heartless corporate farming conglomerate. I was looking at the chicken equivalent of prison. The Big (Chicken) House. The (Chicken) Pen. These birds had been sent up the river. Literally. Because the lock-up - or was it cluck-up? - was right above that oddly odiferous body of water. I suddenly realized that chicken poo-laced water was swishing around my knees, and that if it found a cut or scrape to infect I would be spending the next week in the bathroom doing the funky chicken.

I exploded out of that river like I'd been shot from a cannon, grabbing my child and husband along the way. Back into the cabin we went and cranked the AC so we couldn't hear the clucks of the damned from the fowl hoose-gow above us. But finally, hunger drove us out to the backyard barbeque.

"What did we bring for dinner?" my sweating spouse inquired.

I took a deep breath. I am so sorry, I said in my mind to the inmates on the hill above us.

"Chicken," I muttered.

We both cringed.

As if on cue, the racket above us increased a notch.

"I don't give a damn, I'm cooking this damn bird, dammit," my husband muttered. I handed him the bag of chicken and a bottle of wine simultaneously, taking a hearty swig before I passed it along. It was clear that only large quantities of alcohol were going to salvage this week-end.

The moment the chicken hit the barbie, a very friendly mutt appeared. He started workin' us like a guy selling Florida real estate to a roomful of retirees. He captivated my son, who forgot all about his heat rash to chase the doggie around. The dinner cooked, the sweat dripped, the pooch cavorted and for a moment it all actually seemed okay. This is the hallmark of a true Hell Vacation. There is always one moment, one small sliver of time, in which you think, Ah, this is fun! That's when Lucifer strikes. In this case, in the form of a canine with an ability to carry out a stealth strike the U.S. military would envy. As the platter of hot-off-the-grill-barbequed chicken was set on the picnic table, the dog leapt into the air, gained sufficient altitude, and then bore down on that plate like a heat-seeking missile. The jaws accordioned open, half the chicken was sucked in, and the pooch hit the ground at a rate that made the sound barrier pop.

"Bad doggie!" cried my son, taking off after the evil bandit. Shouting other colorful invectives about the canine and the kind of mother it had, my husband shot off after my son and scooped him up just as my husband's sandaled foot landed squarely on top of a hornet's nest. Out they came, and he made a beeline - as it were - to the cabin, his foot aflame, the child screaming his broken-hearted love for the chicken-thieving dog, which we could see devouring the chicken amid fits of derisive doggie laughter.

An hour later, the tear-stained tot in bed, the stung foot swelling quietly, I asked my husband if he'd like a glass of wine. Looking at me as if I'd asked if he'd like to continue to breathe oxygen, he nodded mutely. As I handed over the brimming glass of red wine, it slipped from my fingers and landed with a splotch on the white rug.

We looked at each other.

"Welcome to hell," we said.

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