Outside Time

When my kids later went to camp there, I found out, and I loved it as much as I dreamed I would. The towering pines. The lakes and rivers. The little dirt roads wandering through the woods. And the people, who seemed to know themselves. Those getaways as a family brought us closer to a form of nature that seemed untouched. It reminded me of the importance of silence, of being able to hear yourself. Paddling in a canoe around a lake under a big sky, going on solitary walks, warming ourselves by a cabin fire—we stepped out of time, rediscovered a special sense of peace, and got swept up by the rustic charm of living simply, away from it all. For a while, we thought we might buy a house there—like the one I’d dreamed about as a kid. I got a Woody instead.

These days I feel a particular yearning for such places and the things they bring to mind. I think of people, writers especially, that wrote about how living close to nature inspired them—people like Henry Thoreau and Ernest Hemingway and the naturalist Rachel Carson. I think of rugged clothes made with natural materials that relate to that special approach to life. They are all part of the spirit of a living landscape representing the values that flourish there: hard work, individuality, freedom, integrity, and a deep belonging.