The Campsite

I was born and raised in Minnesota, I’m a homegrown girl who grew up on the St. Croix River near Taylors Falls. My hometown is called Almelund and has a population of 200. It’s a strange little place, but it had what my parents were looking for. Thirty acres of land, and a farmhouse ready to be rescued. Dad knew how to build shit, and Mom knew how to grow shit. Dad scooped out the giant boulders that were poorly holding up the house, and built an actual foundation. Mom planted massive gardens that brought huge harvests. She canned and dried herbs and stored gourds in the basement. My parents made something out of nothing, and weren’t afraid to do it.

Many of my formative years were spent at Wild River State Park, hiking and skiing and biking on trails through the woods. I canoed and kayaked and swam in the river. I camped in the most secluded campsites, only accessible by canoe or backpack. There’s only one rule in places like that: leave the campsite cleaner than you found it.

There’s one rule: Leave the campsite cleaner than you found it.

I learned a lot of lessons on the trails and the river. Coat myself in sunscreen and bug spray, wear appropriate shoes, and don’t touch anything with three shiny green leaves. HEARD. Don’t eat berries, even if they look delicious. Same goes for mushrooms. Watch my feet, tree roots will grab and snap my ankle like a twig. Don’t swim too far into the river, the undertow will pull me under. HEARD. It’s a wilderness out there.

Cheers, to my parents and everyone out there who has made something out of nothing. Cheers, to all of us fighting the undertow and wearing appropriate shoes. And cheers, to leaving the campsite cleaner than we found it.