Norcal Camping, Memorialized

Wanting to go camping and going camping are not the same thing. Case in point: last summer, when my tent only came out of the closet once (but it was a good once!).

Anyhow, there is a stretch of road in Northern California, right across the Oregon border, that I particularly love. The road follows a river—one of the clearest, gem-like bluest you'll ever find—all the way to the Pacific Ocean. And just a few minutes before you run head-first into the waves, the forest suddenly explodes in size. The concept of scale gets weird. You feel like an ant in a prehistoric celery patch. It's the very northern tip of the Redwoods—and it's a bewildering place.

I drove this road again over the weekend and camped by the river for two dark, starry nights. In the cool of morning, we walked in the woods, slipping through the shade beneath those towering giants, and by afternoon we'd sit in the sand by the river, letting  our skin get warm, then hot, then burning before we'd make ourselves splash into the freezing cold water—sometimes just for how good it felt when we got out, like every single cell in our bodies was electrified.

Yep, got home late last night, smelling really bad in the best possible way—like campfire, sweat and sunscreen.

Happy summer everyone!

Lefty was ready before we were ready—leaving no chance of getting left behind. 

After a 5 hours in the car, nobody doesn't want to cool their feet in the water.

Delicacies of the forest, to be eaten by starlight.

Calm waters at dawn.

The anatomy of the kind of camp breakfast that wants not.

Big. Bigger than big. 

Inspired evening activity: take off wet bathing suit, stand near raging inferno.