Why I Still Camp

Summer in the Deep South starts to loosen its grip in September and I think, "Will this be my last fall to camp?" I've been asking myself that since my early 60s. I turned 78 in August.

It's easy to fall into the trap of "Is this my last time to do this?" or "How many more times will I do this in my life?"

I took my first, best and, maybe, last bicycle camping trip in my 40's. It never entered my mind that I was probably doing it for the last time. It was such a good solitary trip where everything went right, that I haven't found it necessary to do it again. So far.

When things go wrong on a camping trip, I lie in my tent checking the light on my wristwatch until dawn. When it's too hot, the insects are particularly bad or noisy people camp close by, it's easy to say ENOUGH.

At end of day, my buddies and I sit around a campfire readying old muscles before attempting to rise. Before first light, we lie in our sleeping bags smiling at the sounds of our mates wrestling out of their bags to crawl groaning from their tents.

"Why do we do this?" we silently ask ourselves.

I have an ancient dome tent that long ago lost its ability to repel rain or even heavy dew. So, I rig a tarp over a rope stretched between two trees. I pitch my old tent beneath the waterproof shelter.

My rig takes more time to put up than my friends' ultra-light, expensive backpacker tents, but I get the bonus of a front porch where I read away afternoons in a small canvas chair.

On a cool sun-doused fall afternoon, I read on my tent porch in a forest clearing and don't think, "Why do I camp?"

I don't question driving out of town in a lovely, old pickup truck. I don't question walking into a favorite country store to get ice or a pound of coffee to replace the one I left on the kitchen counter. As I pull into a primitive campground, I don't wonder why a wild turkey has chosen this moment to reveal itself.

I ride a mountain bicycle more carefully than I once did. Tent camping places me near old roads sunk deep in loess soil where Kaintucks walked home after floating down the Mississippi River to New Orleans with farm products, coal and livestock. The flatboat men sold their craft for lumber and started the long walk home on the roads I love to ride.

I polled three friends who camp for this story. Robert first camped with the Boy Scouts. He was 11. Al, a fit hiker in his 70s, had never camped until he retired 8 years ago. Sharon, in her early 60s, camps in Michigan.

Al has been a long distance bicycle rider and an urban walker covering distances from his house to places in Baton Rouge that his friends consider long car trips.

Al camps with Robert who has all the cooking gear. Robert values Al for his friend's hiking prowess. Robert's no slouch as a woods walker, but he feels there's a better chance of making it back to camp if Al's along.

Sharon grew up in south Louisiana camping with her family in Florida, north Louisiana and Colorado. Memories of camping led her to take a course in backpacking. As she got older, Sharon tired of carrying a 30-pound pack.

"I became less enamored with backpacking," she said. "I enjoy hiking if it's short and I can spend my time relaxing or hiking without the pack."

Sharon camps alone much of the time in state campgrounds, national parks and forests. She lives a short walk from Lake Michigan.

"I enjoy camping," she said, "because I love the way it slows everything down and reduces life to its simplest levels." Single, Sharon usually camps with just Beignet (part boxer, lab and other breeds). She likes camping with people who like to camp.

"If the person is not a fan of camping, it can be miserable," she said. "I've learned to only camp with people who really like camping. First timers can go with someone else," she laughed.

Like Sharon, Robert is an experienced camper who sometimes camps alone, but in recent years his companion is often Al and, sometimes, me.

"I camp," he said, "because it changes my senses. Food tastes better in the woods. Colors are more vivid. Crickets are much louder. And time shifts from linear to something quite elastic. One thing that's changed is that I used to go camping to challenge myself to accomplish specific goals, like hiking a certain number of miles in a day. Now, I have no specific goals. I go purely to enjoy myself."

Robert and I like camping gadgets. We know it's time to pack up when we've played with all our new pieces of cooking gear, knives, folding saws, compasses, GPS devices, solar batteries and rechargeable lanterns.

Al became a fan of camping with his first trip in his late 60s.

"I enjoyed the unexpected things, like a bush in the woods covered with flowers," he said. He liked the hilly climbs in the Kisatchie National Forest in north central Louisiana. He got the surprise of his life walking down a ravine when a Great Blue Heron, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, flew past Al to make for a patch of blue sky above the ravine.

One second, Al was concentrating on his footing in the ravine, the next this great bird was exploding past him.

Asking people why they camp is like asking dancers, artists, writers or musicians to talk about what they do. Some things express themselves best in the doing.

I like campsites with people at the end of day. During the day, I like campsites when my companions have drifted away leaving me on the front porch under my tarp. Unread book in hand, I sit surveying my borrowed kingdom of trees and filtered sunlight on the forest floor.

Why do I camp? I camp to return to places where I've known peace and long, good days, places I need to see, feel and hear once more.

Ed Cullen lives in Baton Rouge. His commentaries for NPR’s “All Things Considered” are collected in the book “Letter in a Woodpile.” Read More