Rain is pouring down outside and winter hasn’t been defeated yet, but all I can think of is warm summer days and cool mountain nights. What is it about this time of year that stokes the hunger for camping and the mountains? Along about February and March I start dreaming of getting away into the deep woods alongside tranquil lakes and rocky crags with nothing but a pack on my back and a tent separating me from crisp night air. So much so that I drive myself crazy. I think about it. I read blogs about it. Dream about it. I spend hours planning and making lists, checking them twice.
The woods call out to me with their steady, slow heartbeat. The mountains tempt me with fingered ridges and promises of vistas that take my breath away. Even the pounding ocean speaks with a similar restless spirit. No matter how many times I go camping, it is never enough. Wild places are a drug that I can’t get enough of but fulfills better than any artificial high. Every fiber of my being aches to hear the restless wind through tall pine trees; to hear love songs from tiny feathered gems. Maybe it’s the wildness itself. Sloughing off the superfluous and discovering what really matters; putting my ego in perspective in those wild places. I’m so small there, and God is so present and real I can feel His warmth in the sunlight and feel His caress in the wind.
I can hardly wait to get my feet dusty on a winding trail and get back to what I feel is my second home. Or perhaps it’s my first? After all, God did create us in a Garden.