Perspectives VII

Campfires

Camping isn’t camping without a campfire.

I spent this last weekend (Sep 11-12, 2004) in a place called Firebox Park, south of Eagle.  I was, supposedly, hunting bear and elk; for the most part, I loafed around in the woods, toting a .50-caliber muzzleloader for company. 

Smokepoles are fun to shoot.  You have to go through the little ritual of measuring and pouring powder, seating and ramming the bullet (or patching and ramming down the ball, if you use round balls) and priming the gun.  Then you aim – carefully, the one shot and slow reload makes you careful – and fire.  Mine is a percussion gun; the fall of the big hammer, the pop of the cap and the firing of the charge are slow enough that you head a distinct crack-BOOM.  A big cloud of blue smoke and fraction of a second later, you can hear the smack of the soft lead slug hitting the target.

But I digress.

The last few years, our drought conditions have caused campfires to be banned in the National Forests, except in prepared fireplaces.  This year hasn’t been as dry, and the fire danger levels are back to “normal” most places.  I got up into Firebox Park on Friday night, and it rained, gently, most of that night.  I got soaked walking around Saturday morning, but by that afternoon the bright sunny day had dried the grass and the trees.

A light breeze rattled the just-barely-turning aspens where I took my afternoon stand watching a large opening.  No elk showed up, but my mind wandered all the hills and valleys of my past, and the unknown terrain of my future as I sat, back against a big aspen, thinking.  A quiet day in the mountains is good for that; my mind works better outdoors.

Evening fell, and I made my way back to my camp.  I’d had a cold camp, the night before.  When I’m only out for a day or two in fair weather, I generally don’t take a camp stove.  I subsist instead on sandwiches, apples and crackers. 

But my campsite had a well-used fire pit well lined with slabs of the red slate common in that area.  There was ample dry wood from a downed spruce nearby.  So, I retrieved my camp axe from the Dark Horse, chopped away for ten minutes or so, and laid a fire. 

By the time it was fully dark, I had a cheery blaze crackling away.

After a few minutes, I began to regret not bringing any hot dogs along.  A good campfire sort of begs for a hot dog, stuck on a green stick and roasted over the coals.  I’m not big on marshmallows – too sweet – but you can’t beat a good hot dog, roasted over open coals on a brisk mountain night.

I’ve eaten more than my share of camp foods over the years.  Some good, some so-so, some pretty awful.  I’m pretty handy myself with a wire grill that stands over the coals; cheeseburgers are great that way.  Pork chops and steaks are great on the grille, or just laid on a flat rock near the heat.  Wrap a couple potatoes and an ear of sweet corn in aluminum foil and place them in the coals, and you’ve got a feast.

But that night, I’d have settled for a hot dog.  Just one hot dog.

It is from such simple things that deep contentment springs.