Georgia scooped up our eleven pound, mushy white cat we call Pee Wee, flipped him over and, rubbing his belly, cooed, “Who’s gonna miss me when we go camping? Who’s gonna miss me when we go camping?” Even though she’s afraid of bears and the dark and the woods, she knows we live in Oregon and camping is what people do. There’s no excuse not to go, with campgrounds as close or remote as we could wish. I can register online, rent a yurt or a cabin, and just go. It’s so easy.

So, what’s holding me back?

When I was a child my family camped and fished from swampy Frog Lake to the sunny banks of the Deschutes River. As a ten year old, while my family panned for gold (for fun), I wandered alone with my dog along the Sixes River to discover a clear, deep, cold swimming hole, old mining equipment, and a bear cave. It’s one of my fondest memories, but as an adult and a mother I am filled with anxiety when I think of how dangerous that was; if I had lost my way, or slipped into the water, if I had encountered a bear, or a psychopath, or even just stepped in poison ivy... I was ill prepared to be alone in the woods, but I always felt at peace and safe. I loved to explore and imagine feeling the ghosts of pioneer and Native American girls who had walked and wondered at the same amazing canopy of trees, fascinating boulders and slimy salamanders.

During our 16 years on the east coast, Hova and I took exactly one hike, a day trip to Bear Mountain [1]. It’s an interesting place, the first part of the Appalachian Trail, where you can see wild turkeys and the ghostly remains of Doodletown [2], complete with a graveyard, and the stone foundations of houses and buildings dating from the 1760’s. We hiked for a while and reached a place where you can see the NYC skyline off in the distance. It was neat, but I missed the awe and wonder of nature, and I never felt the thrilling fear that we might get lost, or the giddy rush that I was closer to something wild than I was to civilization. And once while driving through the Great Smokey Mountains I annoyed my travel companions by not being able to see them (the mountains — not my fellow travelers!). Being from the West coast, having Mt. Hood, and Mt. St. Helens as a constant backdrop, the Great Smokey Mountains my travel mates insisted were right in front of me looked more like dinky hills. I missed a bigger nature, but the New Yorker in me just pushed that feeling back.

Then on a visit to the west coast we took a drive. We headed past the mountains, the pine trees—everything was so large and so green and such a part of who I am—I burst into tears. I knew I needed to get back to a nature you really could get lost in. But we’ve been back for four years, and I am afraid. When I think of camping I think of danger. I think of bears, getting lost, and crazed psychopaths. Where is my rugged, outdoorsy spirit? Is it gone? Am I doomed to fear, and as a result teach Georgia to fear, all the natural resources that surround us?

I just don’t know where to begin. Every book I’ve consulted lists the important gear, including camp stoves, sleeping bags, and lanterns. Unless you’ve amassed used gear over many years (like the moldering tent and rickety camp kitchen of my youth), it’s a discouraging investment. And it’s yet another industry [3] bent on making me feel like I’ve got to have the right thing—except this time I do, or my family will DIE. I’m not sure I can cook on an open fire. I feel like I need to be able to use a compass. I don’t feel confident that either Hova or I know enough about basic camping safety that we can assure Georgia we know what we’re doing! What can I do to give Georgia the gift of the outdoors?

I’ve promised her we will go camping this summer.

I have three months to get myself confident and prepared [4].

Do you have any tips for me?