Mary Jane Skala: I pitched my tent in September at deserted Gallagher Canyon

At last, soundless quiet.

At last, no lights.

At last, stars scattered like crystals of salt across the night sky.

At last, the perfect place to pitch my tent.

I write this in late September, seven weeks after my double mastectomy squashed any plans to camp late in the summer. No way could I pitch a tent, unroll my sleeping bag, and lug logs to my site for a campfire.

As autumn arrives and days grow shorter, I recall my first experience at Gallagher Canyon State Recreation Area in September 2019. I had no idea this little shanghai-la existed until, as one of the last tent campers in this state, I'd written a column complaining about the racket of generators and all-night lights of RVs at nearby campgrounds. A reader from Holdrege suggested I try Gallagher Canyon. He warned that it was a bit hard to find, but he said it had no electric hookups, so it was perfect for tents.

On a warm Saturday morning that week, I set out. I hurried west on I-80, exited at Cozad and turned south. I had to sniff out an alternate route after bridge construction closed the primary highway, but I found a dusty road that twisted past drying corn and silver silos.

I thought I was lost until I spotted a humble wooden sign peeking out between the corn stalks that said Gallagher Canyon State Recreation Area. Its arrow pointed west.

The road turned and dipped and finally spit me out on a little bridge over a reservoir. At first, I didn't see a single tent under the tall trees on the main campground. I knew few people camp this time of year, especially in cowering-in-the-corner places such as this, but it was so deserted that I feared it was closed for the season. But I kept following that road. It was thin as a garter snake. At last I discovered a few hardy campers sequestered in secluded spots on the banks of the reservoir.

Exploring a bit, I found a delicious little campsite down by the lake. Perfect. I set up my tent and my camp stove, unfolded my red camping chair at the water's edge, and settled in.

I did precious little for the next day and a half. I wrestled over tough New York Times crossword puzzles. I read a book. I watched two kayaks as red as ripe apples skim silently across the reservoir. I saw patient fishermen in little boats on the water. I watched blue herons swim on the lake, then fly away. I took a walk.

My only niggle of a complaint was the trek to the outhouse. The closest one was locked. I guessed it had been padlocked right after Labor Day. The other one — the only other one — was two-tenths of a mile from my campsite. It was a sedate stroll in the daylight but a bit far to walk alone with a flashlight at night. No problem. I just used a nearby tree.

As the sun slipped downward, I cooked dinner over my camp stove. Then I lit a blazing bonfire and watched its flames poke their fingers high into the cloudless sky.

Far off, I heard cows bawling. I heard trains, too.

At last, when my campfire had dwindled down to gleaming coals, I closed my book and crawled into my tent and snuggled into my sleeping bag, but I didn't sleep.

I laid on my back and stared up through the screened tent roof. I saw billions of stars no bigger than the blink of an eye winking overhead.

I listened, too. I heard a bird call. I heard another bird respond, over and over. I heard an owl far away. Now and then, I heard splashes in the water. For a brief time, I heard distant dogs barking madly, but they quieted, too. At last, I fell asleep.

I awoke at dawn and saw orange clouds in the sky as wispy as melting sherbet spilling into the eastern horizon.

I took a walk before breakfast. On this Sunday morning, this wondrous Eden was my church.

I hiked up to that big empty campground and explored bony fingers of land reaching out toward the water. I discovered weedy, neglected paths down to the water.

Across the sleepy lake in early fall were trees splashed with red and gold as if they'd been spatter-painted. Cattails and willows dappled in the middle of the lake.

As I walked quietly back to my campsite, I brushed past sumac leaves that were burnished with red shellac. Autumn, still officially two days away, had tiptoed in early. It's the best time of year. I sat down and clutched my mug of steaming coffee. I was at peace.