We camp in Peace

In theory, packing light makes sense—especially for an overnight camping trip. Even a tent and sleeping bags could be considered overkill for Hawaii’s climate when the oceanside temperature hovers around 55 degrees through the night, but (amazingly so) this weekend was the first time Mark and I (going on 2.5 years now) actually went camping together. That is, not piling into the back of Old Man Gold atop a musty futon mattress and instead finding a peaceful nook along the seashore to set up shop, have a fire and see the sunset. That was the plan and we stuck to it despite a few rocks in our shoes.

The transition from readily available and abundant land open to the public for play in Montana to what has basically boiled down to walking segments of the King’s Trail on the island of Hawaii has been precisely what it sounds like. Casting frustration aside and understanding that so much of the outcome of one’s life depends on what and who you know, we have adjusted our expectations for adventure accordingly. Which reminds me of a sign I saw earlier this summer in the restroom at Gramma’s Kitchen in Honokaa: “Not Home Sweet Home. Adjust.”

The quarter-mile jaunt to the well-known yet private camp-able cove of Pebbles Beach was relatively painless. Among the necessities on mostly Mark’s back were the following had-to-haves: a camera, speargun (+ dive fins, masks, snorkels, etc.), acoustic guitar, watercolor set, and frozen chili (in case spearfishing proved unsuccessful, which it did). Spotted on a point near the aforementioned location were shirtless men plunging into the ocean. We envied them momentarily, and swallowed a pang of disappointment. When we came around the final corner we faced the inevitable. Pebbles was very much claimed by folks with the same idea.

“There are just too many people in this world,” Mark said. And so we turned around, hitched south a ways and found something else, something better, something we hadn’t anticipated.

Checking on the chili.

Checking on the chili.