My First Time Camping in 28 Years
Reflections on returning to nature
Reflections on returning to nature
When I was 12, I remember camping with my family, Uncle, and cousins. We went to Turner Falls in north Texas along the border of Texas and Oklahoma, a favorite spot for Texans to get away. The waterfall is impressive with its cool, clear water and shallow depths.
My favorite memory of that trip is waking up to find our coolers had been turned over and all our food eaten. We suspected a raccoon. My cousins, brothers, and I had awoken to loud scratching noises against our tent, which all five kids were sleeping in.
Flashlights, panicked children, and screams rang throughout the dark woods. Yet, I don’t remember the trip negatively. It was the final time, however, I spent time with my Uncle and cousins as a family. After my parents divorced, my father’s side of the family fell out of favor with my mother, so we didn’t see them much afterward.
Fast forward 28 years, and I finally returned to the woods, but this time with my family. My son (12), daughter (9), wife, and I took a trip to Lake Waco, Texas, and rented two cabins on the lake shore, where we spent a weekend. It coincided with the first actual cold front for the fall of 2023. We arrived with temperatures around 85F (29C) but slept through lows of 45F (7C).
As a Taoist, I’m always told to turn off my technology and return to my natural state. So, I kept my phone off as much as possible and let my wife take most of the pictures and videos. I brought a few books to read while we had long breaks between fishing and walking. The lake was down nearly 15 feet and freezing, so no one swam or could get their boats into the water. Because of the low water level, if you faced the right way, it seemed as if no one else in the world was there but you.
The wind whipped through the trees and sounded like a tiny tornado approaching. The ground was moist and relaxed, and we found deer tracks crossing the dirt paths. Those same deer would pay us a visit each morning, but luckily, they couldn’t open our ice chest. We watched two males buck each other as a female looked on and nudged them to stop, or at least that’s how it appeared.
My son spent most of his time chopping wood for the fire when he wasn’t attempting to untangle his caught louer from driftwood. We lost three lours in one and a half days.
With my son trying to fit in and impress my friend’s 17-year-old daughter, that left my youngest plenty of alone time with mom and dad. We walked by the lake, sat in the tent, read books quietly next to each other, and took naps for no reason. She had trouble falling asleep the first night, so I let her climb onto my tiny blow-up mattress.
Note that in the photo below, my back is against the stone. As the temperature dropped into the 50s, I woke her up and placed her back in her cot. My parenting skills and compassion run thin at 3 a.m.
My favorite part of the trip, though, is listening to nature and remembering there was a time when we didn’t call it “being in nature.” We called it “living.” We didn’t trap ourselves in boxes of plaster, wood, and wires, and we counted the stars we could see in the thousands and not on one hand.
I miss the stars — real stars. More than just the big dipper.
Over this past weekend, I sat alone in my tent and did nothing — no distractions, alerts, or notifications. There was no one to ask me a question, judge my actions, or chores to take up my day. I allowed myself to be there. If I had known more about qigong, I would have gladly practiced it out in nature as intended, but I’ve forgotten most of what I once knew.
Instead, I pulled my chair to the cabin window and watched. I saw trees blow, birds fly, and bugs crawl. I watched the waves ripple on the blue water and counted the calls of crows. For a long time, my mind went blank as my work’s troubles faded and the stress of running a publication faded. “This must be what true meditation is,” I thought.
All told, I enjoyed my time near the lake. It made me want to be outside more often, even if only to stare at more brick walls and dying grass in my front yard. Humans didn’t evolve to stare at screens all day and sit on couches or beds. We developed the ability to move and listen.
The other day, I listened to a song that states, “Life is long until it stops.” I only see the beginning and middle of that cycle at home, but in the woods, I see the entire process. New life with young deer, middle life with plants and my family, and death with knocked-over trees, squashed bugs, and water evaporating.
It’s funny how you can feel more connected to life than ever if you look around.