This morning, after breakfast and hugs all around, we left dear family and camp life and drove down our side of the mountain into the real world of newspapers, cell phones, and Wi-Fi.
But we carried out more than we carried in. Anne packed the birthday present her boyfriend sent, I’m taking a copy of the camp cookbook and five extra pounds, and the splotch of mudding compound clinging to the bow of Hiram’s glasses makes them positively natty. In addition to those treasures, we all have a week’s worth of fun, along with photographs and movie footage to jog our brains when every day prairie life nibbles away at our memories.
One unwelcome traveler hitched a ride into civilized country with us – the fine, tan Idaho dust stirred up by all moving objects including our feet, horses’ hooves and automobile tires. Our rental car, originally a couple shades darker than the earth beneath our feet, is coated with a layer of the tan stuff. Our clothes, even the light blue capris I donned moments before leaving the mountain, sport random patches of tan, wherever we’ve made contact with the Idaho grit. Every cranny of our shoes harbor little dust colonies, and a poof of dust accompanies the untying of shoelaces.
No doubt about it, Family Camp in the mountains is a dirty business, from huckleberry-stained fingers to mountain climbing, from building construction sweat and mess to cooking and dishwashing, every one of those activities covered with thin layer of Idaho dust. It’s a messy mix of family relationships, discussions, compromises, over-stimulated children, intense teenagers, preoccupied adults, tired joy, and the overarching grace of God blessing every moment of our time together.
Family Camp is a messy business and a glorious one. I can’t wait to get dirty again.
