Nights are cool at camp, especially in early summer when the still icy river puts a chill in the breezes that sweep across the water. Inside the tent, I pile blankets, old quilts, and ancient sleeping bags to snuggle into. My father always says, "These nights are great for sleeping." All the fresh air and exercise and sunshine of the daytime makes me so tired that I fall to sleep within minutes of finding a comfortable spot on the floor of the tent.
When you sleep in a tent, you wake at first light, with the songbirds of the marsh making more noise than any alarm clock ever could. On cold days, I'll wake up early to eat breakfast and then drag a blanket out into the sunny field, where I can stretch my body into the warmth and let the sunlight massage me.
At home, Boy in Black and Older Neighbor Boy are nocturnal creatures, often playing the guitar or biking in the middle of the night, but at camp they both went to bed right after we doused the campfire, which was not much past ten o'clock. I wasn't surprised to find them napping under the pine trees after breakfast. I think their bodies needed to recover from the shock of a decent night's sleep.