Parents, in case you're confused about this -- and I really don't think you are; I think you understand the game perfectly and go along with it because it gives you a night to bone unimpeded by whiny adolescents -- but on the off chance that you're naive enough to take things at face value, your teenagers do not own a full set of camping gear because they love the great outdoors. Camping, to a teenager, is just code for "getting drunk in the dirt."
Everybody who grew up in a small town had a drinking spot 10 miles outside city limits, accessible by a hidden patch of dirt one could only generously call a "road." Here's a hint: Your spot does not count unless there was one patch of road that veered wildly over a boulder or down a gully and would completely take out your suspension if you weren't prepared for it. That's your drunken teenage moat, and it's absolutely necessary, because it lends you a false sense of security. I say false because, of course, it will not stop the cops from trekking to the end of the road to find you: They know how to get over it, too. Where do you think they did their underage drinking?
My particular camping spot was further protected: At the end of the dirt road, you had to clamber down a narrow path cut into a steep and rocky cliff. The path was difficult to navigate during daylight, nearly impossible at night, downright lethal while drunk, and absolutely murderous while drunk at night. Which is probably for the best, because it meant nobody ever left to drive home with a serious buzz. If you were sober enough to mountain-goat up that death-path by moonlight, you were sure as s**t sober enough to drive -- if not when you set out, then certainly by the time you reached the top.
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And if you made it without spilling your beer, you were awarded 12 gold septims and a virgin bride.