Teaching My Dad How to Camp
Teaching My Dad How to Camp
I have many fond memories of camping with my dad… and some bittersweet ones, too.
Father-son bonding on camping trips is not unusual. But while many men pass on the love of camping to their sons, I introduced my dad to camping.
Dad did not get much experience with outdoor adventure growing up in Toronto during the 1930s and 40s. His outdoor excursions went as far as a city park picnic, but nothing any wilder.
I started attending youth camp at eight. There, I learned to swim, paddle a canoe, practice archery and other outdoor skills.
After four years of summer camp, I convinced my dad to try camping.
He bought a tent at Sears, a big canvas monstrosity, along with a camp stove, lantern and some other items for our first camping trip: a Father’s Day weekend, one-night car camping adventure in Sibbald Point Provincial Park, a half-hour drive from our Newmarket home.
At 12 years old and in my mind, a “veteran camper,” I visualized adventurous hikes, cooking over blazing campfires, incredible wildlife encounters. My dad was not quite as energetic about those. He was happy just to get the tent up, organize the campsite and then relax with a cold beverage.
Cooking was done on a camp stove, to my displeasure. We never used stoves at camp—we always cooked on a campfire! But Dad did let me build a fire that evening. We toasted marshmallows and drank hot chocolate under the stars, silence and contentment washing over us.
That Father’s Day trip went well enough that we planned a week-long trip for mid-July. I really looked forward to spending more time in the outdoors with him, maybe get him to be a little more adventurous, share some of my experience in an area he wasn’t as comfortable in, as he had shared his experience with me on other matters.
My dad made it a point of just the two us doing a road trip every summer. This trip was probably one of the best we ever went on together. And as it turned out, one of the last.
A friend had recommended a fishing lodge-marina in the Peterborough area that allowed tent-camping. We were to go there for a day or two, then travel to Algonquin Provincial Park.
We got there, looked at the camping area and felt quite disappointed. It just didn’t feel “wild” enough to me—not a great spot.
My dad had always been pretty good at reading my feelings based on the look on my face and general demeanor. He knew my heart wasn’t in this place. He gently put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Would you just like to go to Algonquin today, instead?”
I could have jumped for joy. I said, “If you’re okay with that—YES!”
The Algonquin ambience easily surpassed that other place, and we camped as we were, under towering red pines, sleeping on a bed of pine needles.
And this time, we hiked. Just two short day hikes: one along the Beaver Pond Trail, the other on Lookout Trail.
Along the first trail—a nice easy walk in the woods—we saw no beavers. I snapped some shots of the pond but felt disappointed we saw no wildlife. I suspected Dad was happy NOT seeing anything larger than a squirrel!
At the second trailhead, he said to me, “If you see a bear, don’t stop to take photos!”
That sounds like he was kidding, but he knew me really well. I probably would have stopped to snap pictures.
No bears, but about halfway along the trail, a white-tailed deer showed up at the forest’s edge. We froze. As it bounded off into the thick woods behind, we started snapping.
It became a real bonding moment—and not just because of the wildlife-viewing experience.
None of our photos really showed anything—the only part of the deer you could see was a flash of its tail mixed in with foliage. Well, that’s what we told people.
Whenever Dad showed that slide to company during “family vacation slideshows,” he’d receive a lot of good-natured ribbing about “phantom deer.” So did I, backing him up. But no one could see any deer. Well, we knew what we’d seen. We’d just smile at each other, shake our heads, shrugging our shoulders as if to say, “Ah, wadda they know?”
These moments were like, “You and me against the world, kid!” There’s nothing like shared adversity—even in the form of good-natured ribbing—to help solidify a bond.
While I taught my dad some things about camping, he also taught me some things. Learning how to play poker and using match sticks for chips are some activities that stand out. And perhaps some bigger lessons: the importance of patience… and foregoing choices for someone you love.
I treasure those memories deeply.
The following year, we camped for a week in Killbear Provincial Park. But like many 13-year-olds, I didn’t like hanging out with adults. That was the last trip the two of us did together. The following year, Dad bought a tent-trailer, and Mom joined us on camping trips—where I spent most of my time hanging out with other teens wherever we visited.
I remember one special moment from that trip: one afternoon while I dozed in a camp cot, Dad very tenderly covered me with a sheet so I wouldn’t burn. He didn’t realize I was awake, and I didn’t let on I was. That was a huge thing for me from my dad; him not being comfortable expressing affection, acts like that showed just how much he loved me.
My family continued to go camping. The fact that I introduced them to that lifestyle never ceases to amuse me.
I do wish I’d made a few more trips with Dad, spent more time with him around a campfire.
He passed away on a Father’s Day weekend, enjoying the outdoors at a southern Ontario trailer park. I was camping in northeastern BC that weekend and came home to the heart-wrenching news. A fun outdoors weekend suddenly turned to sorrow. Just writing this now, remembering the heaviness and grief in my chest as I struggled to accept it, brings tears to my eyes.
But the good memories certainly outweigh any bittersweet ones. And every time I sit by a campfire at night, I feel like my dad is still there.
His memory certainly is.
