It is the first hot Saturday in the spring. Leaving town, I pass a black Lamborghini with a roof rack loaded with camping supplies: a tent, a cooler, a big duffle bag, a little grill. There is barely an inch between the carbon-fiber fins and the pavement, and even with the roof rack, the entire vehicle is only four feet tall. In all the Catskill mountains, I wondered where there’s a campground without a single pothole.