The smell of bacon frying over a campfire made my stomach growl. That enticing smell, mixed with the aroma of wet canvass, was a staple of our “wilderness” camping trip in the woods a couple of hundred yards
behind Harold’s house. Although we camped like this several times each summer, each one was special.
I was glad we had taken precautions and made a lean-to cover of an old tarp to keep firewood dry in the rain. The lower end was stacked with everything needed from twigs to sticks of firewood cut with our hatchets, and the upper end was high enough to shelter the fire from the falling water that seemed to mark every trip. Our Cub Scout and Royal Ambassador training paid off.
Last night we had tried to stay awake all night, but as usual sometimes during the dark we gave up our talking and drifted off to sleep. It was not always easy to go to sleep in the army surplus pup tent with a ground tarp. No matter how hard we tried to remover them all, we always left some sticks and rocks to poke us through our sleeping bags. They seemed to grow during the night.
When we first woke in the dim green haze of tent light our voices sounded strange as they always did early in the morning. They took on quality never heard anywhere else. And there was the usual treat of a rainy morning. Small puddles had formed on the ground tarp where water had worked under the edge of the tent. Those puddles made an interesting game of floating our mess kit pans and making them spin when we tried to eat inside sheltered from the rain.
A mess kit contained all our necessities. The knife, fork and spoon clipped together with two small brads to hold them in a stack. The frying pan handle swung over the pan holding them together, making a container to hold the small pot with a top and coffee cup.
Perfectly cooked bacon, eggs and toast at home never seemed to taste as good as strips of bacon half burned in the middle and rubbery on the ends, scrambled eggs that ranged from watery to too dry, and toast with black burned areas. Cooking over an open fire was a slowly acquired skill and we were not there yet.
Coffee was not as good as at home, though. We all tried to drink it black with a little sugar but missed the cream that was mixed about half and half with coffee at home. Without no way to keep it cool, cream or milk was not an option on those trips.
The night before we had cooked our favorite dinner on the coals. We called it a “Hobo” meal and it was perfect for a camping trip. Before leaving home, we had made a huge ground beef patty and placed it in the center of a square of tinfoil. On top of the meat went a slice of onion, then slices of potato. Sliced carrots topped the pile of food then a big chunk of butter was placed on it. A little salt and pepper finished up the preparation.
The edges of the tinfoil were pulled up and twisted into a seal to keep it all together. If the tinfoil was formed perfectly, and we didn’t poke a hole in the bottom when placing them on the coals that were carefully drug from the main fire, they would cook evenly and be floating in butter. But we seldom had any butter when the tinfoil was opened. At least we did not have a plate to wash, the tinfoil served fine.
We never camped for more than one night. We had to go home to get some sleep, put iodine on the inevitable cuts and scrapes and Watkins Salve on the ever-present chigger bites. It was also a lot easier to wash up our mess kits at home. We had only one each and although we tried various cleaning methods in the woods none worked very well. And we had to dry out tent, tarps and sleeping bags.
After carefully covering the fire pit with the same Army surplus folding foxhole shovels we had dug it with, we packed up our gear into army surplus duffel bags. We would not have survived without Army surplus equipment!
The trip home seemed to be miles longer that the trip to the campsite. Although everything was usually heavier from water at the end of the trip, I think our hearts were the heaviest load since the trek home meant the camping trip was over.