Westport

There is a slow itch that starts to build under my skin. The need to be outside. It's not until I drag myself into the woods that I finally feel content and calm. Westport was beautiful, cold, and quiet. There's a different kind of summer in the northwest. The air is damp and crisp. The wind bites at your ankles. Never too hot. Never too cold. Always just right.

Beckwith_Westport-01
Beckwith_Westport-02
Beckwith_Westport-03
Beckwith_Westport-04
Beckwith_Westport-05
Beckwith_Westport-06
Beckwith_Westport-07
Beckwith_Westport-08
Beckwith_Westport-09
Beckwith_Westport-10
Beckwith_Westport-11
Beckwith_Westport-12
Beckwith_Westport-13
Beckwith_Westport-14
Beckwith_Westport-17
Beckwith_Westport-15
Beckwith_Westport-18
Beckwith_Westport-19
Beckwith_Westport-20
Beckwith_Westport-21
Beckwith_Westport-22
Beckwith_Westport-23
Beckwith_Westport-24
Beckwith_Westport-25
Beckwith_Westport-27
Beckwith_Westport-28
Beckwith_Westport-29
Beckwith_Westport-30
Beckwith_Westport_31
Beckwith_Westport_32
Beckwith_Westport_33

Camping

I’ve never been camping. I was in Girl Scouts forever ago, but we slept in sleeping bags in a well constructed cabin. There were bathrooms. We deep fried doughnuts over a little Coleman propane stove. It was a weekend of me and my ten year old peers complaining about bugs.

This last weekend still included complaining about bugs, but it was a small price to pay for finally getting off the grid. I have previously dismissed the fact that I was so plugged into technology. My mind was tired from going, going, going. I didn't realized this until I completely, and abruptly, stopped.

It wasn't like I was doing anything all that important. I sat in a camp chair on a river for hours and stared out at the water. I made fires. I cooked simple, honest food. I read a book about trout fishing and explored the forest. Everything seemed clearer and slower.

I simply allowed myself to be.