SHAVER LAKE, CA—About a month ago, I gave away a tarp I was going to use as an awning. I don’t regret it.
I had considered getting a ground mat: a mat to place the camp chair on, to keep the pine needles from sticking to my feet, to keep from tracking dirt into the van. But I never did. I don’t regret that either.
My camp set up—when I set up camp—is my camp chair. I can fold it up and break camp in less than a minute. In fact, I’m writing this sitting in my camp chair under some very large trees. Though I intend to stay here the night, I don’t know if I’ll stay here tomorrow.
When you live this simply, there’s really no reason to make a camp—there’s no reason not to move around.
Though I’ve been at Shaver Lake for over a week, I’ve yet to sleep in the same place twice.
Living this simply, I rarely know where I’ll sleep tomorrow.
Many mornings I wake up and I don’t know where I am.
Hell, many mornings I wake up and I don’t even know who I am—but that’s just me. Even when wide awake I don’t know who I am.
But I digress.
Here’s the thing with living this simply: as odd as it might sound, when you live nowhere, everywhere is your home.
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