When I was a kid, we used to go camping in the Rocky Mountains, five of us in a blue Volkswagen Beetle with food and tenting gear for several days. It never seemed all that crowded, though the drive was four to five hours. We would drive beyond the paved roads to the gravel roads... and finally on to some road that wasn't even a road, but just a path in the bush made by deer and moose and bear and whatever else came crashing through. When the bug couldn't go any further, we'd get out and hike until we found a suitable spot.
We found some incredible spots that way. There was one I remember that had everything: a clearing for the tents, a backwash to fish in, a sweet fresh stream to drink from, stands of trees and deadfalls to climb, mounds of smooth river rock to skip, and even a yard-high waterfall in a bend of the stream for me to pretend I was fishing in, dangling my numbing feet below rolled-up corduroys and using long grass as a rod and a wild strawberry as bait.
I passed hours at that waterfall, hoping a minnow would show interest, squinting when the sun shot between tree branches, and never once feeling the burden or the passage of
Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. -- Annie Dillard