Glamping Is Just Camping for Cowards — and I'm Fine With That

The first morning of glamping in northern New Mexico, I sat outside my canvas-walled cabin with a mug of pour-over coffee, watching the sun climb over the Sangre de Cristos. The air smelled of juniper and woodsmoke from last night’s fire pit, which someone else had built and extinguished. Unlike my last trip, where I’d slept on a deflated mattress in a cold puddle, this time I’d unzipped my sleeping bag halfway before dozing off, my head on a real pillow, my feet warm inside a heated throw. Markus would scoff—he once told me glamping was just camping for cowards—but as the coffee steamed against the rising light, I didn’t care. I did. And I didn’t.

I did. And I didn’t.

That trip—Shenandoah, November, rain—was the last time I tried to prove I was a Real Camper. Somewhere around hour six of shivering, I realized I didn’t want a merit badge. I wanted a good time. I wanted to not be wet. I wanted breakfast. And that’s when I discovered glamping.

What Is Glamping, Really?

Glamping is camping with a safety net. It’s sleeping in a yurt with a wood stove instead of a tent with a pinhole leak. It’s a bed that doesn’t kiss the ground. It’s a door you can lock. And to the purists—the Markus types—it’s a betrayal of the camping ethos. “You’re not really camping,” they sniff. “You’re just sleeping outside with room service.”

To which I say: correct. And I’m fine with that.

Let’s be honest: the word “glamping” is easy to mock. It sounds like a combination of glamour and camping, which is exactly what it is. But I’ve come to see it as a radical act of self-care. I don’t need to prove my toughness by sleeping on gravel. I need to prove I can still get outside and sleep under the stars—and actually enjoy it.

My Friendly Feud with a Hardcore Backpacker

Markus and I have been friends for a decade, and for a decade he’s been trying to convert me. He’s the kind of guy who hammock-camps in winter, who thinks a headlamp is luxury, who once told me that “the best part of camping is the misery.” I love him. He’s wrong.

Our feud is good-natured, but it’s real. He sends me links to ultralight tents. I send him links to domes with heated floors. He talks about bear hangs. I talk about on-site kitchens. Last year, he came to visit me at a glamping site in Oregon—a canvas cabin with a queen bed, a porch swing, and a fire pit. He spent the first hour testing the windows for drafts and complaining that the bed frame was “unnecessary weight.” By morning, he’d slept nine hours and made a fire in the stove without my help. He still won’t admit it was better.

But I know. I saw his face when he woke up dry.

The Real Mistakes I Made Before I Converted

If you’re thinking about glamping—or you’ve been shamed into thinking you shouldn’t—let me save you some trouble. Here’s what I learned the hard way.

First: not all glamping is equal. My first glamping experience was a “bell tent” that turned out to be a glorified party tent with a rug. No insulation. No stove. Just a mattress on the ground and a propane lantern. I froze. The lesson: read reviews. Look for photos of the actual bedding. If it says “canvas” but doesn’t mention a heater, ask.

Second: bring your own pillow. This sounds obvious, but I’ve stayed at three glamping sites where the pillows were either flat as a tortilla or stuffed with what felt like shredded tires. A good pillow is the difference between a magical night and a cranky morning. Also: eye mask. Glamping sites often have ambient lighting that never turns off.

Third: pack for weather, not for aesthetics. I once brought a cute flannel blanket to a glamping cabin in the Rockies. It was July. It snowed. The cabin had a heater, but I’d left it off to “save the vibe.” Idiot. Now I pack a puffy jacket and wool socks every time, even in summer. Glamping might be luxurious, but nature doesn’t care about your vibe.

Why Glamping Isn’t Less Authentic

The argument against glamping is that it sanitizes the outdoor experience. That you can’t truly connect with nature if you’re not suffering. I think that’s gatekeeping disguised as philosophy.

I’ve had some of my most profound outdoor moments in a cabin in Vermont, watching snowfall from a warm bed. I’ve seen more wildlife from glamping sites than I ever did from a tent—because I wasn’t constantly fixing my gear. I sat still. I listened. I wasn’t miserable.

Does suffering make you a better camper? Maybe. Does it make you happier? In my experience, no. I want to see the stars, but I also want to sleep through the night. I want to hike all day and then take a hot shower. I want to cook a meal without worrying about bears. And I want to do it all with people I love, not with people who are too cold to speak.

Tips You Won’t Find in a Generic Listicle

Here’s the truth: glamping has its own challenges. It’s not “camping on easy mode”—it’s different. Here are two things I’ve learned that no article ever told me.

1. The best glamping sites have a clear separation between sleeping and living areas. I stayed in a yurt in California that was basically one big room: bed in the corner, kitchen two feet away. It sounds cozy, but if one person wants to sleep and the other wants to read, you’re in a conflict. Look for sites with a loft, a separate sleeping nook, or at least a curtain. Your relationship will thank you.

2. Book based on the host, not just the property. I’ve had incredible glamping stays where the host left fresh eggs and firewood. I’ve also had terrible ones where the host was unreachable and the “hot tub” was cold. Read the guestbook. See how the host responds to reviews. A great host can make a mediocre site wonderful; a bad host can ruin paradise.

The Bottom Line

Glamping isn’t for everyone. If your idea of a perfect trip involves purifying water from a stream and sleeping on a rock, more power to you. I’ll be over here in my yurt, drinking coffee made with real milk, watching the sunrise through a window that doesn’t fog up.

Markus still gives me grief. He calls my trips “camping with training wheels.” But last week, he texted me a photo of a glamping dome in Colorado. “This one has a sauna,” he wrote. “You in?”

I’m in. I’m always in. Because glamping isn’t cowardice. It’s knowing what you want and not apologizing for it. It’s getting outside without getting wrecked. It’s the best of both worlds: the fire, the stars, the smell of pine—and a dry, warm bed to come back to.

And that’s something I’m proud to defend.