Love Letter Series: The Most Important Piece of Gear I Own

I met you just over 13 years ago.

I had just moved to Asheville, North Carolina, with my boyfriend, Luke, after years of long-distance dating while I finished college on Long Island and briefly chased a career in dance in New York City. We tried living on the Outer Banks first, but winter at the beach wasn't for me. 

On a whim, we drove to Asheville during a snowstorm and immediately fell in love with the music, the people, the mountains, and the fact that we could actually afford rent. Soon after, we packed everything we owned into my Chevy Impala and made the move. 

We were young, broke, sleeping on an air mattress that doubled as our couch, and trying to figure out adulthood together. It felt like the beginning of everything. 

A few months later, some friends invited us to the French Broad River Festival, where a random weekend of music and camping introduced me to one of the most important things I'd ever own and unknowingly set the course for much of the life that followed.

You were hanging out at the ENO booth, across from the main stage in a grove of oak trees. You were impossible to miss, those classic Rasta colors glowing in the sunshine, swaying gently in the mountain breeze. It didn’t take much convincing; we bought you on a whim.

Or maybe you chose us. We thought we were buying a place to relax between sets. We didn't realize we were bringing home a companion.

That same weekend, we picked up a bug net and rain tarp, determined to put you to good use. That night, tucked inside your cozy cocoon beneath the trees, Luke and I settled in for a quick rest before one of our favorite bands took the stage. Larry Keel & Natural Bridge were playing, and I was especially excited to see Jenny Keel. If you know you know - she is the best on the upright bass.

Instead, you did what you've done best for the last thirteen years.

You held us. You rocked us. And before we knew it, we had slept through most of the set.

Normally, I'd call that a tragedy. But all these years later, it's one of my favorite memories. Because that was the first time I realized that time feels different when I'm with you. Since then, you've been woven into nearly every chapter of our story, and even written a few.

You were there when we drove cross-country for the first time, through Missouri and Kansas to see the National Monument in Colorado, traverse through the Narrows of Zion, and explore the Grand Canyon. 

Every summer, you make your annual pilgrimage to the beach where we first met, where we hang you beneath the pier in that perfect pocket of shade. While everyone else bakes in the sun, we're swaying in the cool salty breeze, listening to the waves roll in beneath us.

You were there when that boyfriend became my husband. We married at the county magistrates', texted our parents, and escaped to the woods. Every year, you join us as we do the same on our canoe camping anniversary trips. We paddle to a quiet campsite, hang you up between two trees, uncork a bottle of champagne, cook ribeyes over the fire, and spend the evening listening to the crackle of burning wood and the gentle sounds of the river moving past camp. We fall asleep just like we did that first time, with you holding and rocking us. 

Looking back, it's hard to separate my memories from you because you've been present for so many of them. You've quietly witnessed 13 years of growing up together. You've watched our lives unfold from a front-row seat. You've held us through lazy Sunday afternoons, post-adventure naps, and evenings spent dreaming about what came next. You've carried the weight of conversations about careers, weddings, travel plans, and all the little decisions that eventually become a life together.

You've helped build our life together. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a hammock and became a reminder of everything I loved about being outside, adventure, and slowing down. Years later, when an opportunity came to work for the company that made you, it didn't feel like taking a job; it felt like joining a story I had already been living for years. 

Since 2017, I've had the privilege of helping others discover the same joy, comfort, and connection that you gave us from the very beginning. And despite working at ENO since 2017 and owning more hammocks than any household reasonably needs, we still refuse to sleep in anything but you.

You've become the hammock.

Your once-bright colors have softened with a light sheen of dust from across the country. Your fabric carries more pronounced stains from riverbanks, campfires, muddy paws, sunscreen, spilled drinks, sap, and too many adventures to remember. But I wouldn't change a thing.

Every patch is a story. 

Every stain is a memory.

And every time I pull you from your stuff sack, that familiar scent escapes - a mix of campfire smoke, damp earth, pine needles, river water, sunshine, and of course - sweat. It's impossible to describe to anyone else. But for me, that smell is a time machine.

It takes me back to that music festival. To anniversary canoe camping trips. To beach vacations. To mountain mornings. To lazy afternoons. To moments of celebration and moments when life felt heavy, and all I needed was a quiet place to sway for a while.

You are, without question, the most important piece of gear that we own.

So thank you. For the naps. For the adventures. For the memories. For the places you've taken us, even when we never left camp.

And thank you for reminding me, year after year, that some of life's best moments happen just a foot off the ground.

Love always,

Anna (and Luke)

Author Bio

Anna Rawlins is the Chief Marketing Officer at ENO and an avid outdoor enthusiast based in Asheville, North Carolina. She spends her free time mountain biking, gardening, chasing live music, or relaxing in a hammock with her husband, dog, cat, and many chickens. 

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