THE FIRST PITCH
How getting their first wild camp right can set your kids – and you – up for a lifetime of outdoor memories.
Long, long ago, somewhere near the dawn of time, around 30 BC (before children), I had a realisation that life would be more fun if there were more of me. So I set about the complicated process that entails starting a family. First I found a beautiful woman. Next, well, let’s skip that bit. Needless to say, a mini me arrived. Now let’s fastforward 11 years. The culmination behind that selfish desire to procreate has finally arrived: I can go wild camping with my son.
Now it has to be said, while my wife trusts me in the mountains with my own life (I’ve 20 years of wanderings under my middleaged belt), she is far less trusting in my ability to look after anyone else – especially when that anyone else is her child. So she cunningly roped in a few friends (responsible adults, apparently), and packed us all off to make memories to last a lifetime...
So: me (Dad), my son Ned, a couple of adult friends, the Lake District, tents, summer weather and bags of childlike enthusiasm. Here we go: father and son’s first wild camp together. Bring it on.
The New Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, sometime in August. Out of the car, we stretch four-hour-stiffened limbs; bags are unpacked and repacked. Ned is looking on, thinking: do these guys really know what they’re doing? Hell yes. He has to learn; any mountain adventure requires pre-adventure faff, and I’ve learned from the best (mentioning no names!). Bags on, mine bulges, my son carries his own and we’re off. The target for our fun-packed wild camp mission is Stickle Tarn. High and away from it all, yet only a 45-minute walk away from four-wheeled civilisation. I can tell Ned is relishing being on a real adventure with three grown-up mates, the banter, the friendship. He’s puffed up with it all, he’s one of us and he’s only just left the car park.
The trawl up to Stickle Tarn is usually just a heads-down, let’s-get-to-the-mountains affair. Today through the eyes of my son I’m seeing it almost as fresh as the first time. The choice of location for the wild camp and the route up were carefully considered. Ned had been up here with the family once before, and I was hoping this would lessen the anxiety about what we were about to do. It was somewhere he could comprehend, even if the act of wild camping itself was almost too much to imagine. On, on, up beside those clear waters. We fill his mind with tales of ghyll scrambles, nights out in the mountains and other such mature activities. I want him to be free in life. I want him to be able to look after himself, look deep into the face of this complex country and find solace and fulfilment, just as I have done and continue to do. I fully expect to be wild camping for as long as my nights last.
Looking on ahead at my son, chatting away as an equal with one of my friends, climbing what they are climbing, sweating as they are sweating, shifting the weight on his shoulders just as we all do; these small things fill me with delight. Eleven years is a long time to wait. I believe in the long game: grow them, nurture them, remember all is interesting to a child, start small and scale up, as and when. Here is the culmination of that. We top out at Stickle Tarn.
The process of selecting a level bit of ground for the tent is usually one I relish and can hardly wait to get done. Today is different. Before the ‘adults’ in the group realise it, Ned and I have unpacked our stash of Nerf guns (foam-dart-firing toy firearms, the likes of which I wish were available when I was his age; at least I’m making up for it now!). The others join in the fun. There is a weapon for everyone, darts whine through the air as Stickle Tarn bears witness to probably its first Nerf battle. Victory is ours, or rather Ned’s, as he turns on his father with a surprise head shot. Thanks, son.
The only trouble with this kind of fun is it takes longer to find the foam darts afterwards than it did for the action to take place. This however leads us smoothly into
looking for a spot to put the tents. The decision is left to Ned, with a few heavy hints as to where and why would be a good place. We all lie down on the spot where we intend to sleep, checking for lumps in the ground and working out which way round to kip. We lie there for a bit too long, all feeling the relief of not carrying those bloomin’ sacks. The tent goes up, and Ned is a part of everything. I give him jobs he will succeed in and help him with trickier things; that way he feels able, yet learns at the same time. Mats go in, hamster-cheeked with air. The sleeping bags are next, fluffed up and ready for later, much later.
This approach to the chores seems to work well. Short periods of intense activity, then arse about for a while. I can see Ned’s mind working: Dad is away camping in the mountains with work all the time, but when does he get a chance to take any photos when there’s all this fun to be had? I reassure him things aren’t normally this relaxed. He nods, but I can tell he is viewing my ‘job’ with a bit more respect. “Maybe my dad’s not so daft after all…”
Stickle Tarn proves the next draw. It’s tomorrow before anyone braves the tropical waters, apart from an impromptu wade in after a couple of Nerf darts. A walk around its shores follows. Free from packs, boulders are climbed and leapt, anything interesting investigated and any challenge attempted. We’re free, for those few blissful hours, 24 of them, lined up in a row for us to do as we wish. Why does it seem like such a luxury? How sad is it that in this age of privilege and wonder, wasting time with your son, bonding, teaching and indeed learning, seems like a luxury. For it’s not just Ned who’s richer for the experience; fatherhood – like being in the mountains – is an ever-changing set of circumstances. It’s a fool who thinks they know everything.
“Dad, I’m hungry!” Ned’s stomach sets the next part of the agenda… scran. Stoves pop as the gas ignites, and the first of many hot chocolates and hot dogs are served. Hands are well and truly not washed, Ned’s face gets covered in tomato sauce. We sit in the grass, back to back for mutual support; lost in the moment, lost in the mountains. Ned is sent off to do the washing-up and returns one minute later having given our mugs a cursory splash in Nature’s washing-up bowl. Life is simple; we just have to survive and enjoy the process.
As after any meal with children, they come back to life almost immediately as the food hits their system. For us oldies, half an hour of stoveside conversation would have been the choice; but, hey, we’re living at Ned’s pace. Frisbee. Not just any game of Frisbee, but one that will echo down the corrie of mountain memories. Far in the future when a stroll to the corner shop for some pipe tobacco is my idea of an adventure, I’ll look back at that game of Frisbee and smile. It goes on and on. Ned proves he’s every bit as good as us and better than some with the plastic disc. The square formed for our game widens. Diving catches become the norm. I deliberately throw the Frisbee nearer and nearer to a bog, but my cunning plan is realised and I’m sent squelching into an unseen morass.
Once exhausted, we gather by the tents, sprawling on the grass. The evening is cooling a little. Ned starts asking questions about wild camping, the realisation dawning on him that he’s out here, among the mountains for the night. After another round of hot chocolate (we operate a ‘dry’ camp on this occasion; there are plenty of opportunities for a pint in life, and this is a night for a clear head), we all cram into our two-person tent. The cards are unpacked from Ned’s rucksack; cue a second surprise – a game of ‘Plop Trumps’. One of our favourites: think Top Trumps but with poo instead of fast cars or footballers. The two ‘responsible’ adults fall about laughing at the sheer variety of droppings, dung, scat or whatever you want to call it. Ned and I both look on with pleasure; everyone is having a great time, not just Ned.
One thing I find makes life more bearable when wild camping is cleaning your teeth. Lots of people I know don’t bother for a onenighter, but I always sleep much better with that minty tang in my mouth. (So why is it I always wake up with my breath smelling like a badger’s arse?) Anyway I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this… yes, that’s it – Brownie points when I get home. If there’s one question that will be asked,
I tell him all about the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui, his eyes widen, then get heavier, droopier, until I realise it’s been a while since the last question.
Ned is toughened; he’s been living in the mountains for 24 hours now. We arrive back at the car and a different world, as if out of battle. It takes us all a while to readjust to the rhythms of 21st century life.
it’ll be: “Ned, did you clean your teeth?” I explain this to him and we both scrub enthusiastically, knowing that the fact that we haven’t washed will be forgiven if we flash pearly-white smiles my wife’s way on our heroic return. Now for the best bit: that moment in time that had been imagined for many years. After saying goodnight to the grown-ups, we lie in our sleeping bags looking up into the distant galaxy that is the inside of the tent and talk. Questions come thick and fast. Requests for ghost stories, anything mountain-related. I tell him all about the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui, his eyes widen, then get heavier, droopier, until I realise it’s been a while since the last question. Looking over to him, his face is lost in peaceful oblivion. He sleeps for Britain.
The morning comes, and sounds outside indicate we are the last to emerge. Ned seems to have fast-forwarded into his teenage years, grunting a greeting. Time for a rude awakening. We are in the mountains and the day is young; we will be home tonight, so let’s live for the moment. Clutching his feet, I pull him out of the tent amid cries of “Daaad!” The adults smile and issue him with a polite, up-beat “Morning, Ned!” This all seems to break the spell of sleep and he comes to life (I resisted the temptation to throw him into the tarn, but only just!). Breakfast is had. We plan a walk from the tents, returning at lunchtime to our base camp to swim, eat, then pack. The journey down is easy. Ned is toughened; he’s been living in the mountains for 24 hours now. We arrive back at the car and a different world, as if out of battle. It takes us all a while to readjust to the rhythms of 21st century life.
Mission accomplished, we report back to our superior officer at home. A shared smile cements the experience. This will be the first of many wild camps together.