We make the best of what we’ve got. Two tents, a flat piece of land, a nylon hammock that packs down to nearly nothing. We stuff the cooler with ice, but the week-long heat wave stretching across Vermont means we’re careful about opening it too often. One too many times, you say, and everything will go bad. The eggs will hard-boil in their carton, the fat on the bacon will start to crisp.
Even the cicadas can’t handle the heat. They buzz in the branches above us all morning, but by the afternoon their corpses land like shucked husks around our tent.
We planned this camping trip back in February, during our longest winter of long distance yet, but back then everything was ice, and a patch of sunburned land a short walk from Lake Champlain sounded like paradise.
Now that we are here, though, I’d kill for a cube.
Just one, I beg, but you refuse.
I’d suggest stripping down and lying naked in our tent, but that isn’t an option either. Online the campground looked secluded, but in real life it is full of campers. Kids ride their bikes by our tent, and we have to duck down to get dressed. Instead, we spend the entire afternoon in our tent fully clothed, chasing the thin shadow of the tree where you hung the hammock. We don’t touch. We stretch ourselves out like stars. We close our eyes and move only when the sun catches up with us, turning the backs of our lids bright red.
Continue reading in Green Mountains Review…