A Wild Storm and a Gypsy Hobbit

Reflections and conclusions about camping in general

Thanks so much for joining the journey! And don’t forget to hit the ❤️ if you’re enjoying it!

Following the long day fishing in a hailstorm on the Green River, we sat in camp chairs overlooking the Flaming Gorge. We watched sunset stain the sky in lingering reds, golds, and yellows that faded over the multi-hued cliffs, and ate the trout we’d caught hungrily. 

Mike watching bighorns on the cliff above Flaming Gorge

Everything seemed clear as we went to bed—but we were woken mere hours later by a sudden zap of lightning and boom of thunder directly overhead.

Koa and I woke in terror. Both of us moved over to cling to Mike (me clutching his body and Koa attempting to sit on his head) as the fragile shell of the trailer lit eerily again and again, vibrating with drum rolls of thunder. 

I vividly remembered how the violence of this kind of storm had felt down in the bottom of the canyon in a drift boat; now we were much closer to the action.

Rain began as suddenly as the lightning had, a downpour that drowned out every other sound.

We were fairly safe in the trailer, grounded as it was on four rubber tires—but I remembered that a couple around our age had arrived late in the day and set up a small dome tent in the site next to us. Right now, those two middle-aged folks were huddled in a flimsy shelter  made of struts that might attract the lightning. 

I debated with Mike about calling out to them; we were prepared to offer the couple shelter should they need it, but even opening the door to communicate was daunting.

Wind buffeted us along with the huge, pelting drops of rain and hail I recognized from our experience on the river. In the trailer, the sensation was like being in a blender at cocktail hour. The camper rocked on its axles. Every nook and cranny was tested by water trying to get in from every possible angle.

The storm seemed endless. Sleep was impossible.

And then, just as suddenly as the blowup began, everything stopped. 

An eerie calm settled over the thick black night. 

Koa and I moved back over to my side of the bed. We sank into sleep. 

I grew up on Kauai in the 1970’s. Our family camped in a mildew-encrusted canvas tent or lived in our van for extended periods (what you would call “houseless” nowadays.) The only time I actively disliked our funky, peripatetic lifestyle was when it was raining. 

And on the North Shore of Kauai, it rained a lot. Trying to sleep during a Kauai thunderstorm was similar to what we’d endured here in Utah. 

My sister Bonny and I would pull our foam pads and sleeping bags into the center of the tent, carefully checking that not one bit of fabric or toy or, god forbid, a precious library book—touched the water-leaching walls of the tent. If they did, those objects served as a wick and water would soon soak everything inside.

Growing up, I made what I called “forts” wherever we lived, and there were something like thirty moves from tent to rental and back again before I cast off to find my way to college at seventeen.  (All of this is documented in my memoir FRECKLED: a Memoir of Growing Up Wild in Hawaii, if you’re interested.)

At every place we landed as a family, I’d build something: a palm frond or banana leaf roof, a hollow space under the deck. A little ‘kitchen’ with found objects and herbs collected in recycled bottles where I’d pretend to cook meals and make magic potions for my Barbies. I’d make store personal things like my art supplies in the fort, and curl up on a mossy stump as a bed. Forts were my favorite pastime in a life without television, electronics, or much adult supervision.

In hindsight, fort-making was an attempt gain a sense of ‘home’ in a constantly-changing environment. Turns out, the Wanderlust Retro trailer was the ultimate “fort” for an adult.