FIRST PERSON
went to the primitive campsites of Old Man’s Cave and pitched our two-person tent. We had spaghetti for dinner and brownies “baked” on a wood fire. The guys kept asking whether we wanted to go “snipe hunting.” I found out later that that meant taking us into the woods and leaving us there to find our way back to camp.
A few years later, after I’d gotten married, my husband, Bob, and I would go “cabin camping”: With a couple of friends, we rented a cabin at Lake Hope. Although the cabin had a kitchen, we cooked our meals over a charcoal grill in the screened-in porch (fire pits weren’t a thing then).
Bob was a fairly good cabin camper. One year, he and I went to Sequoia National Park in California, where we stayed in a cabin with a canvas roof. Bob was so cold that he slept with his shoes on. That experience lasted just one night; Bob was worried about freezing to death.
After my husband and I had our daughters, Amanda and Rebecca, we were invited by friends to go tent camping at Deer Creek State Park. The experience recalled memories of my outing at 12 — namely, the crickets and campfires.
That trip proved decisive for me: We were going to be tent campers.
I bought a fiveperson tent as a family Christmas present. My husband wasn’t too impressed, but our girls were willing. Every now and then, the girls and I and a couple of their friends would head down to the Hocking Hills or Lake Hope. Bob would stay at home, keeping the home fires burning and tending to our cat.
When choosing a campsite, I preferred one without electricity. I liked the dark nights with no light or noise coming from a nearby bathhouse. Such sites, of course, offered only pit toilets. I was the only one who tolerated such experiences well; I was told that there were too many big spiders and offensive smells.
Once while we were camping, a big storm with all kinds of thunder and lightning hit at night. We scrambled to the car, where we remained till morning. Checking our tent that next day, we found drenched sleeping bags. There’s not much worse on a camping trip than a soggy sleeping bag.
We spent the afternoon in Athens at a laundromat drying our sleeping bags. We learned from that experience to always check the forecast; we were fair-weather campers only.
One summer, the girls and I ventured to Colorado, where we camped near the Garden of the Gods, near the Arkansas River and in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a vacation to remember: We pitched our tent with mountains all around us, hiked the wooded trails, cooked meals over a wood fire and fell asleep listening to the night sounds.
These days, we have grandchildren in the family. My camping days are few and far between, mostly because the grandkids are involved in so many activities. Occasionally, though, we manage to get away to learn how to build a fire and make hobo pies over a campfire.
I would like to think that, during those outings, we’re making memories for them to cherish.