Connecting in Disconnection

I've wanted to camp at Kirk Creek ever since I drove past it nearly two decades ago. Perched on the edge of a jutting cliff and surrounded on three sides by ocean, it could be one of the most breathtaking locations to stop and pitch a tent in California.

Which is why it's virtually impossible to book.

Somehow - likely because it was February - someway - probably because I kept hitting refresh until the booking site opened - we got in and it was as perfect as I'd imagined.

I love camping with my kids. Truly. I love exploring nature with them, roasting marshmallows over a campfire, spending lazy afternoons reading or playing board games. I love spending time with them away from the distraction of the internet, the flickering light of the television. I love watching their faces as they discover the perfect flower on the side of the trail or watch a hawk circle high above. I love zipping them into their sleeping bags, leaving a lantern lit as the sound of crickets and frogs lull them to sleep. I love knowing they will one day sit at a campfire and share memories of childhood trips with their own little ones just as I tell them of epic bike rides to Coffinberry Lake and the cement block batteries scattered along the coast.

But...

Camping without kids?

That's a whole new ballgame of rest and relaxation fueled by grapefruit Schofferhofer and sparkling Prosecco, silent afternoons, strenuous hikes, marathon card games, and long nights of deep sleep without feeling the need to get up and make sure their little bodies are still warm and snug in their bags.

Kirk Creek, I discovered, is a Disney campground. Warnings of bears and mountain lions are replaced by fat wild bunnies dashing into burrows and tortilla chip stealing squirrels. Poison oak is a distant memory as wild lilies and deep purple dianthus covered emerald green grass. The ocean lulled us with crashing waves while at night, the moon rose over the hillside, a plump glowing pearl.

We hiked Mill Creek during the day, scrambling over boulders and fallen trees like children. We dipped our hands in the icy waters of a creek greedily engorging its banks after a long drought. We found the poison oak, it's sly leaves hiding and waiting for inattention. Along the path, wild strawberries and blackberries promised summer while mint and sage scented the air.

We drank our caffeinated beverages of choice while feasting on freshly made beignets. We laughed until our sides hurt and our cheeks ached. And I wrote.

I sat in the tent and wrote the last few pages of the last few chapters of a book that's taken me the last few years. I enjoyed the silence, the peace, and the cold air nipping at my flannel covered body. I snuggled under the down comforter and held my notebook steady while my pen flew across the pages.

It was, in a word, perfect.

I used to love to camp - if you know me in real life or have followed this blog for the eight or so years I've kept it, you know I used to camp all the time. When my marriage ended, I kept the gear, storing it in the garage with the hope to use it again sometime. This year seems to be that sometime. With a trip last July, I set in motion a series of excursions that will result in a ridiculous number of camping trips before the end of the year.

I keep meaning to write about them, to put them in this space on the internet so I will be able to look back and remember the who, what, and where. I might go back and write about the trips already taken - New Year's Eve, Ventana, our first grown-up trip. Or I might just keep writing about the ones planned: the Pinnacles, Pfieffer Big Sur, the Indians, Danish Days. But if you don't see me, it's likely because I'm spending the weekends under the stars with the people who populate my life, disconnection allowing true connection.