A good campsite makes all the difference in Grand Teton National Park

...and so does staying in the NOW.

Mike left before dawn the next morning to wait outside the campground he’d picked out for us to move our rig to. 

Back when he was a surfer, he’d scout all the breaks early in the morning before settling on the one with the best waves that particular day; then he’d zoom in and score once he’d made up his mind. 

Fishing, his other favorite activity, was the same. Mike would look for an area, try a few casts, put on a different lure, try bait, then move on, constantly adapting. 

My style was different, both as a fisher and surfer. I had a few favorite breaks I had memorized where I knew the lineup, the reef, and the locals who surfed there. I’d return again and again regardless of  conditions. Fishing was the same way: I had favorite lures or strategies. I’d pick a likely spot and stay, working it thoroughly, until forced to leave.

My approach had the advantage of less “wasted time” checking for something better and/or changing out lures or bait, but the disadvantage of settling for non-optimal conditions or biting patterns.

And always, Mike got more waves and caught more fish.

We’d debate our priorities. I’d say, “It’s okay if I don’t catch anything or the surf was junk. I was there on the bank enjoying nature, or I got out in the water and watched the sun rise. I like having experiences.”

“I don’t just like fishing. I like catching,” he’d say. “And I don’t just surf. I get waves. That’s the experience.”

Over the years, though we technically enjoyed many of the same activities, we often ended up doing them separately because of this.  

But camping trips were one area where I happily surrendered to his approach. With my “I prefer to be surprised” lack of interest in planning, Mike made it a mission to find the best spots for us. He’d research carefully ahead of time, but once we arrived (as in the case of the clammy pine forest) sometimes the situations weren’t great. I’d be willing to put up with the less-than-stellar spot because of the hassle of resetting camp, but that never bothered him. “Let’s do it,” he’d say. I’d grumble and drag my feet. By the time I did my minimum, he’d have us hitched up and moving.

Mike had scouted all over the park the day before, looking for a new campground, while I was browsing in the mercantile and taking a nap. Signal Mountain Campground on the opposite side of Jackson Lake was where he decided to move us. Sunny, on a slight rise covered with late summer wildflowers, the campground overlooked a small bay facing the Teton Range. 

Competition was fierce for good sites directly along the lake, so he waited in the car pre-dawn for one of the first-come-first serve spots, all occupied. By the time the sun rose to strike the Teton Range like a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus, cars had stacked up behind him, hoping for the same thing.

Mike parked the SUV and walked down once he saw that campers were awake and making coffee. He greeted them with a good morning, making conversation and asking about their plans for the day. When he found a couple planning to leave, he asked permission to leave a couple of camp chairs and a cooler to stake out the spot, along with a filled-out registration form. They were okay with that, so he dropped off the stuff and hurried back to our dim cave in the pines. 

I was sleeping. I had taken a pill because my hip was still bothering me, and that had knocked me out. Groggy, barely dressed and grumpy, I did my part which was preparing the interior of the rig for travel. Mike tore down the styrofoam insulation and hitched up the trailer to move. I was still barely functional when we pulled out and drove the rig into our new spot. 

I had worried that Grand Teton didn’t have as much for us to do and see as Yellowstone; after all it was a fifth the size and thus had less diversity of attractions. But once we were set up in our gorgeous new campsite, so close to the lake and directly in front of those snow-topped mountains, I wished we could stay there a lot longer than the two nights we’d planned. 

The day soon warmed and the last of the unseasonable snowfall melted; even the snowy caps on the Tetons were disappearing. I put on my bathing suit, grabbed my towel and Koa, and headed for the pebble beach edging the bay.

I’d been able to get online at our new location, and the news from our home area of Northern California was extremely grim. The state was simmering in a hundred-plus degree heat wave, and the air quality was terrible due to ongoing fires all over the west. 

Since we’d embarked on “one last big adventure” and moved to our cabin on the Russian River, California had experienced intense fire every summer and fall. The city of Santa Rosa burned the year we moved there, with terrible loss of life and property. We were only half an hour from the hellscape and its tragic aftermath.

“I thought when we got into trailer camping that it was going to be for fun and recreation,” I told Mike as we fled the little red cabin with Koa and our valuables for the fourth time, joining a traffic jam heading for Highway 101. The smoke was so heavy the road was barely visible as we drove toward the RV storage facility to pick up the rig and go—where? Somewhere safe with clearer air, if we could find it. “Didn’t realize the trailer was going to end up being our apocalypse escape vehicle.”

We’d been evacuated from Sonoma County multiple times for fire and twice for flooding on the Russian River. This time, we’d been able to return to the cabin after the evacuation was lifted just long enough to clean the rig, pack some food, wash our clothes, and resupply for the road. 

hitching up the Apocalypse Escape Vehicle for the 4th evacuation during Fire Season in NorCal

I turned off the phone with its disturbing reminders of climate change, and settled on a towel on the beach.

I needed to be mindful of the present moment and let go of the things I had no control over, or I might as well be breathing smoke in California.

Instead I was here, on the beach at Jackson Lake in Wyoming, watching sunlight play over the massive, spiky Grand Teton Mountains. Life didn’t get much better than this. 

I enjoyed the clean, clear air with its scent of pine and summer sage as I gazed at the rugged peaks. Koa sniffed around and lapped lake water so clear it was invisible. I made a daisy chain to put on my hat, sniffing the sharp scent of the tiny yellow and white flowers. I found a feather and admired it.

Be. Here. Now.

And then I lay down to read my new book, Alexandra Fuller’s novel Quiet Until the Thaw. My favorite writer lived in nearby Jackson Hole, a long way from Africa where she’d grown up. Tomorrow, Mike and I planned to drive in and explore the picturesque town.

The sticky concoction of worry and grief that I felt at every reminder of fire season didn’t serve me, or help anyone else. 

I was soon absorbed in the book and read until a cloud blocked the sun and the temperature dropped abruptly, as it seemed to do here in Wyoming. 

Mike invited me to go for a ride with him in his little blue boat that evening. It was not made for two, but if we sat carefully back to back in the middle on the single bench with Koa between my feet, we had six or so inches of clearance from the water. With the silent battery motor going, we putted along at a decorous pace, poles trolling behind.

Everything looks different from the water.

Rather than observing the scene, we were deep inside it. Even as I observed our surroundings, I was aware of being an object others saw, a tiny coracle of a wooden boat overloaded with two humans and a dog, gliding along on the scenic lake.

Our turquoise and white trailer was a vintage-looking toy that contrasted with the wildflower meadow, nearby sandstone bluffs, and silvery gravel beach.

We hummed past a rugged island in the middle of the lake crowned with a mane of dark conifers; I was secretly thrilled I was seeing a side of the island that no one else could by being in a boat.

Behind us, the enormous and dramatic backdrop of the Tetons gave form and name to a place I was so glad to have occupied for however long we could be there—and be there I would be, moment by moment, until it was time to go. 

P.S. If you enjoyed the post, hit the little ❤️ and tell me what resonated for you! And many thanks for joining us on the journey.