Almost any kind of camping can be a peaceful experience. (Well, I said almost didn’t I?) When it’s done right… I mean canoeing in, finding somewhere way off the beaten track, where it’s just you, the tent, the water, the trees, and perhaps eleventy-zillion mosquitos.
One kind of camping that I’ve only done a few times (and none of them intentional), however is winter camping. It brings a whole new level of peace and quiet, when it’s too cold for the bugs, there’s nobody else around for a hundred miles (no-one else was dumb enough to go camping in this weather) and the air is still and quiet.
It is almost indescribable, waking up in the morning, and being able to hear snow fall. If the world is quiet enough, you can hear it snowing. It is almost magical.
Of course, the subsequent canoe trek through the blizard was sort of the downside anti-climactic non-magical moment… but even then, it had it’s fun. Like stopping in the middle of the lake to have a snowball fight in a canoe. (Yes, we were young, stupid and insane in those days. We’re older now.)
I don’t know why I thought of this today, in late July. It is just one of those moments, those memories, where Nature revealed some of her magic and beauty, and I feel fortunate to have experienced it.