The Unexpected Vacation
March 26, 2024
I fired off a quick text to Julie on Tuesday afternoon: "I'm in for Corrick's River Bend tomorrow." Her simple thumbs-up reply was all the confirmation I needed.
After months... hell, years of solo camping and riding alone, the chance to share trails and campfires with friends felt like a revelation.
I tossed gear into River (my trusty blue RAM van) with the chaotic enthusiasm of a jail-break, and somehow beat everyone there on Wednesday.
Finding that perfect campsite felt like winning the lottery... morning sun, afternoon shade, and just enough distance from other campers that our heating system's hum wouldn't disturb anyone but us.
When Ron and Julie's pop-up rolled in, I was in River's swiveled seat with my Luna table deployed, creating a proper office space while testing my internet booster during a virtual meeting with Mo, somehow balancing wilderness escape with connectivity.
"Found us the penthouse suite!" I called out, gesturing to the riverside spot with unnecessary flourish.
"Mo might join Thursday if her meeting wraps early," I mentioned, trying to sound casual while my heart did a little hopeful skip. Mo and I had never camped with friends before. The thought of all my favorite people in one place felt almost too good to be true.
We fell into our unspoken routine, Ron unfolding their pop-up with the precision of an origami master, me transforming River from transport to tiny home, Julie creating order from chaos with a tablecloth and snacks.
The afternoon ride started innocently enough. But innocence and mountain biking rarely last long together.
Ron led the way and his pace impressed me. "C'mon Julie!" I yelled back and looked out over the Ninemile Prairie valley. Julie was in a tee shirt. Wow, is spring really here? It was super warm and the sun was hot.
The descent was pure joy until that snow patch appeared from nowhere. I tried to float Orca (my bike) across the drift like some miracle on wheels.
"Oopsie, we got a little off line," I announced to the pines as Orca buried herself halfway to the hub. I stood there, trying to look like this was all part of my master plan.
Julie surprised us by leading us to an old rail-trail that cut through the forest. The gentle grade and smooth path were a welcome change after the technical sections we'd been tackling. We cruised side by side, actually able to chat without gasping for air, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees in golden patches around us.
At the end of the trail, we were stopped by an unexpected washout that cut across our path like a miniature canyon. We gathered for a break before turning back, passing around water and energy bars. That's when Julie spotted it, a badger waddling across the far side of the washout. We all froze, watching in hushed excitement as it disappeared into the underbrush. A rare sighting that somehow made the day feel even more special.
That evening, the campfire crackled like nature's television, and I'd forgotten how much better stories taste with woodsmoke and starlight.
"Hey Ron, keep the logs below the rim!" Julie called out as flames reached precariously skyward. We dissolved into laughter, some things never change.
Between my tenth "remember when" story and Ron's quiet confession about wanting to build another camping vessel (because apparently one pop-up isn't enough of a project), I snapped a photo of our little circle with the empty chair I'd set out hopefully.
"The adventures aren't quite the same without you," I texted Mo.
Some friendships you can measure in years. The best ones you measure in campfires.