It’s not always easy to find a nice place to camp. It seems that more often than not, it’s either a lovely setting with mediocre grounds or lovely grounds with a mediocre setting. On occasion, you do get both, though. Looking back, I can appreciate a number of the places we stayed – even those that were a little out of the ordinary.
Making it from Hermanus to Sprinkbok proved a little too ambitious for us. With the sun descending, we pulled off the main road and drove until we saw what looked like a small campground along the river. We stopped, got out, and immediately noticed something was, shall we say, odd. The area was fenced off and housed a group of cattle, lazily grazing about. Consequently, the entire area was covered in cow shit. We noticed another couple pitched a tent, so we figured what the hell, and plopped down too.
We were told to stay wherever we’d like, as there were no designated “spots.” So, with no restrictions, we pulled right up to the river, rearranged the poo, and settled in for the night. Most people would be disgusted by this, but honestly, the area was so lovely, that even a heap of crap couldn’t deter us. We made dinner, watched the sun fade, then the stars shine, while enjoying a little wine.
The next morning we watched as several cattle made their way down the mountainside, crossed the river, and came to join us. I secretly wondered how just a handful of cattle could produce so much waste – turns out it was a family affair.
While sipping our coffee, we also witnessed something rather special, if I may say so. An older Dutch couple, hand in hand, going for swim in the river. It turns out that they have been visiting that same spot for the past twenty-five years. Watching them, it was obvious just how much they cared for one another, through simple and sweet gestures. I couldn’t help but wonder what that must feel like to love someone completely for the rest of your days.
My mind shifted to my parents and a camping trip we took when I was a teenager. It was a lovely day in early August in the mountains above Estacada, not far from Mt. Hood. My parents, hand in hand, jumped off a cliff into a swimming hole, as I watched from below. I have a picture of them doing so, and it’s my favorite photo to date. After they got a divorce, I carried it around in my wallet, pulling it out often. To me, that photo was a window back in time, to when life made sense and I felt safe.
I grew up believing that my parents were happy and whole. It took me twenty-five years to discover that wasn’t the case. That couple, probably in their mid-eighties, fit the image I had created for my parents at that age. On the one hand, it was comforting to see that it’s still possible for two people to have that connection, because I started to believe it wasn’t so. On the other, it was sad to know that my vision was exactly that: a vision, a dream… and far from reality.
I’m often asked if I believe my parents’ relationship will forever affect my own, should I ever find myself in one, moving forward. I guess the answer is yes, how could it not? After all, I’m a product of my environment and all that transpires within it. We all are. I’m a firm believer that positive things can emerge from negative situations, should you choose to see it that way. Naturally, it’s not always easy… but then again, change never is.
