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- Category Hunting Stories
- Region -
- Prostaff Member Trout Whisperer
After quite a few years I can say I have camped a time or two. We all as a group over the years show up with ourâ own boats, canoes, tents, lawn chairs and cookware. Multiple coolers and minnow buckets not to mention a vast array of fishing rods leaned up next to tackle boxes stuffed with treble hooked lures. It's our stuff.
Rain or shine and in anybodies order tent fly's get taut followed thereafter with the tarps strung, shading, and swaying softly. Everybody sets up there brand of creature comforts woods wise, pointed and facing, most often in a semi circle around one campfire.
Slowly nobody cares where house, job or North is. North is now out of our day and off the map. The homing beacon for camp won't be a falling star or a sliding sky moon but it will rise and then glow from the evenings anticipated firelight. An axe cracks, the fire builds up; it burns the wood, and more often than not, melts parts of us, away.
We gather around the light and heat nested inside the blackened rocks. One hearth hold us, that's somehow enough, as if were the second row of rocks. I not once never, have I been to multiple camp fire camp. Six tents, one fire, four tents, one fire, one tent, one fire. It's always just one fire. Never counted the fire rocks, not once never, either. Lots a rocks, one fire.
Its where weâ are brought together not just to camp outdoors, or the lake we chose to fish, but the fire we share as people. It's the usâ thing .the weâ place of camping that nightly draws us together. We thaw, we toast, and we get smoked wool clothes. Youâ can wonder over to yourâ tent for something but weâ come back to ourâ fire.
We didn't bring the fire with, like a flashlight. It's a secret society of no matter how many or few in camp, somebody is always poking around in, or at, with a log they don't think is burning just so, or I think, the fire is dying down and in need of some aroma of birch bark, or fireside chattering of pine with out rules or regs.
Individual faces reflected, by the one blaze. Wisp's of smoke and the dance of many sparks jumping out, as we look in. I think the best part of the fire is you can't bring it with like the portage trail maps, or take it home. It's never going with, in a Duluth pack, it's not mine or her's or his, but the thing shows up every time we camp.
Just a flicker of thought here but maybe the difference between a good campfire and a great one could be; A good one might just thaw you out, and a great campfire will thaw your insides out, as well.