There’s a camp fire, always a campfire, and the smell of smoke has already permeated everything. A venison/wild pork ham that’s been wrapped with multiple layers of aluminum foil and placed on the side of fire in a bed of coals has been cooking for hours. I’m sitting in a comfortable camp chair sipping on a mid-priced bourbon that’s been cut with a little stream water while I listen to the two oldest boys talk about the fish they’ll catch tomorrow, what flies they think they’ll need, who’s the better caster and so on. The youngest of the three keeps asking about when we can roast marshmallows. I ask him how can he have any marshmallows without eating his meat. He stares at me blankly being too young to catch the Pink Floyd reference. I tussle his hair, tell him the food will be done soon and after that we can roast marshmallows. I send him off to attack his brothers…
Yep, that or some variation of it, is the dream.
Then I met my children. Like their mother they hate the outdoors. It’s where nature is, video games aren’t and all that is icky resides.
Please God let them grow out of it.