The curse of cowboy camping

I was the first in my group to cowboy camped, both compelled and excited to embark on a new adventure.

On the first night, in the middle of the desert, I woke up many times, thinking about the scorpios and snakes around. I was caught in a cloud, and my sleeping bag was drenched by morning, losing all its insulating properties. It was cold.

On the second night I attempted the experience, it was so cold that by morning the dew had frozen on my bag. I woke up throughout the night, shivering. It was freezing.

On the third night, the wind was so strong that pitching a tent wouldn't have been possible. I had spent the day ahead of my group, who couldn't catch up with me. I had chosen a small spot partially sheltered by Judas trees, and during the night my pillow blew away. While chasing it, my inflatable mattress was caught in a gust and ended up in a cactus. Of course, after that I couldn’t keep it inflated for long.

I tried one last time, and it rained.

At this point, we concluded that I was subject to some kind of curse, because for all my friends, nights “à la belle étoile” as we say in France, were relatively uneventful. I was even asked not to cowboy camp around my friends as I was considered bad luck for everyone. It’s also faster to set up and get up in the morning but I then decided to stop this practice; one is too exposed to the elements, to biting and stinging creatures, and for someone who needs their personal space, a tent represents a small, appropriate square, a place of ephemeral sovereignty and rest.

The price of a fearful, restless sleep is waking up with a sense of solitude, in the middle of the desert, far from the lights of civilization, and losing oneself in the vastness of the sky and the Milky Way.