Finding Your North Star

It's a little hot right now for camping, but it is one of those activities I genuinely enjoy. When I was an airline pilot based in California, I used to head out to the Sierras every time I got a few days off, in my SUV, with nothing but a sleeping bag, a fishing pole, and a cooler of pop and sandwiches.

I then didn't go for years. A thousand-mile commute from where I was based as a pilot to where I lived took away that urge. Then, later, with another job that had me on the road constantly, the last thing I wanted to do on my time off was be away from my own bed. 

So being free to pack up and go anytime I want now is so liberating. But oh, has the world of camping changed. My first trip was to a small state park, a day’s drive east of home. What I didn't know was that in the last 20 or so years, camping has evolved from the basics—tents, beer, and sandwiches — to the "established campsite".

As I pulled into the park, I could only think of that Joni Mitchell song "They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot". Instead of sparsely isolated spots of dirt where the remnants of a campfire might be found, there was what appeared to be the parking lot of the Mall of America, except with RVs.

In Campsite #179, a 300-pound man in a bathing suit (my eyes! my eyes!) was trying to adjust his cable antenna (do they still make those?) on top of his $125,000 "camper".  From somewhere in the bowels of this getaway vehicle, his wife and kids were "roughing" it by not having Netflix.

In Campsite #180 just feet away, a couple was arguing about the fact that the wife had left the cappuccino maker at home, while what was either Katy Perry or someone strangling a weasel played loudly enough to disturb anything hibernating within 75 miles. 

I drove further in, hoping for some of the peace and solitude I craved only to about veer off the road as a chipmunk, with a yellow plastic radio transistor collar, sped across the road, followed by about a dozen screaming children and what was either a small scruffy dog or a rat with hyperthyroidism leading the pack, barking in a high pitched tone that would have broken glass.

I turned back and went to the gate where I'd paid my fee to drive through and see a tree, and then I asked the ranger. "Can I just go in deep in here and pitch a tent to stay overnight away from everyone?" And he said, friendly but firm, "No. You must be in one of the designated sites, but there's plenty to do. Here. You can have site # 278," as he handed me what looked to be brochures from a Las Vegas hotel. "The showers are to your left, the recreation hall to your right, don't forget the group nature walks". He smiled and held out his hand. "That will be $32.00, please." "$32 just to throw down a sleeping bag with my dog?", I said. “The website said it was only about $20."

 

Apparently, I didn’t factor in the extra charges if it’s a weekend, if you want a shower, or if you’re breathing or. . . . "

"In a designated pet camping spot only, which is an additional $2, of course," he said, peering with a smile into the back seat at Barkley, who was starting to growl. "And the dog must be on a leash at all times. It's policy".  "Don't you have something for about $10.00? I pleaded.  I'm just here for the night and don't need to use the showers." That's what the 5 gallons of jugged water in the back of my jeep is for. Check for neighbors, have gun handy in case of bear, take off the clothes and pour it over my head. . voila' shower! It worked in the wilds of Alaska and Africa; it'll work in Pennsylvania. 

"I’m sorry, but the pricing is on our website, Ma’am." (Ma’am?!) Barkley was growling in earnest now, looking as if he wanted to eat the ranger’s hat . . . to start. I gave up. "Does #278 have a fire pit? I'm looking forward to some hot dogs and campfire chili."

"Fires are not allowed in your  particular campsite, Ma'am," the ranger said (I swear one more "Ma'am and I'm going to smear the Ranger Rick here with peanut butter and let Barkley out of the truck)."If you wish, however, you may purchase a burrito at the snack bar.” Burritos? No wonder the only raccoons I saw were in organized groups wearing authentic ski masks.

Granted, I was probably “safe” from four-legged predators. No bear or mountain lion could get through the 12-inch gap between Winnebago’s, though I figured the raccoons would use drones to get any food hoisted up a tree branch at night.

Suddenly, the sky lit up with someone’s leftover fireworks from the 4th of July. Seriously? If I wanted to play with a cannon, I could have stayed home.  

I bid the ranger good day, turned around, and drove until I found some land that didn't look to be privately owned. In the ascending hills, I hiked for a while and pitched my tent. I didn't have a microwave, but I had a small, carefully managed fire, one that burned bright. In its light, my hair was like fire and points of fire burned in my eyes as I savored all of it, woodsmoke and bug spray, paper plates that got all soggy and fell apart, the sounds of the crickets as the sun set, the sun's dying rays reflected in my drink as Barkey snoozed happily by the fire.

As I drifted off to sleep, the branch of a tree brushed against the tent opening, driving in the forlorn scent of the wild. From a distance, a sound, not civilization, but simply the hoot of an owl, felt more than heard, pressing against the night until nothing was left but a dark impression as it flew away. 

There is no video streaming service, no internet, no phone. There is a watch in my backpack with a compass, but even that is not carried to keep track of the time, but only to put time aside so as not to spend my breath trying to conquer it. There is just me, my dog, and the vast summer sky, languid and empty of geese, news helicopters, or the late evening conga line that is Midway Airport at 9 pm. Above me, just the North Star blinking in that vast and empty gesture that is all promise, even as it remains out of reach. 

This is why I come out here, for those times when I don't wish to sacrifice the wonder of the present moment to work, civilization, or noise. I love a broad margin to my life. And I've always been a loner. I can sit in the faded sunlight of a doorway between two giant trees, from dinner till dark fall, rapt in a revere amidst the forest, in undisturbed stillness and solitude.  As darkness settles on me, I wonder about the lapse of time, the evening seeming like a mere moment, time like a season in which I grew like flowers in the night.

Like flying, time spent in the woods is not subtracted from my life, but is simply over and above my usual allowance. Oriental philosophers talk about contemplation and the forsaking of work, and I realized out here what that means. Out in the woods, I don't care how the hours went; the day advances as light comes into it, it's morning, and now it's evening, and nothing memorable is done. My days are not days of the week, minced into hours and deadlines of a ticking clock or an airline schedule. Let mornings be lazy, afternoons pass by in long walks through the woods, the splash of a paddle in the water, and if the day becomes wasted in the warm rapture of a sunset as nature sings its song in your ear - what's the harm? 

THIS is my North Star.  Unidentifiable sounds in the darkness that make you hold your breath at the bottom of your sleeping bag. A good book read with a dying flashlight until sleep came, shadows dancing on the wall of a small canvas tent, and the musty smell of freedom and adventure. A time when growth may not be on the surface but may be internal, as the days quietly drift by in the warm embrace of the woods. - Brigid