When we pitched the tent, I said, Oh, let's not worry about the fly. It's so hot, and besides it will be lovely to look through the oak branches, into the night sky.
And at 9 o'clock, I swooned, The moon! How magical it will be to gaze at this moon, and sleep under the stars.
And at 11:53 pm, when I could not imagine laying on the ground a minute longer, and thought, it must be near dawn, I was stunned to realize it was not nearly dawn, and the moon shone like a street lamp, and my eyeballs were gritty and sore.
And around two, or three, or four, when I asked aloud, to any who would care, "Can we ask the crickets to knock it off, already?!" And the moon, interrogatingly bright, shone on, and on, and on.
And it wasn't really so very hot, any more. And I could clearly hear something walking around the tent. Thank you for that breakfast, it mumbled.
Something came, in the night and ate ten of our dozen eggs. But, left the organic spring greens, and had none of the cheddar cheese.
And you'd think I would wash my hands of camping and tents, and campfire cooking, but I will return! I love our plans to return!
I cannot seem to stop these romantic, wistfully dreamy, improbable notions, this aching desire for intangible ideals.
Next time, there may be water in the creek, and really cold weather and we'll make hot chocolate. And yes, next time we'll stow all of the food, even the cooler, in the car. We'll bring The Hobbit, again, to read aloud. We may find an owl pellet. There could be frost on the leaves.
I go places, real, and familiar, and wished for, dreamed of, too. Sometimes, I cannot resist the impulse to vividly imagine romantic, dreamy, improbable occasions. They may be intangible, now. Farfetched. Just beyond reason... but to disconnect from all I dream of, to suppress the wanderlust? I cannot.
"I am a part of all that I have met.
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!"
--Ulysses, by Alfred Tennyson