Sensory Treasure Box

Sounds indelibly imbedded in my memory are the  slow "Zzzzzzzid" of a tent unzipping, the comforting crackle of a fire, the harmless and friendly crunch of  feet passing by our camp and the late night murmur of voices gathered around the dying embers. Such was the soundscape of my childhood summers.

It is a sensory treasure trove, actually. The unforgettable smell of cold water rainbow trout cooking on the campfire, and the taste, something like sweet water and sunshine and dirt. The sight of stars so close and bright and crisp; meteor showers drifting in and out of my consciousness as I struggle to stay awake. I have to include the deeply imprinted sweet, holy aroma of mountain air in the morning and the sound of camp robbers fighting over the crumbs of last night's dinner.

Since moving to Texas at age 19, my sensory treasure box has expanded to include the sounds of sea birds,  and the thrill of walking the beach at night, vast starry skies overhead but only darkness and moon-kissed white caps visible of the sea. My treasure box holds mornings, waking on the beach warm and dry but with the outside of my bag drenched in dew. And more sounds: the omnipresent gulf breeze, carrying away the nonessential bits of conversation, noisy Bronze frogs belting out their raucous courtship songs, drifting off to the roar of the waves crashing on the shore, so much louder and more tangible at night.

I am unable to think of summer vacation without picturing a campground. I am certain that at times, my children wish this wasn't the case. Yet they have experienced some of the greatest beauty our country has to offer and know firsthand the joys and perils of a life lived outdoors. No matter my flaws as a parent, this is the gift I'm offering them: Creation.

I think boredom is good for humans. Having to entertain oneself, especially in the wild world, opens our pores to the sensory input; I want my kids to know what wet sand feels like, how sparks and ashes feel on your skin, the thrilling joy of waves crashing into you, the wonderful biting freshness of dry, alpine cold. I want them to wonder why the world is wet in the morning, which frogs are keeping them awake, what made that foot print -- camel or dog?  I want them to experience sunrises and sunsets, starry skies, fog and frost alike. I love that when we camp, my kids put themselves to bed at 8:00 and sleep well past sunrise, the kind of tired that only a day of fresh air and activity can create. 

We have taken our kids to amusement parks and the older kids have been on cruises. Yet they talk less about those experiences then the fun they had on the nighttime scavenger hunt with their cousins, or the amazing shells they found on the beach. I cannot manufacture the experience of waking to a seaside covered in huge sparkling square spider webs. Even Disney cannot build a theme park that can hold a candle to the Perseids Meteor Shower and there is not a restaurant on earth that can top a rainbow trout caught from an Idaho stream and cooked on a campfire.

I believe the difference is the sensory component. We are born sensory beings; our first input is taste, touch and smell, hearing and sight come along soon after. These experiences touch our heart, the very core of our being. It's good for grown-ups too; our recent days on the beach revived me in a way I'd forgotten possible. It all serves to remind me that I need, we need, more time outdoors and less time with cell reception. We need the long walk, the smell of trees, our hands in the dirt. We need a mental and physical break from time in cars and in front of screens.

Yes. We need the deep breath. Go forth and breathe!

Slow-cation

For the past months, I've been looking forward to our upcoming family vacation.  We are having a reunion of sorts; we are meeting my niece and her family, my nephew and his wife, my sister (mom to those two)\my parents, and my brother's son and daughter  in Colorado.  It's "in the middle" -- about a thousand miles for each of us -- but still a journey of some considerable distance.

We have a family tradition of slow travel.  Dear hubby and I were both raised on the "road trip."  I flew on a plane perhaps twice in my childhood; our trips were taken by car.  I believe in the togetherness a car trip promotes.

In fact, our vacations tend to be slow ones.  I think it's good for kids to be bored on occasion and to learn to make their own fun.  On one long trip where we headed due west and only turned north when we hit central California, I admit I was dreading the long miles of desert.  The girls, then 7 and 5, taught me something on that trip;  they had many conversations about how the desert was changing as we traveled west.  By the time we spent a night camping in tiny Brenda, Arizona surrounded by the towering saguaro cactii, I was in love with the desert.

Like so many of our family trips, this one will also be a camping trip.  Many years ago we bought a pop-up trailer to ease the workload a bit, but it is definitely still camping!  From our first day out, our lunch stops will be at state parks with a picnic.  Our suppers will be around the picnic table in our campsite.  Both the big girls, camping veterans by now, are already anticipating grilled fajitas, s'mores, apple cobbler, and sloppy joes. 

I am looking forward to something else.  I'm looking forward to seeing our kids running around in the trees.  I can't wait to see what kind of games they invent given a media free gift of time outdoors.  I am curious about how "the littles" will enjoy this new freedom and anxious to see everyone playing with my great niece and nephew.  I will relish the opportunity to sit around and talk over the world's troubles with my family.  I look forward to waking with the sun and being happy to fall in bed once the stars are out.  I can't wait to look at those stars and to see the "littles" be amazed by how many stars you can see once you are in the real wilderness. 

Pepper on a cool morning in Big Bend, 2005.

When my kids are grown up, I want them to know the crackle of a campfire, the taste of a cold morning in a pine forest, the smell of coffee and canvas, and the warm cocoon of a flannel lined sleeping bag.   I want them to remember romping in the forest, the smell of dinner cooked on the grill, and the beauty of a protected wild place.  These are the sights, sounds, and smells of my childhood and the blueprint for our slow-cation.

My kids live in the modern world, as I did growing up.  They hang out on Facebook, play sports, watch TV and talk endlessly on the phone.  I do not think these things, in moderation, are inherently dangerous or evil.  Yet I do think that at times we all need to unplug.  We need to lose the laptop, the alarm clock, and the world of virtual friends.  We need to play like kids in open spaces and wash our face in a cool stream.  We need to learn about bugs and bears.  For me, the slow-cation is my opportunity to reclaim a part of American life and in so doing, reclaim myself.  Can't wait!