Where the Pack Unfolds Into a Hearth
By Papa Gramps
Backpacking will test any man, but the ones who eat well walk farther and smile longer. I have said that for years and I will keep saying it until somebody carves it into a trailhead sign. A pack is not just a sack to haul misery. If you pack it right, it is a traveling kitchen, a small pantry, and a warm light in the trees when night comes early.
This trip started in the hardwoods where the ridge breaks toward a creek that sings even when the summer heat dries every puddle. I had the grandkids with me the week before, teaching them knots and how to tell hickory from ash in the half light. This time I went alone to see if the blackberries had ripened and to give my knees a slow lesson in patience. My ruck felt just heavy enough to promise comfort and not so heavy that it would steal it. Inside was a battered cast iron skillet wrapped in a flour sack. A little coffee pot that whistles when it is pleased. A canvas food bag with oats, cornmeal, a slab of salt pork, and a corked jar of honey. Spices traveled in screw top tins. Salt. Black pepper. Smoked paprika. Thyme. There was a collapsible bucket for water, a thin cutting board, a folding trivet for the skillet, and a small lantern with a wick that throws honest light. Nothing fancy. Everything useful.
Midafternoon is the time to choose a home. I found a stand of beech with a floor like clean parchment. No widow makers above and just enough breeze to keep the bugs honest. Shelter first. I pitched a simple ridge line and sheeted a tarp to it with a low back wall. Not the mountain wind I would fear up high. This was good honest woods weather, the kind that rewards simple work done right. The ground cloth went down. Bedroll unrolled. No spruce boughs underfoot to tear fabric or leave sap. Soft dry leaves brushed aside and a thin foam pad did the job.
Then the wood. I like to gather in three stacks. Thumb thick for start, wrist thick for sure heat, forearm thick for night. I split a few with a small forest hatchet and left the rest long to feed slow. A fire that starts right and burns clean will keep a cook cheerful even when the stew is stubborn. I built a small fire in a rock ring and let it settle into gray coals while I walked to the creek with the bucket. The water was cold enough to make teeth ache. I filled the bucket twice and set it where it would not tip. One pot for drinking, one for washing, and the bucket for the main business of camp.
With water ready I turned to food. From the pack came the skillet and the trivet. I cut a thumb of salt pork, cubed it, and set it to render low. The smell brought every memory I ever cared to keep. Grease popped soft as rain on canvas. Into that went diced onion from the food bag and a handful of sliced wild mushrooms I had gathered on the walk in. They hissed and browned. A pinch of paprika, a grind of pepper, and a generous shake of thyme. I slid the skillet off the heat and let everything rest while I mixed cornmeal with water and honey in the little bowl that lives inside my pot. Bannock wants patience more than talent. I patted it thin and laid it in the still warm grease to pick up the flavor, then back over the coals until the edges crisped and the middle sprang back under a finger.
Supper was not ready yet. Supper still wanted a main idea. I walked the creek bank with a hand line I keep coiled on a piece of cedar. No rod this time. Only a short length of mono, a little split shot, and a hook that knows its job. In the first bend under a root I felt the familiar tug and lift that says pan trout. I kept two palm size fish, thanked the water for the favor, and cleaned them on the flat stone that serves as my creek side board. Nothing is quicker than a fish this size on a skillet this hot. They went belly down into the fat, skin crackling, flesh turning opaque and sweet. I scattered a few blackberry leaves torn fine just as they finished. Do not turn your nose up at that. Blackberry leaf gives a clean green note and sits well with pork and smoke.
While the fish rested I boiled water for coffee and another pot for tea. A cook drinks one and then the other or he gets jumpy and forgets the salt. I sipped both by turns and watched the shade deepen into evening. When the lantern came out the camp took on that look I love best. Firelight low and orange. Lantern light steady and golden. Everything gentle and ready to be quiet.
“I ate like a king who still respects the food. First a wedge of bannock with pork and mushrooms piled high. Then the fish, each flake carried on the bread like a gift. I let the grease soak into the crumb and smiled like a man who knows the work was worth the carry. The last course was oats cooked slow with honey and a splash of creek water, stirred with a stick of sweetgum carved on the spot. I have eaten at restaurants that try very hard to sell their meals as rustic. None of them ever made me feel the way that bowl of oats did, with the frogs starting up and the lantern painting the inside of the tarp like sunrise.”
After supper I cleaned as carefully as I cooked. Pan wiped with a twist of grass while it was still warm. Dishes rinsed in hot water and set to dry in the edge of the firelight. No scraps left out for raccoons to throw a party with. The pack was already turning back into a house for the road. Skillet wrapped and stacked. Spices stowed. Bucket folded. I set a small pot of water near the fire so it would be warm enough for a face wash before sleep. A clean man sleeps deeper and a deep sleep cures more aches than any salve.
Before turning in I walked a slow circle around the camp. I like to check lines and stakes and see if any ember has wandered where it should not. The night had that soft feeling that says dew will be heavy. I pulled the lantern wick short, banked the coals, and sat with my back against the pack. It is a good feeling when you can lean against your own work and feel it hold. The pack had opened into a kitchen, a pantry, a light, and a bed. That is more than survival. That is living well where most men expect only to endure.
Morning brings its own kitchen rhythm. Coals woke with a little breath and a handful of twigs. Coffee first so I do not lie to myself about priorities. Then leftover bannock warmed on the edge of the skillet, honey drizzled, and fish flakes tucked inside like a poor man’s pie. I filled the bucket once more and rinsed the board and the knife until they shone. The tarp dried fast in the early sun. In an hour the camp folded back into straps and pockets, light as memory, ready for the next hollow in the trees.
People talk about ultralight like it is a race to see who can be most uncomfortable. I say learn what comforts you and carry it with purpose. A skillet is heavy, yes. So is regret when your food tastes like cardboard. A lantern is not strictly necessary. Neither is laughter, yet no one tells me to leave that behind. My pack becomes a camp because every item inside earns its keep. It feeds the fire, fills the belly, brings the light, and turns a patch of woods into a place where stories are told.
If you walk out with a smile and a full belly, you did it right. If your camp smells like pork and coffee and wood smoke in the morning, you did it better. That is how an old cook measures success. Not by miles. By meals. And by the way a simple pack becomes a home each time you set it down.
