Into the Woods

It took us weeks of daily work to get the house exactly the way we wanted it. Weeks of sweat dripping off our foreheads as we pushed and hauled with single-minded determination. Weeks of delays as rain turned the ground to mud while we stood and wondered if it was worth the risk of damaging what we'd already accomplished to finish a day or two early. But finally, it was done.

We bent, hands on our knees, and surveyed the completed project.

Morning glories and blackberry vines twisted and knotted around overgrown hedges forming an opening that beckoned. We got on our hands and knees and crawled into our summer home, sitting on an old rug last seen in the basement by the washing machine, orange and brown Tupperware cups stacked neatly on a dented box. Sunlight filtered through and danced on the slightly damp earth while flowers shifted in the breeze. Sitting cross-legged in a circle there was just enough room for five small girls - four sisters and a neighbor.

It was our house, our secret place in the woods. And it was perfect.

Last weekend I took the kids camping. It's been a while. Five years, actually. As long time readers and friends know, camping was something Chad and I did with regular frequency all those years ago. After our marriage ended, I packed up the camping gear, stored on a shelf in the garage and thought, to myself, I should really go on my own.

Then, life got in the way.

Trips across country, trips to islands, the business of life made it easy to say no to the work involved with camping. And, I must admit, I was overwhelmed with all it would entail to take the kids into the woods on my own. Still, when I got a lead on a campground that had recently opened last spring, I sent out an email and waited to see who would take the bait. After a bit of shuffling, the kids and I found ourselves heading back into the woods with Steve and Tara and her kids by way of a familiar winding cliff side highway.

If you've never been to Big Sur, it's hard to explain the journey. The pastures giving way to towering redwoods, the ocean stretching in three directions as you ease your car around yet another switchback, the idea that you are lifting, rising though you never actually get more than a few hundred feet above sea level.

Our campsite was beautiful,impeccably maintained in only the way a private campground can be. The ground was softened with ferns and needles, making me realize we were away - away from home, away from the world in a place where cell reception and internet service was spotty and haphazard.

It was a lovely weekend filled with laughter and Dutch oven peach cobbler. There was time to walk, to read, to play. It was different than camping with the kids as babies. Less to do, more to do. Just different. They took care of themselves, walked themselves to the bathroom, needed to be entertained by more than the smooth rock and sharp pine cone that would have entranced them and toddlers.

I realized something, though.

I've had friends and family rib me about my style of camping. "Glamping" as it's most commonly referred to. Tent camping in name only without down comforters and air mattresses and a tent big enough to sleep a dozen people.

At nearly forty, I'm still putting homey touches on little shelters surrounded by trees and flowers. I'm still building forts in the woods.