Decades before I was born, my father worked outdoors. He lived in tents and rode horses as he surveyed future roads for the federal government. As you can see, he was a rugged dude.
But I knew him only as a white collar guy with a briefcase, commuting to an office, reading the newspaper every evening, watching Perry Mason reruns.
By the time I came along (the last of six kids) Dad had no interest in the great outdoors, except for mowing the lawn. My family lore includes the tale of The Aborted Camping Trip (the first and last family campout ever) that happened before I was born.
So I didn't grow up doing a lot of camping. Yet here I am, doing it full time. And it feels totally natural. It would probably be as much of a surprise to my old man as it is to me.