I have been mulling over a post about my time camping on Hammocks Beach (appropriate now, isn't it?) with my kindred friend, Anna. Then I land on
this article on 'Glamping'. According to Pete Thomas, author of the article, this is the definition of
glamping:
Glamping, of course, is glamor camping, a pastime that's catching on among those who want to enjoy the great outdoors, but without the dusty campgrounds, the hard ground to sleep on, the long stretches without showers and lugging of gear.
Wait...without the dusty campgrounds, hard ground, no showers and lugging of gear? Then it can't be called camping, or even associated with the pastime! Sheesh! Thomas states in the article that even Justin Beiber (I never thought I would ever type that name) is going to give glamping 'a try'. As if there is hardship involved. Maybe for him it will be, seeing as I don't read anywhere that a personal butler comes with your luxury 500 square foot tent, flat screen, leather furniture and copper soaking tub. (*smirk)
There are a couple of glamping websites listed in the article, and I have to say that some of the places do sound incredibly enticing. Recently on Pinterest, I pinned igloos in Finland onto my 'Someday' board. This would constitute as 'glamping,' I am sure, and I am not opposed. Check these out:
www.archigalle.com
www.boredpanda.com
Can you say 'Mmmmm Hmmmm'? Serious snuggle factor. This is on my bucket list.
However, I personally adore 'roughing it' and taking part in good, old-fashioned tent camping. Early in my life, I recall a few camping trips with my parents. Maybe two. When my Mom decided camping was too much work and not a 'vacation', we stopped going. I have picked it back up in my adult years, and a recent trip with Anna was one of my most memorable.
I entitle this series of photos 'Not Your Mama's Girls' Weekend':
As a get-away, and for Anna's birthday, we decided to go to Hammocks Beach, North Carolina. If you are interested in this golden nugget of a location, you can learn more at Hammocks Beach State Park site.
You can get an idea of how loaded down we were. That yellow thing around her neck is a shade tent but we affectionately named it (as we do
everything) 'The Flying Nun'. That green thing is a candle...that we mistakenly thought we could light, and keep lit. On a beach. Didn't happen.
NOW you get a good idea of all the schtuff we schlepped out onto that island! I developed a love/hate relationship with that red cooler. I only continued to love it because it contained 1) ice and 2) contraband.
You can only reach the island by ferry.
Anna and I received many curious stares as we dragged our Clampett-like conglomeration onto the boat. We often get funny looks when we're together. That's okay. We grin right at them, and Anna will usually strike up a conversation, throwing them completely off-gaurd. That's funny to witness.
We should have wondered when we stepped off the ferry and the day guests were rushing the dock in a throng, hurrying and scurrying. Over their shoulder was an ominous cloud, and as we disembarked, a booming clap of thunder. The host of people were leaving the island. Of course WE were entering.
Pointer, should you ever decide to go there and camp: when we were selecting our camp site, we thought we wanted to be away from the dock and bathhouse to avoid the noise and lights. On the map, it looked like a skip and a jump to one of the far remote sites that was on the ocean. It becomes a whole different story when you are lugging your crapola a mile, plus. Through the sand. In the rain. In all our planning I was all chipper, "Whoo hoo! The cooler has wheels!" I got there and dragged the thing. Through the sand. I invented a whole new swear language, complete with dialect that day.
I do not have photos of our lugging process. The torrential rain with drops the size of volleyballs pelting my face would not have been good for the Nikon. It was wrapped securely in fourteen trash bags. (I'm exaggerating. Whenever I exaggerate a number, fourteen is the number that comes out. I don't know why.)
I assembled the tent in the rain, while Anna arranged our stuff. When the rain stopped, it was ALL worth it.
Our campsite
View from the tent flap....aaaaaaahhhh
At a certain time of day, the ferry stops and no one comes onto the island. The campers are settled into their little spots and you honestly feel a bit like the only people on earth. Sort of. We had a family in the site beside us, and while it was mostly very private and obscured from view, we saw their coming and going. The male of the group had apparently acquired a rather uncomfortable rashy irritation of sorts, by the way he was walking so we affectionately named him 'Captian Chafe'. In trying to capture the sunset, he snuck into this picture. Can you find Captain Chafe?
We affectionately named these birds Peggy (the gray and white one was missing a foot) and Bruenhilda. I'm telling you, we nickname everything. If we affectionately nickname you, you can be rest assured we like ya!
This is a larger view of our spot, with the Flying Nun, our tent and the blue tarp ( aka Magic Carpet) in view. That's Anna, shell seeking. For two nights and three days, we stretched long in the sun, didn't care a lick what our hair looked like, made drip castles and sand loungers at the edge of the water. My favorite part was the first night, where we stretched out on the blue tarp to stare up into the vast stars. I taught her to spot satellites gliding across the black, and it was BLACK out there away from all civilization and light. We sipped contraband from plastic cups and I tried to blow smoke rings from the cigar I'd brought, and talked about God and to God, and discussed anything and everything under that weighted sky. We went night crabbing with red handkerchiefs over the lens of our flashlight. We don't often do the 'normal' things best friends do for fun, but we always create the most incredible memories and solve all the world's problems to boot.
