Summer Camp(ing) in West Cape May
With demand high and supply low, our family decided to throw our hat into the rental ring and invest in a camper that we would live in from June through August. We had a site in West Cape May where we could put it, only a few blocks from our actual home, and over the months of April and May, did some massive downsizing, purging, and packing. The process, especially in fresh retrospect, was quite liberating. “Pack like we’re camping” was our Yin mantra, while “we should only do this if we can be somewhat comfortable” was our Yang. Espresso Machine? Yes, that would have to come with us, even though it takes up half of the entire counter space in the kitchen (“it’s a dead zone corner, though” helped us rationalize it). Our big pellet smoker and grill which got so much use every summer? Nope, too big; that one had to stay behind…besides, where would we even store the pounds of smoked pork always left over from a weekend cook fest? The fridge is small, and the freezer even smaller.
The campground, though, is another world; one that was foreign to us despite being in the same neighborhood as our homes for the last 10 years. A new community of nomads, some having spent the summer here for generations, some new to it, like us, and others swelling the population on weekends in the short-term sites. For decades we have camped as a family, almost exclusively car camping at state parks and forests, like Belleplain up along the Delaware Bayshore. We love being out in nature and sleeping under the stars, as if we needed an excuse to just unplug and connect with the trees, birds, bugs, and other wildlife. Camping gave us that license. Arriving at the campsite is always filled with anticipation; what unexpected encounters will happen this time? Yesterday, as I drove into the campground at the end of a long Thursday at work, that anticipation hit me unexpectedly. New faces were already apparent, walking new dogs I didn’t know. Short-term sites had new campers that weren’t here all week, and it was clear that a new crop of nomads was all getting acquainted or reacquainted with their campground, our campground.
It’s a far cry from deep in the forest, but do they know there are at least three Indigo Buntings nesting on the perimeter? Or that there’s a Northern Mockingbird that spits a bang-on Chuck-will’s-widow verse when he sings in the morning? Or that the West Cape May fire alarm is gonna rock their socks off in the night, but if they listen right afterward, they’re going to hear some awesome high-fidelity coyote howling and more than likely a Barred Owl? Last weekend we spent every evening in the hammocks outside the camper, swaying under a starry sky. Friday was a mix of distant “Enter Sandman,” by Metallica (first the Pickin’ On bluegrass version, then followed by the classic recording), laughter, and a pair of duetting Barred Owls, while Saturday night was eerily quiet by 9pm, with only the sound of the crackling campfire once the kids had turned in.
The stars here, in our little West Cape May, can be surprisingly spectacular, and the proliferation of small solar lights adorning most of the campers are much less light polluting than a single streetlight, which means even dog walks after dark on a clear night can be mesmerizing. So, we’re only into our first couple of weeks on this adventure, but I’m already blown away by how other-dimensional it feels to be in my own “backyard” among hundreds of strangers who have been my neighbors for the last decade. I’m as excited by the prospect of meeting new people (and their dogs) as I am about witnessing the season unfold in the trees, wet woods, and farmed fields that surround our little summer home.
