One thousand two hundred and twenty-eight generations ago, my ancestor lay curled in a shallow depression scratched from the soil of a low African cave, listening to the night. Fear and Hunger waged a Great Battle in him. Fear was mighty and terrible in its strength, neither reasoned nor conceptual. It was real; a knowing in my ancestor, more prominent than sight, that out there beyond the cave he was outmatched prey. Just so, Hunger was a tireless foe, grinding forever away at Fear, like wind driving the mountain, grain by grain, to the sea. Hunger gnawed and scratched prodding my ancestor on, its message whispering incessantly from behind, “I am ever near and when you stop, you become mine forever”.
He rose at dawn, no more taxed by the Great Battle than he was by the rise and fall of the moon – each being omnipresent and unalterable – and with his club and his spear, he resumed the stalk. That is why he is my ancestor.
I love camping with kids, particularly the glimpses of family history.