Last week, I explained my ambivalence about joining friends on an overnight camping trip. (Ok, I vented. Thanks for all the encouragement, by the way.) I wasn't worried about a disaster, per se, even though our campsite would be geographically cozy with the San Andreas Fault. No, my concerns were more mundane. Somehow, I had to procure a tent, sleeping bags, and all necessary supplies in less than a week. And somehow, frankly, I had to avoid having a lousy time.

Here's the thing. Even though I venture outdoors now more than ever, and love it, my ideal day still consists of sidewalk strolling, people watching, café-sitting, and garage-sale trolling. The weather forecast was sunny and clear, and fog-free days are simply too rare in San Francisco to gleefully skip town for a dark cool forest, no matter how beautiful. At least my trip would be just one night, and as a fail-safe, I was planning a small fireside feast. Maybe I would enjoy camping if I viewed it simply as dining en plein air.

Campers are evangelists, as any camper knows. They eagerly fork over endless supplies, assuming that after playing with all their cool toys, you'll want to join the tribe. As a result, I was given not just a tent and sleeping bag, but also folding chairs, a portable gas grill, a kettle, pans, pots, spatulas, plates, forks, knives, spoons, telescoping metal skewers for grilling and marshmallow-toasting, and even plastic wine glasses. I worried about not having room for food and drink (my joy, or at least solace, if all else failed), so we ditched the goblets, but not the vino.

To this non-camper, our campsite in Portola Redwoods State Park looked almost like a small backyard plopped down amidst an otherwise untouched grove. It had a parking spot, a picnic table, and log seating near a grill-covered fire pit. Separate recycling, composting, and trash bins were a short walk away. Sunlight streamed through the leafy canopy, and everything seemed perfect, almost too easy, except for the clearing intended for our tents, which sloped considerably. I imagined blood rushing to my head as I slept.

We hammered our spikes into the flattest dirt we could find and quickly raised our tents, so we could hit the trails. We crossed a stream and climbed uphill to the tiny Tip Toe Falls, and then looped around to see the 2,000-year-old, 54-foot-wide "Shell Tree," the largest tree in the forest until one nasty date with a campfire. A few hours later, as sunlight dwindled in the cooling air, we returned to camp and built a fire that would replace both stove and television that night.

We roasted corn, Portobellos, and tequila-habanero chicken sausages from our local organic market. For dessert, I broke out a ripe triple-cream cheese--only to watch it slide right off the top of our cooler and do an oozing face-plant in the dirt, the first casualty of our lopsided site. Cheese-less but not defeated, I summoned a lesson learned in yoga: that what matters most is not that everything go as planned, but that you simply try. Next, I consoled us further with a round of fireside martinis. Since the cocktail shaker stayed home, we swirled the cold vodka and vermouth together in our mugs. This kind of roughing it, I could do.

In the morning, inside my tent, I awoke two feet away from where I lay down, having inched downhill in the night like so much runny uneaten cheese. Feeling the hard ground at my back, I also realized that my sleeping pad had deflated. At breakfast, our borrowed grill didn't work, and the wood took its time to ignite, having dampened overnight. When I finally got coffee, the campfire-heated milk tasted ashy and had little black bits in it. Amazingly, none of this bothered me. Portola Redwoods was just too beautiful to care. I even passed up my shower, despite looking forward to it the night before.

Will I ever go camping again? Truthfully, I have no idea. But if I ever do, I know now that I can, even if it's with fewer amenities or for longer than one night. My night in the woods taught me, if nothing else, what the cool perfume of leaves, dirt, and tree bark smells like after sundown.