Barbara organized a camping trip to the Dunes last weekend, and I was rubbing my palms in anticipation even when the forecast said that Saturday night would require eskimo-style pajamas or at the very least cuddling. We managed to gather a set of tents and sleeping bags for our crew, and Ed gallantly agreed to drive the cooler full of leftover birthday barbecue goodies for the foodies... plus a bit of cerveza (here's to Yazzan).
Ben, Megan, Sultan, Barbara, Lisa J, Gabi and I caught the early arvo South Shore Line. We didn't look quite like the swimsuit clad lighthearted woman looking over her shoulder in the old classic South Shore posters, since almost all of us wore rucksacks... but we were a fine-looking crew. We split up on the train to grab seats where we could, and the guy next to me asked where we were headed with so much gear. "We're going to camp," I said, and he thought I meant going to A CAMP. Like the summer variety. A troop of Dirty Hippie Scouts. (And what do we sell door to door?)
When we arrived at the campgrounds, we had a few priorities: set up the tents, look at all the awesome dogs, buy some marshmallows, and go for a walk. Yazzan and Ed arrived in the car after their tour of various exits mentioning the Dunes. The whole gang took a stroll before dinner - the woods were gorgeous but the wind off the lake was intense... we split up and I headed back to help build a beautiful wood fire. With a few intermediate emmm strategies (charcoal or wood? lighter fluid or rubbing sticks? pyramid or kindling cross-piles?) until we at last had a roaring grill. I honestly think that nothing hits the belly better than food when you're camping.
We had foraged the woods for kindling and extra fuel for the fire, and kept it burning past midnight. Megan played mandolin and everyone chilled, drinking from cans hidden inside of jacket sleeves... for a brief time we scrambled up the hill to a dunetop clearing and played tennis beneath the star speckled sky.
Over the weekend I dealt with the consequences of my personality with varying intensity, the most amusing moment of which might have been Ed at the campfire announcing the sponsor of Closed Captioning for the Subtext Impaired. (He is a spectacular sport about the shit I give him.) The more tragic moment personally was discovering, with great embarassment, that my pathological honesty and brash sense of humour have hampered someone's comfort. Renew my subscription to Closed Captioning for the Sensitivity Impaired.
Still, the overall atmosphere filled me with joy and energy (enough to keep me warm enough on a cold night, but also too much to really allow me to doze off). The next morning we stashed the bulk of our gear in Ed's car (you're a legend Waz!) which lightened up the remaining portion of our group to go for a hike through the woods then along the dramatic ridge of the dunes. I kept nearly falling on my face staring at the little aquilegia flowers along the woodlad path. Then you ascend, loop back and the dunes sweep down a soft sandy cliff to the beach on one side, and the view soars across springtime treetops on the other side.
Breathtaking.
And doubletaking, when we saw the evolving mirage of the city skyline, inverse and repeated side to side.
We checked with some old ladies to make sure the view was not the result of hippiness.
I heart Camp Haymarket. We're set for a reunion in mid-June.
