Camping, like baseball, and apple pie, is among one of the great American traditions. Why is it that we are so inexorably drawn to the outdoors? Why do we strike out into hills to live amongst the pines for a week each year? Why do we insist on falling into the warm summer earth, what is this pleasure we get from sleeping in the rocky bosom of the mountains? I couldn't say. But then, I couldn't tell you why baseball makes me smile, either. What do the crack of a bat, a flying white ball, popcorn, hotdogs, and a roaring crowd have to do with happiness, anyway? How can I explain why warm apples swimming in sugar gravy nestled in a rich, buttery crust is, for us, the very definition of comfort and tranquility? But back to camping.
What was that quote? “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."
This is our third year camping near the Dungeness Spit on the Olympic Peninsula. The waves lull us to sleep each night. The sea birds wake us every morning. Family is all around, children running around the campground, racing about on their bicycles. The camp stove is always cooking something to keep us warm, usually tea, or "egg, soss, and a fried slice" (we do allow this one British tradition to invade the Blue-blooded-America-Land-of-the-Free-Home-of-the-Brave aura of our four day camping trip).
It's a heavenly long weekend of deep rest. Missing out on the yearly camping trip, for me, is not an option. It's one of the great American past times: it's about family, laughter, and the great American outdoors.
I wouldn't go a single year without it.
