CAMPING MADE ME
When I Was a Little Boy
Some of my earliest memories are of camping with my family.
I still remember sitting in the backseat while my parents drove us out of the city, the car packed tight with blankets, food, folding chairs, and more things than I understood. I remember the feeling of arriving just before evening, when the light was turning gold and everything seemed quieter than home. I remember standing nearby as my parents set up the tent, watching them work together as if they had done it a hundred times before.
At that age, I did not notice the effort. I only felt the joy of it.
I remember the smell of the air in the morning. I remember waking up to trees instead of buildings, birds instead of alarms. I remember meals that tasted better simply because we were outside, and nights that felt bigger beneath an open sky. Camping gave my family a kind of closeness that felt different from everyday life. We were away from noise, away from routine, away from everything that usually pulled people in different directions.

As a child, I did not have the words for it, but I knew those weekends meant something.
They gave me memories that stayed.


"At that age, I did not notice the effort.
I only felt the joy of it."
Coming Back to It
Years later, when I had a wife and children of my own, I found myself wanting to give them the same thing.
I wanted my children to know that feeling of waking up outdoors. I wanted them to know the quiet of early morning at a campsite, the small excitement of unzipping a tent, the way a family can feel closer when there is nowhere else to be and nothing else competing for attention.
So we started camping together.
And in many ways, it was exactly as I remembered. There was still that feeling of leaving something behind when we drove out of the city. There was still that sense that life slowed down the moment we arrived. There was still that simple happiness of being together in a place that asked less from you.
But there was something else I felt now that I had never felt as a child.
I felt the weight of it.
As a little boy, I only knew the softness of the memory. As a husband and father, I began to understand the work that came before it.


"I began to understand the work that came before it."


















