A Week-end Away

Craig and I took the kids camping over the holiday week-end after a long hiatus. Despite our secret wishes that bad weather or some other obstacle would prove insurmountable and force a cancellation, nothing stood in our way.  Nothing, that is, other than our own reluctance to drag the camping boxes up from our basement, plan and shop for a week-end in the woods and load the van.  Eager children willing to help and accommodating in every way dissipated our dread along with surprisingly organized camping gear and magnificent weather. We drove to an old favorite camping spot on the Tennessee side of the national park and the family quickly acclimated to life in the woods.

We allowed the three-year old to set our pace for the week-end  and after some exploration around the campground we found ourselves drawn to Cosby Creek and joined the sun already at play with the water and boulders.  Lise moved quickly up the creek, overturning rocks in a hunt for salamanders while Miren followed with the camera, rock-hopping and searching for photo ops. Rem, stick in hand, soon clamored to the top of a boulder and loudly challenged each of us to a duel as the water swirled below him. Craig tried to oblige them all as he wielded a stick towards Rem, assisted Miren in composing photographs and exclaimed over Lise's successes. I found a comfortable rock near Rem and, moving a sycamore leaf so that I might sit, searched for the tree that the leaf  had once belonged to.

Among the poplars and maples I discovered the sycamore tree, its base thick as it rose from the boulders at the creek's edge.  A blanket of moss united the boulders and trunk where it bent toward the water in accommodation of a stump or a trunk long missing.  Beyond the void, the trunk rose into two towers until, reaching above the canopy of rhododendron and dying hemlocks, it stretched again as one in a mass of intertwined branches. Curled sheets of bark, an even shade of brown, lay discarded on the forest floor and in the rock crevices in the creek below.  Substantial leaves, still green, sat sprinkled among the dried leaves, spent acorns and bare sticks of seasons past.  Raised veins ran across the back of the leaves, solid skeletons against  seemingly fragile fabric.  I played with the leaf in my hand, traced the veins with my finger, and flipped it over against my palm to enjoy the satisfying ornamental and symmetrical characteristics.

In the afternoons the campground grows quiet.  Only the occasional rustle of leaves where a squirrel or a bird searches the ground and the faint, constant drone of insects penetrate the stillness that settles in the shady dense woods of loop B.  Earlier, in the morning, the place buzzed with activity.  Rem and I walked the road soon after waking and watched as people loaded cars and set off to continue journeys while others revived fires and settled around them with mugs and plates piled with eggs and bacon.  We followed a group searching for the Low Gap trail head, ready for a day's hike, their full water bottles bulging from side pockets of packs.  Someone snored loudly from an orange tent.

Rem shouted greetings to those who wandered past our campsite, his face stained from the hot chocolate he drank while waiting for his breakfast.  His feet were propped on a flat rock close to his little blue folding chair.  Craig returned from filling water bottles to comment on the snoring from the orange tent and we began preparing breakfast on the plastic red and white checkered tablecloth.  The occasional bark from a dog (not Tam) or the stuttered start of an old car periodically drowned out the morning bustle.  Lise reluctantly emerged from the tent an hour before her more reluctant sister but after a hot breakfast and some movement to counter the cool morning chill we headed out.

The campground activity dispersed along trails and creek beds, even into the nearby towns and a comfortable quiet settled onto the empty tents and smoky fire rings.  We returned from exploring an old cemetery and playing in the creek for a leisure lunch. Before long, Craig took the girls off on another hike while I read read Hemingway to a sleepy toddler until he fell asleep.  The tent zipper noisily pierced the air as I left Rem snug in a sleeping bag to return to a chair under the maples and oaks. I continued with Hemingway under a magnificent blue sky that drew my gaze often from the stories of Nick Adams, Africa and war. The filtered sun cast shadows over the book and marked the passing of time along with the turning of pages.

Slowly, the campground stepped out of its hushed state as campers returned from their wanderings to light fires and start dinners. Craig appeared with Miren and Lise, all of them soaking wet from an excursion in the creek.  I closed the book as their rush of stories filled the spaces of our site and the girls, famished, found snacks and expectantly fantasized about dinner.