Yes, I’ve been camping — more times than I can count. After I came back from my army tour, I worked alongside a World War II veteran named Jack. He was of Japanese descent, one of the thousands who volunteered to serve during the war to prove their loyalty to a country that hadn’t always shown loyalty to them. Jack fought in Italy and later somewhere in France, moving through towns whose names he could never quite pronounce but never forgot. His service ended the day he caught a hand grenade in the stomach. He told the story quietly, without drama, as if it were just another thing that had happened to him, like a flat tire or a bad winter.
Jack became a good friend — the kind of friend you don’t plan on but end up grateful for. Jack was somewhere around 20 years older than me. We went camping whenever we could get away. The reason was simple: we both loved to fish. That was our excuse, anyway. We’d load up the station wagon and head for the lakes in Wyoming, chasing the idea of a trophy fish we never actually caught. But that never mattered. The real catch was the time — the long drives, the quiet mornings, the smell of coffee heating on a camp stove, the way the world felt bigger and kinder out there.
Jack had a way of sitting by the water that made you think he was listening to something deeper than the wind. Sometimes he’d talk about the war; sometimes he’d talk about nothing at all. Either way, those trips settled into my memory like stones in a riverbed — solid, unmoving, part of the shape of my life.
I will always remember Jack.
After I was married and had two sons, my wife and I camped with them, embracing the joys of nature as a family. We couldn’t afford a huge motor home or trailer, so our trusty 1/2-ton Chevy van became our home on wheels. Even though it was modest, the van held all our camping gear, from sleeping bags to a portable grill, and with everyone squeezed in, it made the adventures even more exciting. Setting up the tent each time felt like a new challenge, but once we settled in, the real fun began. Sitting around the crackling fireplace at night, the warmth enveloping us, we would share stories and roast marshmallows, pondering why the smoke always seemed to trail around us, as if it had a mind of its own. The sounds of the forest at night—the rustling leaves and distant hoots of owls—provided a soothing backdrop, reminding us of the beauty surrounding us. However, bears never came to visit us in the middle of the night.
These are memories you cherish your entire life; treasures etched in time that bring smiles to our faces even years later.
TomT2.0 