When I was little, actually from as early as I can remember until I was 19, my family went camping all. the. time. It was great. I loved it. I still love it, or I love remembering it, its been a long time since I’ve been camping with my parents and brother. We slept in a four person tent and my absolute favorite part would be reading, with my dad on one side, my brother on the other side, and my mom by the front door, until everyone was asleep but me. I can’t describe how peaceful, and safe, and….I don’t know what it was, I just felt like nothing could ever happen, nothing would change, I would get up every morning for the rest of my life and stomp through creeks all day with my dad, or my brother, and sometimes my mom, and go after trout with rod and reel, and if they weren’t biting (they never were during midday) I would still try, and try, and try. Of course our trips always had an end, we did in fact return to the responsibilities of school, home, and recreational soccer leagues; nonetheless, when we were out and on the trail, the sensation of immutable satisfaction was a constant companion. There is no way anyone can appreciate things like this, in this way, at the time they happen because this is a nostalgic appreciation and nostalgia is a product of many years and an idealizing memory; but to go back, just temporarily, laying, four people in sleeping bags, one of them reading, in an ash thicket on some ridge out west, or under the haunted canopy of an Appalachian forest, or in some godforsaken southern swamp – would it disappoint? Would my expectations exceed the reality? As ultimately pointless as those questions and the yearning for imperfectly remembered days are, it would still be nice.


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