A Rancher Goes Camping

Sleeps in Tent!

When the baby bird informed me of her plans to take a solo roadtrip north to meet a friend in Washington - camping for three nights along the route - all I heard was “I’m a young woman traveling the highways alone, sleeping in campgrounds full of sexual predators and serial killers.” And while trying to keep my screaming firmly ensconced on the inside, I calmly commented, “that’s great honey, sounds like an adventure!”

In the ensuing minutes, hours and days I devised a plan that would ensure her survival…I would invite myself along and CAMP WITH HER! I had wanted to visit a couple friends near Portland, so the timing would be perfect! She could drop me off and I would fly back, and then she would have the company of her friend on her drive/camp back home.

Now, I’ve camped maybe four times, all when I was a child with no appreciation for comfort, safety, and inside plumbing. So with trepidation I offered up my brilliant plan, and to my delight (terror) she enthusiastically agreed.

First, we set about creating a more temperate itinerary, trading in 110-degree I-5 adjacent campgrounds with coastal Salt Point and Redwoods State Parks. All said, we would be sleeping two nights in motels, and three nights under the stars, and because Emma is not a rookie camper, this seemed totally doable. While living in SLO, she spent many nights camping with friends in Big Sur and other nearby areas. I knew I was in good hands.

We bought a great camp stove, large tent, and memory foam sleeping pads. We planned the meals we wanted to cook and things we wanted to do. I was actually excited.

We set out on a Saturday morning, sailing through LA, and landed in SLO for the night. We saw the Barbie movie (great, BTW) and had a fab dinner. The next morning we left for Salt Point State Park, located off Hwy 1, about 96 miles north of San Francisco.

The area’s dramatic rocky coastline was total eye candy and the weather was a perfect 68-ish. Our campsite was at the end of a short driveway and down a small hill. We unloaded the car and set up the tent with ease, and because the drive had taken longer than expected, we started dinner.

Emma made pesto pasta with broccoli and chicken apple sausage - it was amazing! We played gin, sat by the fire and talked. No screens, no phones, no distractions. We listened to the breeze blow through the trees and the sharp trills of late afternoon birds. I was tired, fed, and happy.

Onto the Redwoods, a place I had longed to visit. The drive up the 1 is varied, often twisting through endlessly tall trees along rugged cliffs, and then suddenly tree-less, bisecting wide meadows. Small towns dot the way until you reach Bodega Bay, a major hub for the area, and then the road recedes once more into the wilds.

Grizzly Peak State Park is situated on the Van Duzen River, nestled impossibly amid dense groves of old-growth redwoods. The sites aren’t as private as some campgrounds, but they are lovely. We pitched our tent facing the river to enjoy the sound of water as it hurried gently over a bed of large, smooth pebbles. As soon as we set up, we waded into the water - our first “bath” in 48 hours.

We spent the rest of the afternoon reading and staring up at the magnificent redwoods. Toward evening a tricked-out van passed by and I noticed the familiar Laguna parking sticker affixed to its back window. They pulled into the site opposite and I recognized them immediately as a young family who lives around the corner from us in Laguna. We said hello and had a small chat. This world is crazy small.

The proximity of a large, chatty family just adjacent made for challenging sleep, and we set sail for our next destination at the crack of dawn. The early hour meant we would arrive in Arcata just in time for breakfast at The Big Blue Cafe (Yum!), and then on toward the Oregon border.

Southern Oregon is not unlike many areas of California (duh) - not sure why I was surprised by this. However, as we traveled northward toward the Willamette National Forest, the topography changed becoming more densely wooded. Perched on the edge of the Middle Fork of the Willamette River, Black Canyon Campground feels prehistoric, its cedar and fir trees dripping with swags of moss. The campsites are lush with ferns and other moisture-loving flora, and totally private. We set up camp and went exploring.

Just after dusk, we toasted our last camping night together with a delicious meal, and I marveled at Emma’s fire-building skill - there’s a whole strategy involved apparently. We retired a bit early, leaving the rain tarp off the tent so we could stare up at the trees and then as the sky darkened, the stars. The rush of the river punctuated every few hours by the muffled horn of a passing train.

Camping with my daughter has been an extraordinary experience. I’m thankful she welcomed me into her world to share these moments. Any sleepless hour or random discomfort I experienced has been radically eclipsed by the joy of sharing whispers into the night, laughing hysterically, singing our lungs outs, and being awestruck by nature.

I think I’m officially a camper.