A few mornings ago, I was doing my yoga headstand, toward the end of my ritual practice. I put the top of my head on a tri-folded blanket and made a triangle shape, forearms on the mat, hands joined together, just behind my upside down head. I somewhat ungracefully threw my legs in the air, feet catching the wall, predictably smacking my back against it. I can’t even count the number of times I have done this over the years. As soon as I steadied myself, stretching my torso toward the ceiling, I smelled the distinctive odor of a camp fire from the blanket.

I smiled upside down and decided to tell you a story about my camping experiences. Since moving here to Kauai around 17 years ago, I have not had any camping gear and the reason is incredibly simple. I have had no interest in camping and here comes the story.

I was a city boy, growing up in Queens, NY and moved around between the other boroughs during my first 42 years, including a stint as a homeowner on Long island. As a kid, I went to a couple of summer camps and slept in bunks and swam in lakes. I got too busy pretending to be a grown up, working in the broadcast advertising business and walking around Madison, wearing suits that didn’t fit all that well, the requisite attache case in hand. Nature didn’t seem very appealing to me and i was too busy anyway.

For two summers, I rented a farm house in Honesdale, PA. It sat on several hundred acres of a dairy farm, owned by the Kennedy family. I was already a well practiced, weekend father and would take my sons there every other weekend, plus a bit of an extended vacation time with them. I realized I was a prisoner of my birth and the urban life style, which was all I had known. I loved walking in the fields and riding my bicycle up and down the country roads.

Terrified I would die walking the sidewalks of busy, I made a very, very painful and solitary decision to leave the City when I was around 42. I was introduced to the adobe magic of northern New Mexico quite by accident. I think women have been my messengers and life savers and it is not because I am cool, believe me. I have always been awkward and shy and unsure of myself, the anti-playboy if ever there was one. I was seeing a married, aspiring actress and even though she is no longer here, that’s all I want to say. Finally, she got a part in theatre, except it was the New Mexico Repertory Theater. I took a few extra days off from work and flew out to see her. The first stop was Albuquerque, which I did not like at all. The company then moved up to Santa Fe. I remember driving and finding myself hypnotized by the sheer magnificence of this high desert country. The earth colors, the mesas and the perfect skies were so intoxicating, I wanted to drink them in until I could no longer stand.

I am probably the world’s worst dancer and if somehow, by accident, I find I am keeping the beat, I lose it in an instant, victimized by terminal self-consciousness. The moment I got out of the car in Santa Fe, I was Fred Astaire, keeping the beat and loving it. I remember just stepping off a curb and feeling like I was floating. I committed to moving there, initially creating a make believe plan to avoid having a complete breakdown.

Let me spare us both the move and all the pain involved with extricating myself from a leaden life in the city of my birth. It’s the summer of ’83 and I am living in my little adobe womb, south of Santa Fe, feeling completely at home for reasons I cannot explain. Within a month of getting there, I got a job with a John Huston Film Festival, introducing me to all sorts of wonderfully colorful characters. On some evenings, I would go to the Pink Adobe, a landmark bar right in the middle of town. I would go alone and stand uncomfortably at the bar, drinking several margaritas. One night, a lady started a conversation with me and I somehow managed to avoid awkward silences and miscommunication. She was a geologist and at home in the outdoors.

After a couple of dates, she matter of factly asked if I wanted to go camping, a completely normal activity for her. I agreed, having no idea what I was getting myself into. She was kind of a hippie lady and easy was the way. Everything was perfect until it was time to get in the tent. She zipped it up and then it happened. I never understood the illogic of phobias until that night. I completely freaked out, exhibiting every conceivable physical sign of world class panic. Much to my stunning surprise, I have claustrophobic issues and even the thought of being locked in a box is all I need to get going. I seriously liked the whole camping experience and for years after that, I would sleep with my head next to the tent opening and it would have to be unzipped enough for me to see outside and rain was no excuse for nailing the coffin shut.

For a number of years following, I would go off into the woods by myself, well almost. For some of the time, I had three dogs that I’d throw in the back of my truck and we’d go into the wilderness, hoping to encounter no one. There is something about being out there, without absolutely anybody around for miles that gets you so incredibly close to yourself, a muted hymn to the joy of life and the beauty of nature.

At some point, I was at a party, thrown by a guy, who just loved to create wonderful social environments for the many people he knew. While standing around in the height of my familiar discomfort, a lady began to talk with me and it was such a comfort to a guy living in the middle of his nowhere. We ended up living together for a number of years and her life long gift to me was her dedicated yoga practice, which eventually took me prisoner and I have never thought of looking for the key. We camped a great deal and she was the consummate pro. The best trip was riding through the San Luis Valley, past Manassas, CO, the home of heavy weight champ, Jack Dempsey and into the national forest. I found that my mind stopped thinking completely and I was just present, in a suspended state of the moment. I never thought of giving up this way of being and kept at it until it was time to leave for Kauai.

A few weeks ago, my friend, Seth, came into the Kauai Beer Company with his wife. I sat down with them like I automatically do with people I know and enjoy, minus the mask thing, mandated a month ago. They told me they were going camping for a couple of days, which jump started a conversation about my camping history, which has just been somewhat recounted to you. I said I never thought about it after moving here. Seth told me he’d call and take me camping. I figured, sure, I won’t hold my breath on that one.

Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch, he called and we hatched a plan to go up into Waimea Canyon, which I still didn’t think would happen. Surprise, the two of us and his friend, Jose, went this past Wednesday. I didn’t have to do much more than show up at his house.

God, I am so sorry it has taken all these words to get here. I don’t want to write about how we got to where we were going, because I am pretty sure it’s not kosher. Let me say that we drove on the world’s worst road imaginable for about five miles and came out on a ridge that overlooks Milolii Beach. My camping ticket had not expired. It was still valid and the experience was everything I held precious all these years. First of all, joy is contagious in the arms of nature. Campfires are hypnotic and spiritually intoxicating. The night sky is a religious experience. Any food is a gourmet extravaganza. Sleeping is something you have to do, but being out is all that matters and God comforts you.

You know, it is too easy to misplace your personal tent poles and forget the magnificence of the sky or the dance of fire. It was the smell of the campfire on my blanket that flooded my memory and for just 18 hours, allowed me to live in a world that has been here forever and one that needs our help.