The Last Word On Nothing

The big red van will soon be stuffed to the gills.

Sometimes you just need new views, fresh air, and worries as basic as “do we have enough water”? So, we’re heading to West Virginia. Country roads and all that jazz.

Full disclosure: It’s not quite the way I used to do it. For example, we will have plenty of water. It will be filtered. There might be ice cubes.

Please don’t think less of me. I remember my rustic trips of yore with great pleasure. The musty smell of the tent I should have aired out before we left. The sound of the zipper going up and around early on a misty morning, someone emerging before me to, hopefully, re-build the fire and make campfire coffee. I remember lying there a bit longer, embraced by the flannel bag—Army green stamped with red ducks, time-worn and pilled inside. (Okay, it was actually a North Face minus-20 bag, but remember those flannel ones that, when rolled, took up the space of a spare tire? I do. They held so tightly to the scents of the previous campsite; I can still conjure the smell that would waft up on the unrolling.)

Finally, I give in, pull on the itchy wool layers from the day before, never mind the dampness or the funky smell–it’s all I’ve got, and once I crawl outside it doesn’t matter. Jamming damp socks into the stiff, mud-caked boots that will, for another day, rub against an already-sore spot on the ankle (the moleskin has lost is umph). A splash of boiled stream from a jug rinses crusty eyes and fuzzy teeth well enough. Hello Mr. Hat–thank you for working so hard again this morning. The crunch of boots on forest floor, the squat to pee, the leaf wipe (come on, we’ve all done it).

Remember standing back up without knee pops and shooting pain? And the stream of warmth into the gut from that first sip of too-strong coffee, drunk from a mug that might have been someone else’s and certainly isn’t clean?

Soon, we’d all shed a layer or two as the sun finished rising, then knot our boot laces tightly and fill water bottles for the hike. I had nothing of value to worry about, then—a decades-old tent, a dog-eared novel, smelly socks, Cups of Noodles—nothing to steal. I remember hanging edibles out of bears’ reach (no lockers then) and hitting the trail.

My middle-age version of camping promises to be a different animal. No irony is lost on me that “getting away from it all” to enjoy nature, these days, takes heroic prep and a ridiculous amount of stuff.

Right now, my dining room is a staging area. There are giant plastic tubs of gear and gadgets, clothes and bedding for all seasons (you never know), dog dishes and leashes and rawhides. We have a screen room and chairs, spatulas, baby wipes, RTIC steel cylinders, a pop-up sink, a variety of seasonings, a laundry line, dog beds, a solar charging station, a laptop, a Kindle, and 2 phones, plus steel knives. (Not just one knife, mind you, but a set of three, for cutting different things.) There’s even a boot scraper we toss outside the van door to keep dirt out of the vehicle. We have two kinds of stoves, a sprayer for showering, and a dedicated iPad for mapping the drive even though a phone does a fine job (or, hey, what about paper maps, the kind that refuse to fold flat after first use? Not that I could see well enough to use one. Still, I miss battling with those old things.) Day packs, reading glasses, sunglasses, driving glasses, insulated thermoses. A fresh sponge. A ukulele.

And that’s without the food. Still to fill: Two large coolers (one plugs in–who knew you could spend that much on a cooler) plus some big bags for this and that and a box for other thises and thats. A case of drinks. Wine. Etc.

Truth: Despite lists and more lists, it takes me a week to dig everything out and assess it and make decisions. The clothes are my special hell. What if it’s super cold at night and then chilly in the morning and then hot in the afternoon? What if it rains all night and is windy half the day? There are mountains there and it could snow. So many kinds of pants one might require. And bringing just one set of long underwear and just one knit hat could backfire. I’m not sure how, but it could. Two pairs of hiking boots each seems like overkill, but what if one gets wet or a sole comes unglued? (Note to self: Bring glue.)

If you are rolling your eyes, know this: It’s not all easy peazy. In the van I have to pull myself up to the high bed with my weak, floppy arms and there’s always a mosquito that sneaks in to ruin my night, and sometimes the steaks could have been cooked better if the fire tender hadn’t been smoking weed (ehem) and the butter had been added a moment earlier. Sometimes, I have to wonder, what’s wrong with a nice hotel?

What can I say. I’ve learned to appreciate a little comfort in my fifth decade, even as I seek the discomfort that signifies adventure.

Adventure. I remember adventure. I DID adventure. But truthfully, whatever this is, I need it right now. It’s what I can do at this point in time, and I’m happy to do it. Because I know Nature, however we find our way into it, seeps under our skin and pushes out some of the garbage we carry. And we’ve never carried as much garbage as we do right now.

The view will be different. The air will smell different. Nature will be making all her glorious noises. And if I can tune into them while sipping a caramel Macchiato and charging my laptop, good on me.

See you in a week. I’ll let you know how it went.