Vacation without people teaches important lessons

Mrs. Brad and I recently got a taste of what post-apocalyptic life would be like . . . presuming there are no zombies nor nuclear waste and there's still plenty of food.

We got to see how it is to live without other people.

Our annual September vacation now has a familiar flow. We tent camp for a couple of days to accelerate the decompression from regular life. Then we head to a cabin or hotel with showers, a kitchen, beds, a TV and Wi-Fi for the rest of the week. We do it after Labor Day, to avoid traffic.

This time, we also avoided people.

Our camping was done at Lake Siskiyous, across from Mount Shasta along Interstate 5. The campground is huge, with more than 300 sites . . . but we appeared to be the only tent campers there.

We camped for two weekdays. In mid-September, after school started. There were several people in recreational vehicles, but they were in their own part of the campground.

Where we pitched our tent, there were no people. Dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens of empty sites, no people. We had to walk a half-mile to see evidence of humanity.

It was great. Silent, peaceful. We did our regular camping-vacation activities: Hiking and reading. And reading. And resting. And reading.

The peace was fantastic, except . . . on Tuesday, I put my book on my lap, laid my head back and took a quick nap. I felt something on my lap, awakened slightly and . . . saw a squirrel. On my leg. Looking at me.

Wild animals of any type scare me, so I flailed my arms, gasped and the squirrel ran off.

I stopped napping.

After two days, we headed to a cabin near a small body of water called Hyatt Reservoir, about 20 miles east of Ashland, Ore.

There was a cluster of about 20 cabins and one other home had a vehicle in front of it, but we never saw people. We were the only ones there. For three days, the only people we saw was when we drove to one of the two nearby restaurants and saw two or three people.

Otherwise? Us and birds and chipmunks. (After my experience with the squirrel, I was hesitant to relax too much around the chipmunks.)

We hiked most of the way around the reservoir. No people, despite another big campground.

We sat on our deck and watched the sky. No people.

We read our books at the water's edge. No people.

It was refreshing. You could hear  the wind whispering through the trees and the sound of birds' wings flapping as they flew over. No traffic sounds. No sirens. No loud neighbors.

You could get used to this . . . except I couldn't.

By Day 4, I was restless. I wanted to do something. I realized I wanted to be around people and when I asked Mrs. Brad, much more of an introvert than me, she felt the same.

It's peaceful and necessary for us to get away. It's wonderful to be in nature. It's great to be able to read and rest and read and hike and rest.

But we're not ready for life in a remote wilderness – even if the squirrels leave us alone.

A week without people was enough.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.