Camping with parents and progeny

What could be sweeter than camping with my parents and two of my daughters! After a night in Portland, we shuffled our gear around to make room for the five of us in my rental rig. Highway 26 took us to the little town of Zigzag and then we turned toward Mt. Hood National Forest. When we found a campground, it was packed – camping is alive and well in America! But at the very end of the big loop, one last spot was open. “Let’s snag it,” Heather said.

It was a huge site with tall spruce and pine and cedar and ample space for setting up our three tents. Grampie was quick to inquire about our appetites and set 4 o’clock as the moment to start up the campstove. Hanna had brought flour, we had some Granny Smith greens, and our cooler was full of eggs and milk and other basics that we bought before leaving the city.

My dad LOVES to cook apple pancakes. While the bible may say that “Wherever two are more are gathered in my name, there I am,” my dad has always acted on “wherever at least five people are hungry, here come my apple pancakes.” Back at the New Seasons store in Portland, he even bought an extra can of fuel (then was shocked to see that it cost twice as much as he paid in Nebraska).

For the uninitiated, Dad’s apple pancakes are made with thin batter and thinly sliced apples. The apples must be tart, the batter must be just right, and you should eat them with sugar, not syrup. Mom makes the batter while Dad readies the two-burner campstove that he bought specially for this trip. The picnic table is slightly uneven so he puts twigs under one side of the stove to make sure the griddle sits perfectly level. Dad pours batter onto a hot griddle, lays apple slices over this thin first layer, then pours more batter over the apples. While they are frying, he spoons oil copiously onto the griddle around each pancake to ensure crispy edges.

These pancakes are always good! Dad’s made millions of them, all devoured by family and friends and passersby. One year at Granddad Craig’s Lake Edith, my dad fed about thirty of us one morning, starting with the kids. By the time he fed the last grown-up, the kids lined up again.

The first time Heather and Hanna camped, they were one-year-olds crawling around in diapers. That was a memorable Black Hills campout with sibs Colleen and David and Diane, our mates and young ones, and Lisa too. And of course Grammie and Grampie. Now these two younger daughters of mine have popped up their tent and are swinging Grampie’s ax like old pros. Dad brought the ax on this trip knowing he wouldn’t take it back home on Amtrak, and he told the girls it was their inheritance if they wanted it.

Paul Bunyan, move over! Hanna set to work on a downed tree that lay across our campsite along with tons of other dry wood. The camp host had told my parents that this campground had been closed for the last couple years and now they’re hoping that campers will help clear out the dead stuff. We did our share. Hanna sliced through twelve inches of tree trunk like it was water. When she carried a piece over to let Grammie smell the fresh scent of wood, Heather picked up the ax and started chopping. By morning, the tree was gone and only twigs and sawdust marked that stretch of ground.

Those days were warm and the evenings cool near the base of Mt. Hood, and we stayed up past dark enjoying our bonfires. Nothing like the company of 24-year-olds to energize an octogenarian, septuagenarian, and me – the happy one in the middle. I’ve camped with my elders and youngers many times, but now – when “children” are adults and everyone is absorbed in work and life – it is an extra gift to spend a few days in the wilderness together.