I can’t think of anything friendlier than a wilderness campfire at night. It opens the soul, relaxes the body, expands the mind, and leaves lasting memories.
African campfire
Some of my favourites were during a three-week stretch in the Tuli Block of Botswana. With bellies full of strange and wonderful game like kudu, impala, or francolin, and a cool sundowner in our hands, we would watch the flickering flames and talk about things that normally would never enter our minds. I can only think of a few other times when I’ve felt so relaxed.
Another great campfire took place in the middle of northern Ontario’s never-ending bush. We sipped tea, listened to the loons, and chatted quietly. Louis Waswa, our Ojibway moose guide, started telling us about loons, and how his forefathers used to prize the richly coloured neck feathers for decoration. He talked about calling them into range and shooting them. Somewhat surprised that anyone would shoot a loon, I asked, “Do you ever eat them?”
“Sure do!” Louis replied. “We like them a lot.”
“What do they taste like?” I asked.
“They taste good!” Louis proclaimed. “Just like fish!”
I didn’t shoot a moose that trip, but I sure remember it for all the things I learned.
Australian campfire
The most exotic campfire I ever recall was also a super learning experience. It was exotic because I shared it with a good friend, formerly from Kenya, and his family in the tropical Queensland bush in northeast Australia. Again, we talked and talked while gorging ourselves on fresh mud crabs, which a local had helped us catch that afternoon in a nearby estuary. When I finally crawled into my sleeping bag, I swore I was so full that I wouldn’t be able to move for a month. I just hadn’t counted on that tropical night air.
Anyone who knows me realizes that it takes a crowbar and several pails of ice water to separate me from my sleeping bag in the morning. For that reason, I’d known campfires only from the “going to bed” side of life.
Campfire brekkie
Richard, my friend, however, had always been an early riser, and the magic he was performing out there in the pre-dawn darkness had me wrigling from my bed like a cobra from a snake charmer’s basket. A pot of boiled coffee perched on a rock at the side of the fire, sending out tantalizing fumes, while Richard hunkered over a cast-iron Dutch oven that straddled the coals. I joined him and we watched the sunrise, as I enjoyed one of the simplest, and best, breakfasts I’ve ever had in the bush.
In a bowl, Richard had combined two cups of self-raising flour, one egg, a teaspoon each of salt and sugar, and a cup of water to form a stiff batter. In the Dutch oven was about two inches of hot cooking oil. The batter was dropped in by the tablespoonful, and bobbed around merrily while the underside was cooking. When half done, it would flip itself over and proceed to cook the other side. It was fascinating to watch and required no real attention. When golden brown, they were fished out and set on a piece of paper towel to cool and drain, while the next batch was added. They are surprisingly non-greasy, and the two of us ate the whole batch—normally enough for four—with butter and honey. Delicious! If that trip had lasted much longer, I probably would have gained about five pounds a day.
Future fires
There are many more campfires I remember as well—some with a single companion, some with a group, and others by myself. I’ve experienced them on hot tropical nights and crisp autumn evenings. Sine have been accompanied by persistent rain, howling snow, and scudding grey clouds; while others were under stars so bright and clear that you could read the fine print on a book-thick legal document. It’s funny, but try as I might, I can’t recall one I didn’t really enjoy.
The best part is that I look forward to future campfires. After all, aside from that Ontario bush that has never seen the glow of my fire, there’s the Rockies, all those Caribbean islands, the prairies, the Yukon, and a lot more of Africa.
Originally published in the April 1987 issue of Ontario OUT of DOORS
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