You know you’re not an average grandma when your 15-year-old granddaughter has perfect eyebrows, well-defined eyelids, and a hint of blush on her cheeks, and she looks at you with a polite stare. I always wear a “naked” face like I just got out of the shower, my signature shirt and denims, and my Merrel, the ones trail runners and hikers wear in the mountains.  But I’m not anywhere near the great outdoors. I’m sitting with my grandchildren – a boy and girl both aged 15, and another girl, 10.

Yes, I am a grandmother. Yes, I still work full time. And yes, I can set up a tent and awning, hammer the pegs to keep them stable, and still have energy to unload a table, chair, camping stove and cook my dinner. That’s what I call “living the dream”—though my grandchildren seem a little confused what I am talking about when I tell them about that.

At 15 and 10, my grandkids are firmly rooted in the digital world and the comfort of air conditioning and food prepared by somebody else.

Meanwhile, I drive out of the metro leaving urban comfort behind, enjoying the ritual of struggling up from an air mattress, finding my balance, and almost stumbling out of my tent.

Making coffee is a slow ritual. Assembling the camping stove a little bigger than my fist, and installing the butane cannister looks easy when other campers do it. But I fumble with finding the right alignment to turn that thing to work!

I heat water in my lovely collapsible kettle, fetching water from a jerry can perched inconveniently away from where the stove sits on a table where I also have my laptop. When the steam says the water is ready, I pour it into a coffee presser where three tablespoons of ground coffee have been waiting for that blend.

The ritual matches my slow pace that slows my breath for the serene panorama of forests veiled by early morning mist. It’s a view that makes me drive out of the city, leaving my air-conditioned room and comfortable bed, and my efficient coffee maker – just to sit there and feel lost. Even if it’s too early to get up, I am in a good mood.

Our worlds collide, often hilariously, but only I seem to know that.  My grandchildren, who call me Mita, short for Mamita, hardly ask where I’ve been or why I have strange things in my house. At least a dozen trekking poles stand like a flower arrangement from a large clay vase. A row of tube bags leaning on the wall efficiently pack a tent, tables, even an air bed! And a large box holding “my kitchen” has a griller, stove, folding kettle, skillet, pot, vinegar, cooking oil, salt, sugar, cream and various canned meat.

It’s a world apart from what my granddaughter sees at home. My daughter’s kitchen is organized like an IKEA showcase.

My Hilux is another story. Two awnings are attached, one on either side — the larger one to shade my living and dining area, the smaller one, which has not been opened for a while, to provide shade for me when I want to sit alone. I’m sure my grandchildren think my pickup is “like a Transformer or something.” Well, that’s right; once I pull into a campsite, I do transform—from busy working woman into Trail Queen, Keeper of the collapsible kettle, and Master of the power source.

So I’m different from all grandmas they must have met by now. But no one is saying so, not yet. No one is also asking why I’m still working when other grandmas they know have retired and are driving their grand kids to school.

Meanwhile, I’m constantly checking my phone for emails to edit stories and pages, am on zoom calls and viber —sometimes all at once—even on Sundays and holidays. My grandchildren think it’s strange that someone of my, let’s say, distinguished age hasn’t retired to a life of bingo and “Wheel of Fortune.” But I tell them, “I’ll slow down when my inbox does.”

Probably, they see me as an anomaly—a grandmother who wears hiking boots more often than house slippers, owns more collapsible cookware than Tupperware, and has a trekking pole for every road trip. I don’t bake cookies, I fold groundsheets. I don’t knit; I tie tarp knots. They love me, but they’re not entirely sure what I am.

I imagine them trying to describe me to their friends. “She’s like… old but not old? She has a truck and a walkie-talkie. And she works? Like… works works?”

My grandchildren may never fully understand why my heart beats faster at the thought of a new campsite or trailhead, or why my idea of “unwinding” involves the inconvenience of looking homeless. But they’ll remember that Mamita showed up—fully alive, fully caffeinated, and always ready to camp at a moment’s notice.

And who knows? Maybe one day, they’ll look at a tent and smile.