Wood Tipi, a poem.

I feel pretty dang independent, especially compared to the first 20-something years of my life. But, I’ve hit a snag. What I really really want to do is go camping.

The real kind of camping. You know the kind. Where you rough it on a blow up matress in the woods.

The kind where the dirt somehow made it inside the tent and your shower is the natural spring down the way.

The kind of camping that gives you weird tan lines and the kind that gives your dirty hair a perfect voluminous wave that a styling tool just can’t compete with.

I love camping. It’s hands down, my favorite summetime activity.


I just can’t talk myself into going alone, like the act of camping, that is.

I’ve been camping more times than I have fingers and toes.


I’ve never put my tent up or started a fire alone. Is that what’s stopping me? I know I can do anything if I put my mind to it.


What is it really? What is stopping me from going at it alone?

And why does no one in my life enjoy a campfire full of stories and an open air tent to count the stars?

Maybe that’s part of it?

Part of the enjoyment of camping is bonding with others whilst roasting s’mores.

Part of the excitement of camping is catching dinner on the boat miles from shore without a care in the world.

Part of the camping I love is chowing down on burnt hot dogs and laughing with the people I adore.

Part of camping.. is turning the music up so loud that you forget you’re singing in the woods, among the wildflowers.

Part of camping is getting sunkissed shoulders on Minnesotan ponds, telling all the stories, and watching the fireflies dance in the midnight sky.

I don’t ask for a lot, I really don’t.

I’m just looking for someone who can tipi a stack of wood with me and enjoy every single second of that kind of camping.

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