Camping on the Cossatot (2026)

I’ve just returned from my epic camping trip on the Cossatot River in the wilds of Arkansas: suntanned, bug-bitten, smoke-scented, and approximately 14% feral.

14% feral

Wednesday found me cramming my tiny rental SUV with what appeared to be enough gear for a family of six outfitted for the Oregon Trail. Apparently, I subscribe to the "better to have it and not need it" school of packing, which explains why I had everything short of a backup generator and emotional support llama.

I pointed the car northeast toward the Ouachita Mountains armed with little more than a dropped map pin and blind faith that I'd eventually find the campsite before someone reported an aimless middle-aged woman wandering the Arkansas backwoods. I giggled when I passed a church with a sign out front: “God loves your stinky, wretched soul.” As if that wasn’t going to be the truth in about five days. As the pavement gave way to dirt roads and Amos Lee serenaded me through the speakers, the bars on my phone disappeared one by one. It was equal parts peaceful and concerning. Nothing says "embrace nature" quite like realizing Google can no longer save you.

Eventually I bounced down the final dirt road and rolled into camp, where my friends welcomed me with the enthusiasm usually reserved for someone bringing ice. Then came the glamorous part of camping: hauling bins, wrestling a tent, sweating through every article of clothing I wore, and donating approximately three pints of blood to Arkansas's thriving mosquito population. By the time I had all my gear unpacked, I'd lost roughly a gallon of sweat and at least a pint of blood.

Chez Shasta

Once camp was finally set up, I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes, wriggled into my swimsuit, poured myself a cup of ambition, and carefully made my way down the steep hill toward the river, trying very hard not to become the evening's cautionary tale. One misplaced step and I'd have been "that woman from Texas who died carrying a pool noodle."

I shoved my float into the crystal-clear water, climbed aboard with all the grace of an aging walrus, and let the current carry me downstream. The river was cold, the sun was warm, the pines towered overhead, and for the first time in a long while, my brain just...stopped. Every worry drifted away right alongside me and my friends.

Of course, if that had been the whole story, I wouldn't be writing about it.

Later the afternoon, the rain came. I’d been through camping trips of monsoons and raging rivers of water rushing over my feet. This was not that, thank goodness. Instead, it was about an hour of light, cooling refreshing rain. Still, it was enough to water-log everything and emit enough humidity to make my hair curl.

That evening, after stuffing myself with Jason's excellent camp cooking and playing our traditional game of Shanghai (relatively sober, I might add—which makes the next part infinitely more embarrassing), I set off for my tent in the pitch dark.

And then: disaster. The tarp outside my tent reached up and grabbed my foot. Or I slipped on the wet tarp. It’s a toss-up at this point.

I launched into what cheerleaders affectionately call a herkie. The rest of the world calls it "an older woman accidentally doing the splits against her will."

Friends, I have not voluntarily approached the splits since Ronald Reagan was president. My hamstrings have spent the last thirty-plus years operating under the assumption that we don't do that anymore.

My left leg went one direction. My right leg went another. That was some National Lampoon shit right there.

The pain in my hamstring was immediate. Burning. Excruciating. I just lay there in the dark wondering if this was how they'd find me: taken out not by a bear, a snake, or the rugged Arkansas wilderness, but by a $14.99 tarp from Walmart.

The next morning, I discovered that every single thing involved in camping requires the use of a hamstring.

Standing? Hamstring.

Walking? Hamstring.

Getting out of a tent that was apparently designed by Cirque du Soleil? Definitely hamstring.

I was in so much pain that Jason (Erin's husband) actually saw me cry, which I believe unlocked a new level in our friendship. There are people you know, people you trust, and then there are people who've watched you ugly-cry because your leg betrayed you in the Arkansas wilderness.

To his credit, Jason immediately handed me four painkillers with the calm confidence of a man who has clearly seen – and done – camping-related stupidity before. Erin emerged from her tent carrying a warming pack, and soon I was reclining in my camp chair like a tragic Victorian invalid, waiting to be fanned with palm fronds and fed grapes.

I was convinced my trip was over.

Getting in and out of my tent required a combination of strategy, prayer, and language unbecoming of a churchgoing woman. The hike down to the river looked less like a pleasant stroll and more like gingerly picking my way through landmines. I wasn't even convinced I'd be able to drive home in a few days without leaving my rental SUV in rural Arkansas and calling it a gift to the forest.

Thankfully, chemistry prevailed where optimism had failed. The painkillers kicked in, the warming pack loosened things up, and later I gingerly hobbled down to the river and let the icy water work its magic. I wasn't exactly sprinting through the Ouachitas, but I had upgraded from "call Life Flight" to "might survive the weekend," and at that point, I considered that a win.

So, thankfully, that was the major calamity of the trip. The rest of the weekend was exactly what camping should be: amazing food, good friends, and great conversation.

Camp girls

We feasted like royalty in the wilderness with walking Frito pies (thank you, Pam!), smoked brisket (thank you, Jason!), and chili dogs (thank you, Hanna and Grace!). Although, I will say, the chili dogs apparently had some powerful aftereffects because the next morning the men disappeared into the woods with the urgency and determination of Olympic sprinters.

I, meanwhile, remained grateful for the ladies' poop tent, affectionately named Poopourri.

Life ain’t always beautiful, but it’s a beautiful ride on a float on the Cossatot River. One afternoon, while the group went down the road to their family reunion, I spent some time on the float enjoying the dragonflies over the water and the fish under it. Butterflies fluttering. Sun shining. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks. The swish of my hand in the water as I navigated myself around the swimming hole. The whispering pines. It was glorious.

Shasta and Bonne

Best of all, I got to spend time with some of my favorite people in the world: Bonne, Thomas, Jason, Erin, Pam, Cheryl, Hanna, Grace, Kennon, Cadence (and their friends) and Chester. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the camp dogs: Liebe, Coco, Belle, and the Twins.

Hanna and Grace

You couldn’t put a price on any of it, but -- 

One of my favorite things in life is a good story, and Erin delivered a masterpiece.

Apparently, one year a raccoon decided that her tent was the perfect place to host a midnight scratching concert, keeping both Erin and their dog wide awake. Rather than politely asking it to leave—as most reasonable people might do—Erin chose a different conflict-resolution strategy.

She punched it.

Through the tent wall.

Jason calmly summarized the event as, "Sent that little bastard down the hill with two black eyes," and I nearly launched myself out of my camp chair laughing. Or I would have, if it didn’t involve my hamstring.

Honestly, I don't know what impressed me more: Erin's commitment to protecting her sleep or the mental image of a very confused raccoon stumbling away from the tent wondering what just happened.

This is why I love camping. You may not have a shower, you may get eaten alive by insects, and you may injure yourself doing accidental gymnastics, but you will absolutely limp home with a good story.