Twenty-nine-year-old me the night before camping is like twelve-year-old me on Christmas Eve: I hardly catch a wink of sleep, and the next day I’m rustling around before dawn, bleary-eyed and jazzed to my core.

This weekend, three of my best friends and I are heading into California’s Sierra National Forest for an extended weekend of camping, one of my favorite things in the world to do.

What part do I love so much? The nearly five-mile hike with the pack? Sleeping in the dirt? The freeze-dried meals? Yes. There’s not a single moment that captures why my friends and I do this each year. But if one thing’s for certain, it’s that the journey starts now.

On my dining room table sprawl the items I’ll bring into the woods: freeze-dried dinners; clothing, libations and provisions; a pocket knife, hand-sized stove, tent, bear can, sleeping bag.

I’m sure I’ll leave something. But when backpacking, part of the fun comes from making do with what you have, which is only what you can haul on your back.

Departure: An Unassuming Wood

The trail begins in an unassuming wood, simply stepping off the road and up. The air’s suffused with the sweet, dry fragrance of pine. With phones left behind, the banter’s jumpstarted like a 1972 Pinto.

In a few hours we’ll arrive at George Lake, a pristine setting beneath towering peaks, a gorgeous place to call home for three nights.

Beneath our feet are pinecones, flowers and dust. We trust the trail. We know that where it leads will be worth the challenge, for the reward is as sweet as the effort is salty, as sweat will eventually be washed away with clean lake water, dry mouth relieved by that first golden ale.

This excursion promises memories to be made and laughs to be had, a break from the norm we all need. The times we live in are beyond comprehension. And what are we to do? Whatever we can, when we can.

But we also need to separate. We’ll drown in the sorrow, paralyzed by noise; to truly see the world, we need to see ourselves; to see ourselves, we need clarity, calmness, a return to our roots. And that is what these trips provide.

Ascent: Earth Beneath Our Feet

The trail is monotonous too — left foot then right, again and again across varying terrains and gradients. But this monotony allows room to breathe, think, be.

I think about life at home. Questions follow me, answers elude me, yet something burns brightly inside of me. I relish the effort, the fire in my legs and the depth of my breathing. With nothing to do but follow the trail, I find a flow.

At times I look up, scanning the beauty of the forest and mountains. But mostly I look down, glad to watch the rising dust, the veining roots, the stones I step over and on.

It’s earth — muddy drying puddles and pine cones scattered, single flowers of yellow and mauve. It’s real, raw, earth. That feels good.

Friday: A Return to Our Roots

There’s a childlike wonder to it all. Grab a rock and hammer your tent into the dirt. Unpack your things and spread them on a stone. Put on your trunks and get in the lake.

Nature becomes normal. The campsite comes into its own. Water filters hang from branches. A central boulder serves as a surface for the Jetboil stoves, kitchenware, and miscellaneous items.

It’s a blessing to spend time in the woods. It’s not for everybody, but it’s definitely for my friends and me, as trips like this fortify our bond. The trees shimmer green in the afternoon sun. I dive into the lake and open my eyes. The water is silky and cold. The sun shines brightly.

There’s a large stone island in the middle of the lake with one square stone in the middle. It seems as if floating, placed there by some divine entity — Mother Nature. We lie on the island, baking in the sun, then return to the water after roasting. Adult summer camp’s a return to childhood.

With each dive into the lake, every step upon dirt, each gaze toward that imposing mountain ridge, I return to my roots, that of an animal — a friend and human being, trying to make sense of the modern world.

A Campfire Is Love

A fire raging on its own is a terrifying force. But one contained is love. That’s how it feels as we sit around the dancing flame. The coals of the fire burn crystalline orange, mesmerizing as we pass around nips of the good stuff and polish off our dinner.

One of us takes homemade dough from a ziplock bag and dusts a rock with flour, spreading several pieces of dough near the fire to bake. In about an hour we have dessert — campfire bread drizzled with melted honey butter, poured from a glass jar.

The backpacker meals are convenient and filling. Baking bread on an open flame, however — this feels right. Ancient. The bread is charred on the outside and slightly gooey on the inside; buzzed and sitting by a fire, it’s absolutely delicious.

I pass each of the guys a cigar. We smoke them cheerfully, enjoying the silence between conversation and the sound of crackling wood. At around midnight, we crawl into our tents and lay a bit uneven on our pads, perfectly content, nonetheless.

Saturday: The Recipe for Happiness

Water boils for coffee. We still have most of our cigars left, so we light them too. Not a cloud in the sky. Exercise, cold lake, coffee, cigar, sunlight. The recipe for happiness. I journal with my coffee and draw doodles of the guys each at their own activity. Hiking with a stick. Fishing. Having breakfast. Drawing. I write in my journal:

All you hear are dragonflies
Jumping fish
Voices faintly in the distance
Making for a
Quiet mind.

After breakfast, we prepare to set out on a hike. There are lakes higher in the mountains, so we pack a bag with snacks and a beer each, then set off for the day.

There are no straight lines in nature. Only irregular curves and undulations, a landscape both dense and sparse. Forests and open rock faces. A vast blue sky above, pink stone and green moss beneath our feet.

The hike feels wonderful without a pack. I feel like a kid, squatting and sitting, dangling my legs and lying back. After a couple of hours, we reach a lake at the foot of an awesome mountain, all jumping in with our beers. They don’t cool much, but it’s nice to drink them in the water, standing on the squishy marsh.

On the way back down, I breathe consciously, deep into my belly. When I do, it feels like letting go of the need to be perfect. I keep receiving the message — you don’t need to be anything other than what you are.

At dusk, we sit atop the lakeside boulders, taking in the silhouetted mountains. It’s Saturday night. There are other campers too. It’s a good feeling to be among others who have chosen to be here.

Campfires illuminate the purple sky and contours of the forest, which reaches for the stars. We laugh so hard we start to cry beneath a full pearlescent moon. The night is warm. We’ve settled in. Moonlight creeps between the trees and rocks like pale white mist. This campsite is our home.

Sunday: Reconnecting to the Light

I don’t know exactly where I’m meant to be in life. Further ahead, but how could that be; further ahead than what? Where I should be is where I am. I feel like a fish in a river swimming in circles. Yet the current is taking me downstream. So I know I’m going somewhere.

The guys take turns fly-fishing on the edge of the lake, casting the line again and again in a snapping motion to mimic a fly landing on the surface.

“The best part of fishing is casting, so this way you get to keep doing the fun part!”

I head into the forest to gather wood. It hits me that we’re still here, and I laugh. Fuckin’ beautiful. Still in the dirt. The trees. I feel in tune; no music, no sound of cars. Just me and my best friends. We’ll be doing this forever, hopefully one day with our kids.

In the afternoon we lay on some sand in a cove of the lake, tanned and coarse amongst reeds of grass and flies. Deep talks ensue of their own accord. There’s another family at the lake. A dad fishes with his daughter, who squats like a frog. He teaches her to cast, and I can hear them faintly.

The world isn’t so screwed as it seems. Not all of it, at least. There’s sadness, evil, even. So what are we doing out here? Not trying to separate ourselves from it, exactly. But somehow, in our own way, reconnecting to the light.

Monday: Homebound

Back at home, I sit underneath a tree at the park, watching the leaves rustle in the wind. I hear cars, sirens, barking dogs, stimulation. And while I don’t love returning to screens, I feel more at ease, bringing home a piece of the forest with me.