Breaking camp was pretty orderly, and time-consuming only because I chose to take my time and care for myself and the gear. The drive home was uneventful and I made pretty good time.
…Damn, I was sooo tired, though…
The afternoon and evening with my Traveling Partner were pleasant. It’s good to be home.
“The Alchemyst” in bloom when I arrive home.
Returning to the routine of day-to-day isn’t particularly strict or uncomfortable. I missed my comfortable bed, running water, my own bathroom (and not having to walk a distance to reach it). I’ve got a long Memorial Day weekend ahead of me, and I’m looking forward to spending it gently.
The weekend begins with accompanying my partner to an appointment. It was part of my plan, and not a surprise. Then we head home. There’s probably some grocery shopping to do… meal planning… put away the camping laundry (already washed and dried)… I’m not feeling overwhelmed by the growing list. My away time was deeply restorative. I needed it.
…Where will the day and weekend take me? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just follow my path and find out. I’d kinda like to go out for brunch… but I don’t think my Traveling Partner is quite up to that yet. Soon, maybe…
…I managed to spend 4 days camping without getting any insect bites… or so I thought. Apparently, I did get a couple my last day, and only noticed this morning. It’s just a couple bites, around where the top of my socks were, yesterday. I even remember a moment in the morning, as I got up, noticing a gap between my socks and the edge of my jeans, before I pulled my socks back up and the hem of my jeans back down, and thinking “I’m lucky I didn’t get bitten…” lol I did. I just didn’t feel it.
…What a good trip out. Well done restful, satisfying, and nurturing. I’m still smiling. Now it’s time to begin again.
I’m still getting over being sick. It’s not COVID, though, so… there’s that. I figure I’ve got a good chance at getting fully over this with some summertime left for camping and hiking. I don’t think I’ll be up for it as soon as week after next – which is when I’d been planning on going. I wept some pointless childish tears over that, then re-planned my getaway.
Knowing I’m awfully sick, at least for now, I made two alternate plans. One of these is fully a month away (a bit more), well-past when I can expect to be over this and in fair shape for something as demanding as a decent hike… but… I couldn’t get my remote-ish wilderness-y spot that I favor for those dates. I could get a pretty good “plan B” tent site, though, so I booked it. I noticed that my favored location did have availability just 3 weeks from now, though… although I’m not nearly so certain I’ll really be ready for that level of exertion so soon… but… I booked that too. Greed? Selfishness? Maybe just yearning for that bit of solo time out in the trees, and the inescapable awareness that the “plan B” option is far less likely to really meet that need well. “Car camping” – more “glamping” really – and surrounded by others doing the same. My first choice favored site is quite a bit more remote, sufficiently so that on weekdays I’d likely be utterly alone save for the once daily drive through by the park rangers.
Sometimes “luxury” is just being close enough to the car to bring a giant cooler full of icy cold beverages!
My thinking is that if I’m up for it in 3 weeks, I go with the more demanding bit of hiking and camping, and the thrill of taking along my new camera for that experience. If I’m not quite good-to-go, I’ll cancel a few days in advance, giving someone else a shot at that choice campsite, and take advantage of the later date, easier location, two weeks later, and rely on hiking to choice locations for taking pictures, instead of being surrounded by it continuously.
The safety of a managed state park, the solitude of a remote hike-in camp. Me, the birds, the breezes, and the occasional chipmunk visitor.
I’m listening to rain falling. A drenching tropical rain, falling quite steadily. It’s a video, and I enjoy the sound of it. It’s not likely that I’ll be dealing with any rain on my camping trip, in August. More likely the afternoons will be quite hot, and the sunshine-drenched hiking will be miles of sweat and toil, and an occasional biting or stinging insect. Won’t stop me. Won’t make the coffee any less welcome at the start and end of each day. I do find myself thinking over my gear with great care; what I bring depends very much on which campsite I end up going to. A half-mile trek (each way) from car to camp that seems to be a steep uphill in both directions doesn’t allow for large coolers filled with icy beverages. I’m just not that young/strong/foolish these days. lol On the other hand, I don’t enjoy the car camping nearly as much since it reliably means I’ll be surrounded by other people, and the entire (100%) point of these excursions is getting some solitude to listen to my own thoughts for a while. So, I make two gear lists. Most of it is the same, and the differences are about balancing weight and convenience. I do like some luxury in my camping (really don’t like sleeping directly on the ground, is one good example; I generally take a cot).
I entertain myself while I’m still ill by thinking about the camping trip ahead – when I (hopefully) won’t be ill, and will benefit from having done so much careful planning. (I’m far less likely to get such well-considered planning done ahead of a trip happening with nothing but weeks of robust health and busy-ness in the days leading up to the departure.) So, I think very carefully about that long hike to the favorite camp site…
The signage says it’s 1/3 of a mile, but that appears to be “as the crow flies” – not overland, in steps. LOL
What can I comfortably carry on those steep hills? What do I really expect to need? What can I definitely leave behind (because I just haven’t ever used it if I did take it along)? What will I forget, and regret having done so? How many trips will I have to make to carry everything to camp? Can I reasonably expect to walk that many miles on a hot summer afternoon? Will I over-extend myself and end up forced to rest in camp most of the next day (I’ve got priors). Will I fail to prepare for some predictable misadventure that I knew better than to be unprepared for (looking your way blisters, water, fire management, toilet paper…)?
I chuckle quietly to myself as I listen to the rain fall over my headphones, gazing out my window onto the sunny boards of the fence between houses. Each new trail is a new lesson. Each mile is its own teacher. Each step I get to begin again.
Evening Light 