Jack London couldn’t have asked for a more picturesque view. The lake’s chilled water lapped softly at a crumbling bank as its ripples fell between tiny pebbles. The air smelled like, well nothing, and the sky, peppered with cottony clouds, disappeared behind tufts of green on tops of mountains.
My friends and I were spending three days at Rampart Reservoir in early May, and the cool wind and still-budding aspens were just enough to keep away the crowds but entice our group of college kids looking for a cheap escapade. This was our great adventure, our chance to ditch the parents and assume our responsibilities. It was just us and nature. And all I could think was I hope we brought firewood.
“You all set?” my mother asks with eagerness, hovering on panic, as I load up my boyfriend Adam’s red Expedition with sleeping bags, tent, stove, and who knows what else she was able to shove in a bursting-at-the-seams duffel. I’m sure if she tried, we quite literally would have taken the kitchen sink too. She gives me our last bin, the camping dishes my family always uses, and I find room in the loaded car.
“Wait, what’s this tub?” I pull on a stuffed green Rubbermaid in the backseat, its lid barely locked in place. My boyfriend shrugs, something his dad insisted on packing.
It’s another tub of dishes.
My friends Lauren and Wes show up next, much to my relief. Wes is an experienced camper; he’ll know to leave the extras behind.
“Hey, here’s just some stuff my dad tagged on for our trip.” I hesitate as he hands the bag to me. I give a laugh, or perhaps a cry, at its contents: a ball of cord, three pocket knives, and dishes. Leaving behind the parents is going to be harder than I thought.
“No, no, that’s not level; we have to put our heads uphill,” one of the boys grunts. I refrain from commentary as Wes and Adam try to set up our tent—anyone who’s been camping at least once knows that it’s best to wait it out when it comes to men pitching tents; they do not want your “advice.” Lauren and I smirk at their flailing of the tarp and spider web of ropes as we decide to peruse the campground.
But the victorious boys slap each other on the back as they finish the tent and proceed to the fire—Wes brought the logs so he’s in charge. As they do, two more friends arrive and our group of college bums suddenly snaps into hungry-bear mode, scrubbing our hands at the water pump—even campers can be clean!—putting hot dogs on sticks, and plunking a can of beans right on the flames.
We may have been inexperienced packers, but when it came to camping, we were downright pros. Or so I thought.
“What’s up with the fire?” I look at its meager flames and the dwindling pile of wood. No problem, I think, I’ll nab the rest from the Expedition. But my search proves fruitless.
“Wes, where’s the rest of the wood?” Lauren asks our designated Boy Scout and fire-master. But the sad woodpile leaning against the pit and Wes’s blank face immediately tell us the answer.
“I didn’t know it would take up this much fuel,” Wes trails off; none of us point out that this is only night one. We quickly devour our hotdogs and sit in silence. Moments later we realize we don’t have enough chocolate for s’mores. ‘Day Two’ is looking more and more like ‘Day Go Home.’
But, inexplicably, our wood lasts the night. Day two dawns after a full moon of whirring insects and hooting owls. The world looks a prettier place (disregarding the pee bush we baptized the previous day). We hike along a path, running with our hands in the air like a roller-coaster ride and swimming in the reservoir in our underwear. Wes teaches us girls how to chop firewood from fallen timber and scavenge scraps, and we spend our evening reading Poe and Shelley and Yeats around our now crackling fire.
When it’s finally time to return home, we smell like pond, have splinters in our hands, and probably look like wrung-out mops. But most importantly--and because of this I have convinced myself we are ready for trip number two— we return each set of dishes clean: we never even used them.
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