When we bought a little teardrop camper in 2019, we had no idea how much we’d love it. And, much to our surprise, our winter camping outings became even more cherished than in the summer: something about the near-vacant campsites, the icy glare of the moonlight reflected in the snow. With fewer humans around, we became more intensely aware of the hooting of an owl, or the skitter of deer as they ran to a stand of trees.
By the winter of 2020, my husband and I developed a wintertime routine: precisely at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday, I would arrive home, throw a flannel shirt and a hoodie into a duffel bag, and we’d drive west to our favorite state park in DeKalb County. By 7 p.m., we had already set up camp, my husband tinkering with the propane heater that would bring the inside of our camper up to a more inhabitable 65 degrees. I’d unpack our simple supper of a fresh loaf of bread, some cheese, salami, and fruit. Often, my husband would purchase a whole pie that looked ridiculously too big for only two people — until we tackled it with two forks and made quick work of it, saving two slices back for our breakfast the next morning.
We’d sit by the fire, hearing the geese chatter like gossiping biddies along the marsh, and tilt our heads back so that we could see the sharp outline of the moon — the cold intensifies everything: sounds and sights. Depending on which week it was, one of us would let out a huge sigh first, an unspoken release of all our worries and fears from the previous week, and we’d melt into our camp chairs, surrendering to the flicker of the fire warming our legs and feet.
We’ve raised four children together, my husband and I. Well, almost raised them. For the past two winters, we started grasping the momentous freedom that was afforded us after 25+ years of child-rearing. Sure, we have two kids remaining at home, but they are teenagers, responsible and mature enough to handle one night at home while Mom and Dad escaped to the woods.
It all worked, until it didn’t. As much as we thought our child-rearing days were primarily behind us, this autumn served as a reminder that we are parents first. Our teenagers need us. One of our kids is going through a tough time that requires us to be home and present and…not in the woods. It’s this unspoken vow all parents take: the kids come first. Mom and Dad come in second or third, or even fourth. But we don’t mind because that’s the job we signed up for.
But I do mind. A little. I miss the woods.
Each Friday, I head home and purely from muscle memory, I want so badly to throw my flannel shirt and hoodie into the trunk. I start to salivate for fresh bread, cheese, salami, and pie. I want to feel the bite of the cold air before my fingers and toes thaw in the glow of the campfire.
I ache to pull into the state park, my happy place, and pass the giant oak tree that stands in the crook of the road on the way to the campground. That oak tree reminds me of wise old Father Time, standing proudly with twisted, gnarled branches. I always anticipate seeing him, craning my head in the dark, looking for the outline of his grooved trunk and branches. That old oak reminds me that my troubles are small and inconsequential: certainly that tree has weathered ice storms, floods, and gale-force winds. By looking at it, I know that I will weather the storm, too. For now, I will stay in the suburbs, hunker down, spread my arms wide, and bring my loved ones close. But my roots are deep, planted firmly in my forested outdoor refuge. I need the forest. I long to be outside and hear the crackle of the fire, the curious hoot of the owl, the maniacal laughing of the geese.
Each Friday evening, I see it in my husband’s eyes, too: we’ve caught the bug, and we understand the way that our trips outdoors to the woods completely restore our souls. We look at each other silently, because we can’t bear to say the words out loud: Does the forest miss us the way we miss it?
