Oh how I loved to go camping 
in a tent in the back yard,
in the campgrounds of the Smokies, 
on the coast of Nova Scotia, 
with the Dories in Grand Canyon, 
in the Everglades of Florida,
wherever the places may be. 

Each trip was different, with its own adventures 
that brought a kaleidoscope of images,
a patchwork of memories.
each memory vivid and distinct,
of different times and places, all jumbled together. 
The launch of each trip was exciting:
packing the car and leaving home, 
expecting exciting adventures,
new scenes, sounds and smells in far places. 
I enjoyed different things without schedule.

It's fun to rummage in memories!

Some special things happened only once:
monarchs by the beach migrating toward Mexico, 
elk bugling near camp in the Rockies, 
fried in the desert by Lake Mead,
sailing among Greek islands,
brothers hiking in the White Mountains,
Sitting on a fireside table 
   and feeding skunks on the ground,
scrambling down a steep trail on Mt. Washington, 
waiting for rocks to fall as they blasted 
   the Blue Ridge Parkway at Mt. Pisgah.

We saw familiar places time and again.  
Arrowhead Camp, the Parkway, 
the rugged coast of Maine and Carolina beaches.  

Some things happened many times and places: 
night descending on woodland campfires, 
sunsets on distant horizons, 
murmuring brooks beside our tent,
waves washing on sandy beaches, 
getting soaked in downpours or constant rain. 
                                                                                                                                                                   
Such wonderful smells: 
of campfire smoke, 
hotdogs roasting on a fire,
distant skunk in rhododendron, 
leaves wet by summer rain,
balsam forests and salt ocean breezes.     

I remember the sounds: 
waves crashing on rocks 
at Mt. Desert Island,
chipmunks chattering on the Blue Ridge,
the roar of Grand Canyon rapids, 
breezes in pine trees
descending trill of a Canyon wren.

The near and distant views: 
clouds rising from a valley,
the high Smoky Mountains,
and even higher Rockies, 
a snail crawling on a twig,
the Pilgrim village at Plymouth,
the New York skyline 
and Verrazano Bridge. 

So much about camping is hard to describe. 
It’s the feel of being away from it all, 
doing something different, unusual, 
not knowing what will come next.  

It was always good to come home 
to the familiar sights and sounds.