Snow on the mountains 1000 feet above you. And it’s June.
That constant thunderous noise you hear which isn’t in fact a highway nearby or an airplane taking off a mile away, but is actually an icy-cold snow-melt stream tumbling down the mountain and pouring into the fast-moving river that runs by your campsite before sliding into the lake.
Finally having a use for that sweet-smelling body splash you bought on sale.
The tapestry of the night sky.
Plunging your feet and head into the river and calling it clean.
All your clothes smelling like wood smoke.
Two moose strolling out of the trees for an early morning drink at the lake.
Your kids gathering their courage to jump into the lake (water temp. 52 degrees) and having to be hauled back into the boat because they’re too cold to move, much less swim, proving once and for all how ridiculous the ending of “Titanic” was.
A tent that’s too hot to nap in by day and too cold to sleep in at night.
A small sleek grey-and-white snake lying on the Dunk Rock beside the river, and having to wait for it to mosey on before dunking your feet again.
Being there for two days, packing like you’re going for five, feeling like you were there for a week.
Sleeping in two pairs of socks, two layers of pants and four layers of shirts so that you waddle like a Sumo wrestler. Plus a down comforter. Pulled over your head. And still you ache with cold.
Not brushing your teeth the whole time. Yeah, I said it.
I love nature. As long as I have a bed and shower to go home to.