camping in mysore

My family and I spent the better part of our summers camping. To this day my daydreams lead me down dirt paths marred by tree roots, through northern Ontario forests, and along sparkling pink granite rock when I’m in need of a mental escape. Like every family, we had our traditions and when it came to camping, our tradition was rain. We camped, it rained. That’s just the way it was.

We learned to cope, stringing tarps up across every square inch our campsite was as natural a part of setting up camp as putting up the tent was. Even now, whether I’m car camping or tripping, a ridiculous portion of my gear is dedicated to army green, blue and orange plastic tarps because, hey, you never know when they might come in handy. My affinity for doing absolutely nothing, in its own way, helped cope as well. Memories of camping include the usual swimming and campfire scenarios but also the sound of the wind in the trees, sight of grey skies, and feeling of cold feet tangled in my sleeping bag as we whiled away the rain; spending hours in our tent reading, writing and irritating each other.

Today is a camping day in Mysore. Warmth has given way to cold weather, the wind blows strongly shifting rain clouds across grey skies, and my jeans have that clammy feeling that comes when a cold body is poured into clothes that feel permanently damp. So I’ve spent the day hibernating. Whiled away the miserable weather from the comfort of my bed buried beneath a tangle of blankets, under the makeshift tent of my mosquito net and reading trashy books. It’s been a strangely familiar, at times the sound of the wind in the trees has tricked me into forgetting where I am, and an entirely lovely way to spend this day.