From Campfires to Cruises A Single Mothers Journey to Adventure - Part I
Two weeks of paid vacation can feel like a miracle when you have spent years raising children, paying bills, working hard, and trying to hold everything together.
For a long time, that was my life. I was a single mother raising two children, working year after year, doing what needed to be done. Vacations were not something I took for granted. They were something I saved for, hoped for, and dreamed about.
When I finally put together two full weeks of paid vacation, I felt like I had been handed a little piece of heaven.
We split those two weeks in the best way I could imagine. The first week was camping through California, Oregon, and Washington. The second week was a cruise. One week close to the earth, the next week out on the open water.
Both changed me. Both shaped my relationship with my children. Both taught me that adventure does not have to be perfect to be priceless.
The first real vacation felt like a gift
When you are raising children on your own, life can become a long line of responsibilities.
There are lunches to pack, shoes to buy, homework to check, bills to pay, and jobs to show up for even when you are tired. You learn how to stretch money, time, patience, and energy. You learn how to keep going.
So when I finally had two paid weeks away from work, I did not see vacation as a luxury. I saw it as a blessing.
I wanted my children to have memories that were bigger than our daily routine. I wanted us to laugh somewhere new. I wanted us to be away from clocks, chores, and the pressure of being practical all the time.
That first week, we went camping all over the West Coast. California, Oregon, and Washington gave us trees, lakes, campfires and mountain roads that seemed to go on forever.
We did not travel fancy. We traveled packed in tight.
Our 1980 Toyota Corolla was filled to the hilt. Camping gear, clothes, food, blankets, and all the things a mother thinks she might need were crammed into every possible space. My children’s faces were practically smashed against the windows between all our stuff.
Looking back, that image still makes me laugh.
At the time, it was just what we had to do. We made room. We squeezed in. We drove away.
And somehow, that little overstuffed car carried us toward some of the happiest memories of our lives.
Camping brought us closer in a way ordinary days could not
Camping gave us something simple and rare. It gave us time.
There were no big distractions. No crowded schedules. No rushing from one responsibility to the next. We had the woods, the water, the fire, and each other.
Those days became precious because they asked very little from us. We did not need tickets or reservations for every hour. We did not need to dress up. We did not need to impress anyone.
We only needed to show up where we were.
The beauty of camping is that everything becomes part of the experience:
Setting up the tent
Finding dry wood
Cooking over the campfire
Waking up to cool morning air
Watching children explore
Sitting near the water without saying much
Cooking over a campfire felt especially meaningful to me. It was a back to nature experience in the truest sense. A simple meal tasted better outdoors. Coffee smelled richer. Even the work felt different.
There is something grounding about feeding your family under the trees.
The fire becomes the kitchen. The picnic table becomes the gathering place. The lake or stream nearby becomes a kind of quiet companion.
I have always been drawn to water, especially lakes and streams. Water settles something in me. It gives me access to my spiritual journey in a way few other things can. Sitting beside a lake, listening to a stream move over stones, or watching sunlight dance across the surface reminds me that life keeps moving.
Water does not demand. It invites.
It invites reflection. It invites gratitude. It invites healing.
During that camping week, I felt connected to my children, to nature, and to something larger than myself.
The lake became our playground and our teacher
One of the best parts of that camping life was how it drew people together.
Siblings, aunts, uncles, and friends joined us along the way. The circle grew. So did the laughter. There is a special kind of joy that happens when family and friends gather outdoors, especially around water.
That was where we all learned how to water ski.
It still makes me smile to think about it. Nobody starts out graceful. There is slipping, splashing, shouting, laughing, and trying again. Someone gives advice from the boat. Someone else cheers from the shore. Someone falls and comes up laughing.
Water skiing gave us more than a new skill. It gave us a shared story.
Years later, those are the memories that still come up in conversation. We talk about the camping trips with smiles and laughter. We remember the squeeze of the car, the campfire meals, the lakes, the family, and the goofy attempts to stay upright on skis.
Those memories became part of our family language.
They reminded my children and me that we were not only surviving. We were finally living. We were building something beautiful together.
As a single mother in recovery, that meant the world to me.
I could not give my children everything. No parent can. But I could give them adventure. I could give them my presence. I could give them proof that joy can be found in simple places.
A tent. A lake. A campfire. A car packed too full.
Sometimes that is enough.
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