If people sat outside
and looked at the stars each night,
Recently we went camping at the Davis Mountain Preserve. The preserve is only open to campers 4 weekends out of the year so being able to go felt special. And despite central Texas not showing any glimpse of fall, the weather was crisp in the Davis Mountains.
My favorite thing about camping is having no itinerary except hiking and cooking. There is time to walk slowly, to take a wrong turn and get lost. Time to sit down during a hike and wait for the wildlife to get used to you. Time to look through the rocks at your feet and pocket your favorite ones. Time to stare up at the stars during your midnight bathroom break.
Time is the most beautiful thing about camping. And the slowness that time affords. You can achieve this in little ways during the day to day but camping is a sustained reprieve that allows you to reset in a way that sticks for some time after returning to “real life.” Well, that is what it does for me anyway. I get so used to not looking at my phone that I develop a healthy and well-needed repulsion for it when I come back. I read more, I want to be outside more, and I pay attention—to bird calls, to sunlight, to weather. My perspective shifts back to its default, optimism.
One remarkable moment of this trip happened during our hike to a spring. We walked several miles up in elevation, the landscape shifting from scrubby desert, to grassland, to the lush fauna of oak and pine woodlands. All the while, we kept our eyes peeled for water to make its grand appearance. When we arrived, there was just a tiny bit glistening on rocks and fallen logs. But in the desert, even a small amount of moisture is monumental—it was a bird hotspot. From a short distance we heard the birds singing all around the wet ground, celebrating the presence of water. We walked tenderly towards them but still, they all flew away at once. Crossing our fingers, we each found a comfortable rock and sat very, very still. With patience, the birds returned. We didn’t spot anything crazy but waiting for the birds and then, seeing them come back to drinking and playing and calling each other as if we were not there felt cool and rare in its own right. It was a kind of witnessing that feels holy because of how still and thoughtful your observation must be.
After sitting for a while, we noticed that the trail continued further up the mountain. So, we hiked some more and discovered the famed spring was not the one we had stopped at but a larger puddle another 1/2 mile upwards. When we arrived at the site there were about 8 other birders nestled into the mountainside, eyes on the puddle, pointing every which way to let each other know of any interesting birds. I think birders might be some of the kindest people I have ever met. They will always help you identify a bird and even though they’re usually trying to be ever so quiet, they will always say hello. Maybe it is the sincere practice of observing that softens them. Or maybe it is just a coincidence.
Future newsletter on the benefits of birding (before you retire) lol.
