It wasn’t a tent at all, really, at least by today’s standards. Still, it was a wonder for my young self, 8 or 9 years old. It was a shelter, of sorts. A lean-to made of sticks, two old army ponchos, and a tarp on the ground. The best part was that we built it, we three. It was Dad, my brother, and myself with our hands, a hand ax, and some rope. As I took a moment to look at what we built, I was excited, making little hops, and a little bit afraid. It wasn’t just a shelter. It was to be my shelter for my first night under the stars.

After we built the shelter, we put our sleeping bags on the tarp and unrolled them. Just two. My brother was with us till dark, but he would not be sleeping under the stars. He was a bit too young and a little afraid. Truth be told, I was a little afraid, too. But I wouldn’t let it show. I felt I had to be the “big” brother. And, I would be with my Dad. What could happen?

We were camping!

We set up a fire ring on the beach by a bend in a stream. On one side was the gently gurgling stream on the other was the tent, looking across the fire at the stream. I remember the sweet smell of the flowers and the wild raspberries behind the tent. The stream was full of minnows and crawdads and salamanders. Water-striders skittered here and there across the water. It was clear and cool. Life, wild life, was all around us. It was a fantasy, at once glorious and frightening.

We spent an hour or two chasing the wild things in the stream, not to be mean, but because we were curious. And, we took our boots and socks off, to cool our feet in the running and clear water.

Soon the afternoon began to give way to evening. It was time to build the fire. Dad showed how to set up a back log and place the tinder. Then, under his watchful eye, I struck a match. Carefully I put it to the tinder. I don’t remember if it lit with the first match or not. I’m sure my brother wanted a chance to try, too. And, I’m sure Dad let him. Then Dad showed us how to blow over the tinder, to help it catch. He showed us how to place the kindling, small pieces first over the tinder, careful not to smother it.

Before long, we had a roaring fire. It was time to prepare for cooking dinner.

We slid the cooler onto the beach near the fire. It had been in the shade behind the tent, safe from prying eyes and small animals. Dad opened the cooler. He said something like, “How about some burgers and potatoes, maybe an orange or apple, for dinner?” He didn’t really need to ask a question, that was the food we had with us. We knew it. But, Dad wanted us to feel like we had a say in the decisions for dinner. Being asked for your opinion when you are 8 or 6 is a rare and wonderful experience. It mad us feel just a bit more grown up.

First, we washed our hands with water from the stream and some soap. We didn’t have a towel, so we stood and shook the water off our hands, trying to spray each other for fun. Then dad got out the ground beef – it wasn’t pressed into burgers yet. Dad showed us how to press it into patties with our hands. It was gooey and a little bloody, but it was fun. I don’t remember handling food that directly before this adventure. We had a flat cage-like contraption that opened like a clam shell. It was made of thick wire. We put the fresh burgers in the cage and closed it, squeezing them between the sides. When it was closed, if had a handle to hold it over the fire. It was wondrous. Years later I learned it was really a fish basket. Even now, that doesn’t diminish the magic.

Dad set the basket to the side and got out the potatoes. We washed our hands again. Then we washed off the potatoes in the stream. Dad said we are going to bake the potatoes. I asked (or maybe it was my brother), “How? We don’t have an oven.” With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he said “you’ll see.”

At one end of our small beach, there was a bare patch. It looked like dirt. Dad said it was really clay.

So we got our hands dirty again and scooped up the clay, forming it all around the potatoes. We gave them a thick coat. Then, carefully, Dad placed them is the coals of the fire. We then cleaned up, again, and waited. Dad said it takes longer for the potatoes.

Then, maybe 15 minutes later, we started the burgers. It was sort of like roasting hot dogs over a fire. But this time there were burgers. The contraption was heavier that a hot dog on a stick. I couldn’t hold it steady over the fire. And, the fire was HOT. So, Dad found a stick we could use to take some weight. We put the handle in the Y in the stick and just had to guide the burgers. The stick held the weight.

It was a wonder to watch the burgers, dripping blood and fat. The fire would spark and suddenly flame from the grease. It was exciting! After a bit, Dad said we should turn it over and cook the other side. It was heavy and both my brother and I, working together, struggled a bit. Dad just watched and let us work it out, ready to jump in if needed, but building our confidence by allowing us to do it.

It was hard, but we were able to do it. A few minutes later, Dad said the burgers were done. So, we set them on the cooler and Dad grabbed a pair of tongs to get the potatoes. They were hard to see, but somehow he found them. We put them on a plate and carefully cracked them open. It wasn’t perfect. The small potatoes were nothing but carbon, but some of the larger ones looked and smelled great. We slathered on some butter and salt and added them to our plates. Dad served the burgers.

We sat on logs, holding our plates, watching the fire and the reflection from the stream. The food was fabulous!. Perhaps the best burgers I had ever had. We ate and Dad told stories and we laughed. I don’t remember the details, just the emotions.

Those emotions remain with me, today. In fact, that experience started my love for cooking.

Dusk had turned to evening by the time we finished eating and cleaning up after the meal. Mom picked up my brother, leaving me sitting with my Dad on the bank on my sleeping bag. I remember feeding some more wood on the fire, looking at Dad to be sure it was OK. He just smiled.

Our campsite smelled of wood smoke and raspberries. For a while, we just sat and watched the fire and the stream. It gurgled. Downstream we could hear the frogs peeping. Overhead were the stars and a wisp of cloud floating by. We couldn’t really star-gaze. The fire was too bright. Still, it was a wonder.

Before long, I grew tired and crawled into my bag. Sleep came. I don’t know if Dad stayed up to tend the fire. But by morning it was out. The morning dawned with orange and yellow against the clouds. It was cool. I was glad for a jacket.

I don’t really remember breakfast or taking down the tent or any of the details of the end of that first camp out. But the magic is with me still, every time I go to camp or even take a hike into the woods. From that first tent came my love of cooking and camping and from my Dad came the model of sharing it with others. I am forever grateful.