Glamping

I’m not dead. I’ve been out in the woods. Glamping. It was just what I/we needed.

I think there’s an element of implied shame when you go glamping, like your camping friends think, “Yeah, you’re not up to really roughing it.”

And maybe that’s true.

What is certainly true is that booking a family tent with beds for everyone to sleep in, its own bathroom and tiny kitchen, as well as a cookstove out front and a fire ring, all next to a creek, gave us a turnkey way to spend a week in the woods with our kids, a week that would not have transpired in any other way.

I thoroughly enjoyed it.

We slept with the breeze blowing through the mesh windows of the tent. We drank morning coffee by the creek, with the trees stirring and the birds chirping and chittering. The brook babbled. We cooked eggs on the camp stove and then headed for the day’s hike, normally nothing overly strenuous, because teenage sons, usually culminating in a waterfall.

I submerged myself in the bone-chilling pools at their thundering bases and let myself dry on broad flat rocks with the water rushing past. I took photos of mushrooms, bursting in their variety and abundance here at the end of summer.

We sat around the campfire at night, made s’mores, nursed a slow conversation and looked at stars we can’t see from our city home.

Fuck, it was good. The kids enjoyed it too.

If your family is a camping family, you’ve got the gear and inclination, and you enjoy that. Well, go you. If that’s not your family, but you kinda wish it were, go glamping. I would do it again in a heartbeat.