Drifting into solitude

I just got back from a camping trip with my dog, Hank, and it was one for the books. We spent over 27 hours completely on our own, not another soul for miles. There’s something magical about that kind of solitude—just me, my old rescue buddy, and the open wild. Hank, who’s about 10 years old now (give or take—he’s a bit of a mystery), was in his element. He loves any adventure we throw his way, and this one was no exception.

This time, we decided to camp on an island nestled right in the middle of the Wabash River. (If your not familiar with the Wabash, just know it's a river that's to thick to drink and to thin to plow.) I had originally thought it was state-owned land, but as it turns out, it’s privately owned. Luckily, the owners were more than happy to let us camp there. In fact, they seemed genuinely thrilled that someone wanted to enjoy the same little refuge that had been their childhood playground. No hassle, just a friendly welcome—exactly the kind of interaction that makes these adventures even better.

I got off work, early Thursday morning and went straight into prepping mode, staying up all day to make sure we had everything ready. The plan was simple: launch the rowboat upstream of the island, let the current carry us down, and hit the island by noon. My buddy Butch offered to help with the logistics, picking us up and dropping us off at the public boat launch. Since the boat and trailer aren’t registered (and rowboats don’t need to be), we just tossed the boat in the back of his truck and hit the road.

The float down the river took about an hour. It was a strange kind of anticipation, drifting toward this mass of land, not quite certain if it was the island or just another sandbar. But as we got closer, the picture became clear—this was our destination. We dropped anchor (which, in true DIY fashion, was a 10-pound free weight I had lying around) and went ashore to scope out a campsite.

The island was mostly sand, with patches of tall weeds, but nothing too thick to walk through. After wandering for a bit, we found a spot near a dead tree that looked perfect—it had seasoned so well, it was basically begging to be turned into firewood. I cleared out a patch of weeds, set up our hammock, and got to work chopping wood.

That’s when I realized I had my work cut out for me. The dead tree turned out to be some kind of hardwood, and not just any hardwood—this thing was tough as nails. My new hatchet, which I had just picked up and was itching to break in, protested with every swing. The wood was so hard that, when I managed to make a cut, the grain shimmered like glass, as if the hatchet was burnishing the surface instead of splitting it. It felt like I was fighting the thing more than chopping it, but I eventually decided to change tactics. Instead of trying to cut it down into small pieces for kindling, I let the fire do the heavy lifting and burned the logs in half as they lay.

Once the fire was going, Hank and I settled in for the evening. There’s nothing quite like sitting around a campfire on a deserted island, just you, your dog, and the crackle of flames under the night sky. It’s the kind of peace you can’t buy—and the kind that makes you realize how unnecessary all the noise of modern life really is.