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.
“This oak burns real nice,” my husband says. “Say, are you warm enough?”
“Almost.” I say and stuff my hands into my pockets.
Our tent is on the shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and a sharp wind comes off the water. But the chill I feel isn’t the weather. Maybe it’s the season of the year or the season of my life. I feel cold and old and worn-out.
Camping used to be easier. It used to be 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 it isn’t even camping, really. It’s aging. It’s figuring out how to let go and hang on at the same time.
The oak log sighs and breaks in half, falling into the coals. There, its charred pieces begin to burn again. I take this as a good sign.
