Chapt. 1 How I Found My Way Outdoors (Or, in the PNW those damned vistas are everywhere)

If you had told me 10 years ago that I’d be longing to go camping, not to mention happily cleaning up other people’s campsites, I would have chuckled merrily at your folly, and Randy and I would have had a head-scratching discussion about how little you, my friend, know about me. Hee hee.

What a difference a few years and a relocation can make.

I spent the first 50-some years of my adult life in Kansas. I’ll try my best not to be overly harsh describing the geography of that state. But let’s be real. When you live in Kansas, you make the best of what little scenery you have.

That pretty much means worshiping the Flint Hills, a tallgrass ecosystem in the eastern third of the state. I’ve heard people wax romantic about the Flint Hills my entire life, and yeah, they’re kinda pretty in a big-long-stretch-of-grass kind of way. But I have to say – I was never overwhelmed with those grassy hills. Plus, they’re mostly privately owned, so it’s not like you can experience them in any meaningful way except for a concert that the Kansas City Symphony puts on there once a year.

And yes, the prairie has a sort of beauty, but it, too, is mostly private land, so you’re just . . . looking . . . at it. I never in my life heard anyone talking about regularly hiking . . . anywhere . . . while I was in Kansas. Ever.

I know some will disagree with me here (apologies to all my dear Kansas friends, many of whom I’m pissing off right now), but Kansas is just not a beautiful state. And it’s not easy or quick to get to somewhere that is.

Drive two hours in any direction from Wichita, where I grew up, and you can maybe find a Corps of Engineers lake with a few trees, or a state park with a few trees, or a portion of Oklahoma, Missouri, Nebraska or eastern Colorado, which are equally bereft of aesthetic splendor. When my boys were at home (and when I was married to their dad) we had a retreat at Eureka Lake, a WPA-built mud-bottom reservoir 70 miles from Wichita. We created fun and memories there – making the best of what was available, but I would never call it beautiful.

Escaping to beauty from south central Kansas typically means either the Rocky Mountains (9 hours plus) or the Ozarks (an acquired taste in my opinion, and not one I ever wholeheartedly developed), a drive of at least 5 hours.

All of this to say ... although I’ve always been active (with tennis and other racquet sports) I didn’t have much incentive or opportunity to become “outdoorsy” in Kansas, aside from walks in our neighborhood and bike rides on some area trails. That’s nice. But it’s not what I would describe as an outdoor lifestyle.

So our move to the Pacific Northwest was a revelation. I cannot over-emphasize the transformation it made in our lives. (Mine particularly. Randy The Dakota Boy was an outdoorsy dude prior to moving to Wichita for a job, although he too was unable to act on it while in Kansas, except for his annual trips backpacking out of state.)

Several years ago, on a trip to Santa Fe with some friends, I had a conversation with an artist whose work I was buying. We came to discuss my desire to get out of Kansas (Randy and I by that point had a one-year goal for one of us to find a job that would enable us to go to the PNW, the area of the U.S. we considered most desirable). “Do it,” this stranger advised me. “You can’t imagine the difference it will make in your life.”

I have recalled the prescience and wisdom of his words often over the last six years we’ve been in Washington and Oregon. I’ve passed the same advice on to others (not that it was ever solicited, followed – or particularly appreciated for that matter).

Here’s the quality-of-life difference this move has made for us. When you’re immediately surrounded by astounding beauty in every direction – you want to immerse yourself in it. Hike through it. Sleep in it. Live with it as often as you possibly can. Bathe in the immensity, drama and jaw-dropping-ness of it.

As soon as the boxes were unpacked following our move, we began our weekend forays of discovery. Six years later, we’re still at it. And we’ve barely scratched the surface. Yes, I’m “outdoorsy” for the first time in my life, and I much prefer the new-in-the-last-six-years me.

As a result, I’m an un-shut-up-able evangelist for change. Not that this is a big change in attitude for me. I’ve always found change to be invigorating, mind-expanding and growth-inducing. Familiarity and predictability and established friendships are comfortable and hard to leave. But oh . . . what we would have missed, and the friends we would have never made if we hadn’t begun this adventure.

It’s not an overstatement that the Oregon State Parks were our (or at least my) mental, emotional and physical salvation during the intense first two years of COVID. They continue to be, on a different level. And now that we’re both retired, we’re giving back by volunteering as camp hosts in those same parks.

Which brings us to what this blog is about – our camp hosting gigs. In June we completed our first month, camp hosting at South Beach State Park on the central Oregon coast. But the experience has left us with great experiences, some new insights, and a desire to do more of it.

I know you didn’t ask, but I recommend change. You can’t imagine the difference it will make in your life. Maybe you'll find my musings an inspiration. Whatever your reaction, I'd love to hear from you.

NOTE: I use quotations here for stylistic effect. I did not take contemporaneous notes during these conversations, so quotations should really be considered paraphrases. I make every attempt to represent the content and intent accurately.

This is me hiking Amanda's Trail near Cape Perpetua. It was a LOT of elevation gain and a test of this "mature" woman's stamina.