Travels with Dad: Camping

We knew that Dad was in his venturesome best when he donned his hiking boots, and clip-on sunglasses, and started sporting three days’ worth of whiskers. What could be more fun than accompanying an overgrown boy scout on a two-week camping trip? I’m sure that Mom had a few misgivings, but she was a good sport as she found ways to make our roughing it a little more civilized. Dad reciprocated by interspersing our nights at a KOA with one or two at the Holiday Inn to keep us kids sanitary and Mom sane. We thought we were pretty hip with our matching boy and girl tents, sleeping bags, lanterns, flashlights, cooler, and gas stove all courtesy of Coleman. Every meal tasted gourmet when it was cooked over a fire and served on paper plates. Sharing a bed with your brother or sister wasn’t so annoying when it was under the stars (or the tent flap). Dirt was no longer the irritant that it was at home, but rather a badge of honor representing a day well spent. One camping experience that I have vivid memories of is our trip to the Smoky Mountains. We must have stayed more than one night at a particular campsite there because I can picture our setup so well. I remember us hiking nearby trails flanked by lush green plant life that smelled sweet and earthy. Brad caught a newt--a creature previously unknown to me--and adopted it as a temporary pet. I recall looking across the campfire at Dad, who was telling a story using his hands and an expressive face to add a little drama to the tale.

I remember us attending the moving “Trail of Tears” pageant portraying the tragic story of the regions native Americans, followed by a somewhat precarious drive up a dark canyon as the sun went down in the Smoky Mountains, full of hairpin turns on a two-lane highway. Although it was dark around us, the sun-setting sky above us was the most intense magenta color I have ever seen, as if painted in watercolors. I remember a sense of security that although the road was treacherous, Dad was at the wheel so all was well.