Chapter 5: Camping
It’s the camping mornings that I remember best.
The Moore madhouse was happiest camping.
It always took forever to get on the road. Mom would tell the kids something like, “Dad’s getting off work early, and we’ll be leaving by 2pm.” So we’d have our stuff packed in the van. We’d sit there in the driveway while Mom and Dad moved in and out, in and out. Running between the van and the house, asking each other questions, getting into small snow flurries of fights.
“Fickle! Did you grab the flashlights?” Dad would shout at Mom.
“Yeah! But they don’t have batteries. Pickle, run to the store to get some,” she’d shout back.
“I don’t want to run to the store to get some, I’m trying to get out of here!”
“Get some hot dog buns while you’re there too. I forgot ‘em.”
Dad would grumble and slam his truck door as he got into it. Then he’d lurch angrily out of the driveway.
And so it went.
We’d usually make it out in the last bit of daylight, our over-packed van teetering around tight, winding mountain turns. I was always so terrified we would fall right off the edge of the cliff. My child mind assumed that this was a shared terror; that the price one paid for camping was life or death and that’s what it took to get to the wilderness. Just came with the territory.
How would it have been different, I wonder, if I’d known the entire time I was safe? I bet I would have noticed the light more. I bet I would have taken full, deep breaths of wilderness into my lungs.