Rough Camping

A VERY rough draft of the introduction for the camping piece.

Camping with my family was a perennial tradition. Once the clamoring hallways of \school emptied, and the dog days of summer settled in, my family would pile in to the station wagon and head to the woods. Packing the snail cargo holder, and attaching it to the roof filled with me with a sense of exhilaration. It meant soon, the miles would be snaking beneath the blue station wagon’s rolling tires, and I would pester my parents from the back seat with the annoying, yet age-appropriate question, “Are we there yet?”

“We’ll get there when we get there,” was usually my parent’s response. It was an answer I knew by heart, as well as our family’s usual destination: William O’Brien State Park. When the park’s familiar sign rolled in to view, I knew summer had officially arrived.

While in the confines, sounds became more than a vibration on the eardrum. The place imbued each twig snap with the texture of dry wood, the rustle of leaves with the smell of autumn tucked around the corner, and the hushed whisper of my mom and dad with a soul-jarring simplicity. For these reasons, William O’Brien was hallowed ground for me.

When my sneakers crunched under the grassy trails, it felt like I belonged there. My sanctuary was an olive and green colored tent; my family’s prayer candles were propane lamps and Coleman flashlights. Communion consisted of bottomless cups of hot cocoa and turkey sandwiches. And at night, the sky would be filled with chirping crickets, and the rustle of leaves from undisclosed animals.