Two Weeks in a Tent

Regardless of how long Dad’s vacation was, he used two weeks every summer to go camping in Michigan.

We set up our tent at Holly, Loon Lake, Hudson Lake, Ludington, Manistee, near Fort Michilimackinac…you name it. State Forest campgrounds. National Forest campgrounds, which were wilder and more rugged in those days. We left Caroline Street in excitement, waving at admiring throngs (tree branches in the wind) like the Queen of England, and returned tanned, tired, and satisfied.

We hiked and visited sand dunes, Hartwick Pines, Lake in the Clouds, the fort at the top of the Lower Peninsula, lighthouses, Tahquamenon Falls with their rusty-looking water from cedar tannin, and watched sunsets on Lake Michigan. We swam, ate at picnic tables, sat around campfires at night, slept in sleeping bags inside tents where you learned never to touch the sides when it rained.

And with at least one persistent mosquito that managed to hurry in with us, in spite of spraying the tent and zipping it closed to kill any biting insects, that buzzed in your ears until you buried yourself in your sleeping bag.

Those were days before the easy-to-set-up tents, with poles on the insides that invariably fell over on one side while Dad tried to arrange the other. “Hold it still,” he’d say, but there was always some distraction, or we weren’t tall enough, strong enough, or patient enough.

We ate s'mores and hot dogs from sticks held over the flames or in the glowing embers of the campfire. We gobbled pancakes as they came off the griddle, eggs and bacon with toast made from a metal contraption that burned one side and left the other white.
Unfortunately, no matter how hungry I was, I couldn’t manage the inevitable Spam.

After the tent was set up, cots and sleeping bags were next, and finally, the Coleman stove, at one end of the picnic table, with the plastic red-and-white tablecloth covering the rest.
We had plastic camping dishes—you remember those—and a coffee percolator that made memorable coffee, cast iron skillets and cheap aluminum pans that stacked inside each other.

National forest campgrounds always had outhouses and pumps for the water source. One kid pumped, the other arranged the teakettle or bucket under the spout, and how many trips was balanced by how heavy a load we could handle, several times a day. I can still hear the squeak of the pump handle from various campers, day and night.

Night. Did you leave the flashlight on inside the outhouse and draw the creepy crawlies to you, or snap it off and imagine them? Or worse, snap it on to see an enormous spider heading your way?

After dusk, we processed to the outhouses before zipping ourselves in for the night. One night, trying to stem the whining and “he tripped me” tattling, Mom decided to interest us in natural beauties and the wildlife that lived in the woods. Really, Mom? Where? We were unconvinced, even when she pointed her flashlight at the dirt road to look for prints, until we turned around to return to the campsite and saw the large hoof prints of a stag, who must have been behind us the whole way, since an enormous body hurtled itself into the trees when we turned.

We were convinced. Unfortunately, that incident instilled a fear that the entire forest population was curious about the Russell kids. Ha! With all the arguing and laughter and shoving, no other wild animal would have come near.

Except black flies on summer afternoons. Those voracious beasts wouldn’t be ignored and slashed holes in their victims. The only way we knew to rid ourselves of our buzzing followers was to move closer to a sibling and race away, leaving the cannibal with a new target. Would we do such a thing? (All’s fair in love and war…)

Dad lit the Coleman lanterns at night and set them away from wherever we were sitting due to the instant draw of moths and mosquitos. I never failed to be amazed at the silky mantles that glowed with the light, yet didn’t burn to a crisp.

We picked blackberries on the edge of forests, where the berries were thumb-size and also coveted by deer and, once, a black bear. My sisters and the bear came around the same bushes, saw the other, and took off with crashes and shrieks.

Ice chests. At first, the ice kept everything cold, but ice melted quickly, and we had to constantly replenish, like firewood for evening campfires.

Highlights—playing outside all day, swimming more often, potted meat sandwiches.

Down side—powdered milk, Spam, trying to find a flat-enough site for the tent, cots that collapsed during the night.

We camped many summers until Mom and Dad bought 10(000) acres near Kalkaska, hauled in a trailer, and used it as our summer and winter getaways. The ten acres they owned. The rest was State land which bordered ours, a swath of land left after lumber camps moved through.

My best memories of that property include the week between Christmas and New Year, when you could hear the silence at night, see every star across the cosmos, and stretch the week so that it felt much longer.

Michigan, a State of wonders.

Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice…If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you. Our State motto is right.

But it doesn’t totally describe the vibrant memories of camping in a tent with family, a family who’s no longer here or together.

Still, memories live on.

Find your sticks for the marshmallows. The fire's ready.