November 6, 2022
The campsite was at least a mile from the gorge where a historic train track ran so even at four o’ clock in the morning, when coal trains thundered over the rails, it could be heard screeching miles down the way as the sounds continued to reverberate between the walls of the river gorge. And when the train cars were out of earshot, the symphony of woodsy critters accompanied by the occasional whooshing of freight trucks and commuters from the nearby highway occupied the silence.
As dawn approached, the crickets concluded their symphony and the birds began to chirp their morning song. Waking up in the tent with a little morning sun peeking through the mesh door panel then the scent of other campers’ camp coffee and pancakes permeating through the woods—it was like home without all the baggage. On the morning commute to the bathhouse on the campground trail, we passed other camper friends, exchanged hellos, and chatted about plans for the day outside.
Years ago, this place felt foreign. It was difficult to find comfort when the weather was predicted to be perfect all weekend but then the wind threatened to carry the tent right off the platform and into the gorge. And then the storms soaked through our soles and crashpads and chalk became burdensome and even useless. And in the height of past summers, the sun stung our skin and evaporated any energy we had brought when we decided to make the four to five hour drive here.
But with more visits and less expectations, I’m slowly learning to not only pause and breathe, but to accept some losses. Face the wind, tether myself in and stay grounded. Instead of fighting the storm, packing up and saving it for another time because we will surely return. And when it gets too sunny, dive into the lake and wade in the waters.
dream sincerely. 