3 Days Camping on the River

Camping is absolutely not for everyone. It can be wet and cold and frustrating and a lot of work. You have to be willing to lean into the experience for what it is and go with its flow. But I think if you can release the things you cannot control while camping, which is easier said than done, it becomes rejuvenating in a way that satisfies both the tired adult and the eager child inside you. It tells us: Stay. Sit. Be quiet. Watch. It asks us, “What’s the rush?”

I love it here. You can take full breaths. You can see the stars. You can learn the schedule of the eagles nesting in the tree next door. Wake up early to watch the sunrise. Slide your fingers through the morning dew as you walk the beach. Spend hours investigating the big rocks and their different shines or the twists and turns and crevasses of a fallen tree branch and the abandoned spider city inside. Watch the pelicans take off and land and fish. Attempt fishing yourself, watch the herons succeed while you fail, get frustrated, cook food on the fire, try again, realize fishing isn’t about catching anything anyway, enjoy the view, be happy for the birds. Almost everything can wait; there’s nothing you have to do, and you have the freedom to take as many naps as you please.

My most treasured memories from childhood were spent alone getting an intimate look at nature. Whether it was in my own backyard or somewhere new on a trip up north, these quiet observational moments I spent with the plants and the bugs and the animals were the moments I felt happiest and like I was actually doing what I truly wanted to be doing with my time.

I remember making foolish and careless decisions with nature, such as taking a bird’s nest down so I could get a closer look at the eggs inside and then not being able to put it back, or feeding a small piece of banana to a featherless baby bird found on the ground, not realizing he would asphyxiate. I would cry myself into a nap after these mistakes. But these were hard lessons that brought much better experiences later. I remember befriending the grasshopper whose leg I’d accidentally crushed, and then succeeding in giving him a safe space to heal and eat. I remember finding my first newt and checking it off the bucket list I already had at such a young age. I remember the countless painted turtles and the garter snakes. I remember my grandparents’ neighborhood black cat named Jack eating the entrails of a chipmunk one by one from the new neck hole he gave it after decapitating the poor thing; one of my greatest lessons in anatomy to date. I remember my grandma dropping my cousin and me off a little ways down the road from her home where there were wild blackberry bushes. She told us to pick some for our cereal that morning. We were wearing sundresses and sun hats and held the ends of our skirts to create buckets for the berries. This was the ’90s somewhere deep in Wisconsin, but it felt like we were existing inside the past. And I remember the make-believe part of it all too. That moment you get just far enough away from the house or cabin, you’ve become surrounded by woods, you spin as you look up at the tree canopy, and then the inner dialogue comes… “I need to find shelter before it gets dark…” and suddenly it’s 1922 and you’re a lost, parentless child for some reason who has to figure it out on their own in the woods.

Now, an adult on a camping trip, I squat on top of the warm tan boulders separating our campsite from the beach, looking out over the water while I eat my fire-roasted meal. I can feel my heartbeat move my body, the sun on my unwashed face. I hear the chattering, unfamiliar voices of nearby fishermen and then a quiet voice from within… “I’m leaving this town for the city by train… I can’t let anyone see me…” And suddenly it’s 1922 again, and I should probably call my son over to play.

So I’ll bid you an early adieu, and I’ll leave you here with the current, and the birds, and the trees… to take a deep breath and travel to the past, where you might find your own inner voice… waiting.