It is late in the fall to be camping. Darkness comes early and brings a creeping chill that penetrates my cotton sweatshirt. I pull up the hood and lean closer to the campfire. My husband grabs another piece of wood and lays it across the glowing logs.
“This oak burns real nice,” he says. “Smells good, too.” Turns toward me, then. “Say, are you warm enough?”
“Almost,” I say and stuff my hands into my pockets.
We have set up our tent on the shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A sharp wind comes off the water—but the chill I feel isn’t just the weather. Maybe it’s the season of the year or the season of my life. I feel cold and old and worn-out, like my sweatshirt with holes in the elbows.
Camping used to be easier. It used to seem like an adventure to cook outdoors and sleep on the ground. These days, the fun doesn’t always offset the dirt and the rain and the toilet down the road. But the issue isn’t camping, really. It’s aging. It’s figuring out how to let go and hang on at the same time.
“How do you know when to give it up?” I start to ask—and stop.
The oak log sighs and breaks in half, falling into the coals. There, its charred pieces begin to burn again—and I take this as a good sign.