Opinion: It’s Not Camping if You’re Not in a Tent
The first time I unzipped a tent door, I was 12 years old. It was barely dawn, the nylon walls still damp with morning dew, and the air smelled like pine and woodsmoke. I remember crawling out onto the dirt, knees and palm hitting the wet earth, and feeling a small thrill at waking up surrounded by the wild, my family cocooned up in the tent behind me. It wasn’t glamorous or luxurious, but it felt genuine to me. And the faint ache in my back told me that I had just camped for the first time.
Camping can mean a lot of things. It might mean rolling a trailer into a provincial park with a microwave, air conditioning and a toilet. It might mean lakeside “glamping” in a dome with heated sofas and a comforter. I get the appeal and the idea—really, I do. But for me, and the younger version of me who once woke up to a cold, deflated mattress with a twinkle in her eye, camping isn’t camping without the tent.
I don’t mean this as a jab at people who love their vans or cabins. I’ve been there and done that! Van life, RVing and sleeping in a trailer, glamping pod or a cabin under the stars is absolutely an adventure. But to me, if there’s a solid roof over your head, it’s not camping.
Camping is about surrendering to the wild. It’s about the intimacy of sleeping with a nylon fabric separating you from the wildlife on the other side. It’s about the stirring in your chest that comes with waking to the simplicity of a primitive life, where it feels like you’re experiencing every sound and scent for the first time again.
My most vivid camping memories live in those sleepless tent nights. The first time I went camping with my family, we woke up at 3 a.m. to what we swore was a bear snuffling outside the tent. The second time we went, we had to squeeze the five of us into the tent, realizing that my siblings and me had outgrown it. The third time we went, I barely slept because the rain splattered all night on our tarp.
You may think these are all reasons why I would be happier, more comfortable, in an RV or cabin, but you think wrong. Yes, I was frustrated or uncomfortable. But it was the raw awareness that I wasn’t in charge which kept me going on tent camping trips over the years.
And control isn’t easy for me to give up. As the oldest daughter of my family, I’ve always felt the need to live up to expectations, prepare for every (good or bad) outcome and be the steady one when things tilt off balance. The pressures were suffocating, especially as I grew older and realized I needed to choose between my dreams and my responsibilities (spoiler: I chose both, somehow). But in the Great Outdoors, it’s the wild and you, just existing along with it. I learned to let go, to let nature’s process take over, to come to peace with it. I learned to stop being the rigid, tense older sister. I learned that you have to sacrifice comfort and control at times because the feeling of being so utterly vulnerable is a freedom in itself. It allows you to live in the moment.
Plus, it’s pretty damn fun.
When I pack for a camping trip, I search for gear that feels like the perfect middle ground between civilization and wilderness; a barrier thick enough to keep the rain out, but thin enough to not forget where I am and what I’m surrounded by. When I lie awake listening to the raindrops on the fabric roof or the shuffle of something (or someone) outside, I’m reminded that I’m a guest in the wild. I don’t own it.
Personally, I don’t want the curated version of camping in a cabin or RV. They create a distance from the outdoors, in my opinion. I feel like tent camping forces me to be a part of my surroundings. I notice how wet the ground is before setting up. I pay attention to the wind direction. I feel the coolness of the night in my bones. There’s a humility there that you get from the closeness to nature, one I risk losing when I buffer myself from it with glass windows and a thermostat.
Maybe for some, a trailer is the only way to make nature accessible. Maybe the act of stepping outside matters more than the setup. But when I think about why I go camping—to feel small, to feel a lack of control, to feel a connection—I can’t imagine doing it without a tent to crawl into.
The uncomfortable moments are the moments I remember best. Those are the moments that motivate me to make next year’s reservation. The ones that strip away convenience and leave you feeling oddly grateful—those are the moments I camp for.
To me, a tent isn’t just a shelter. It’s the point.
Here Are Dania’s Go-To Tents
