Summary

The text is a nostalgic reflection on the author's fond memories of camping trips with a loved one, characterized by the comforting scents of smoke and coffee.

Abstract

The author reminisces about the intimate and peaceful moments shared with a significant other on camping trips. The sensory experiences of warmth from a sleeping bag, the sound of birds, and the smell of smoke and coffee evoke powerful memories of happiness and togetherness. The narrative captures the essence of camping, from the simple pleasures of perfectly brewed coffee in the wilderness to the inventive aspects of outdoor living. The author also touches on the deeper connection with nature and oneself that these trips facilitated, as well as the joy of returning to the comforts of home.

Opinions

The author expresses a deep appreciation for the sensory experiences associated with camping, particularly the smell of smoke and coffee.
There is a sense of contentment and nostalgia for the times spent camping with a loved one, highlighting the emotional significance of these experiences.
The author values the inventiveness and resourcefulness required during camping, finding joy in the necessity-driven creativity.
The writer finds a profound sense of peace and mindfulness while camping, contrasting it with the distractions of everyday life.
There is an acknowledgment of the comfort and convenience of modern amenities after returning from a camping trip.
The author cherishes the memories of their loved one, particularly their happiness while camping and the shared family moments.

Smoke and Coffee

Love on a camping trip

I am curled in my sleeping bag. The tent has warmed up with two bodies in it. At some point I’ll have to get up but for the moment, I am content in my cozy nest.

Outside I can hear him walking about, stoking the fire, the sounds of the birds and their wake-up call. The smell of smoke drifts in along with coffee, enticing me to rise.

It is indelibly imprinted in my memories: smoke and coffee. There are days when I still miss him.

He wears his camping hat, wool with a wide brim. He carries his walking stick. All bundled up in a jacket, once red, now a faded pink. And his hiking boots, which still sit by my washing machine, an odd testament to our life together.

He reaches into the tent, coffee in hand. Perfectly prepared the way I like it, with cream and sugar. “The lark is up to greet the sun. Are you ready to rise?”

Yes and no. It’s so warm in my cocoon and yet I am ready to begin the day. “Yes,” I say, taking the hot cup and sitting up to enjoy that first amazing sip. We joke that everything tastes better when we are camping.

I stretch out, bones creaking. Though I use two pads under my sleeping bag there is still this stiffness from lying on the hard ground.

Holding the coffee precariously, one of those blue metal cups, it is still hot to touch. Then into pants and jacket, socks and shoes, and out, I stumble. To make my way to the fire, now crackling merrily away.

I loved camping with him. Coffee and smoke. My clothes, and my hair, were infused with those smells. That’s another thing about camping, you don’t mind how you smell, smoke, sweat, feet.

The mother of invention, necessity, was one of the fun aspects of camping. Interesting ways to prepare freeze-dried eggs so they tasted better. The simple pleasure of washing hands and faces with water boiled over a camp stove. Roasted potatoes and onions buried in the coals. Once when we were backpacking, he literally made me a throne of logs to use as a bathroom since there were no toilets.

Then there was the quieting of my mind as it finally settled and became just about being there. I would read or write at the picnic table, as he’d go for his morning walkabout. The deep satisfaction of a strenuous hike.

Sitting and watching a crackling fire as the sky darkened. Fascinated as the golden embers rose up to greet the silver stars just peeking through.

Ultimately, heading home, dry and dusty. The pleasure of thoroughly washing off the camping grime with the modern-day convenience of a hot shower. The relief of our soft bed, a warm kitchen, and the easy trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Like a snapshot I hold it: That moment of him leaning into the tent, bringing with him the scent of the mountains, the trees, the smoke, the freshly brewed coffee. His smile.

I think this is when he was the happiest. Out in the woods, smelling of coffee and smoke. Me with my hair wild and tangled, roasting marshmallows with our daughter. She, her own elfin self racing about.

Sleeping when the day pulled our eyes shut. Voracious after a hike. Waking to the birdcalls and the stirring of the sleeping bag.

“Just a little longer,” I say as I snuggle deeper. “Just a little longer.”

Thank you for allowing me to join this wonderful community of writers. I just discovered a lovely piece by Mia Verita, “The River,” about how she finds healing in nature. The images just brought me in and I could feel myself breathing more deeply with her journey.

I was also familiar with the writing of Connie Song, but loved her article on the magic of the number three, “Knock Three Times.” It was something I’d known but never understood how woven it into cultures everywhere. Thank you for sharing.

Marianne was born to a family of artists, and has spent her life exploring creativity in its many facets. She recently started a podcast, Room to Breathe, on the beautiful-painful experience of being human.