19 MayThe Annual Fathers and Sons Campout

The other night was the annual father’s and son’s campout for our ward. The fathers and sons campout is a vestige of the “manly” days of yore. Back then fathers didn’t spend so much time with their sons. Fathers were too busy doing the manly business of providing for their families to spend much time with the kids. When church leaders decided to make an opportunity for father-son bonding they chose the most manly activity think they could think of—camping. According to a church handbook from the 1920’s a fathers-sons campout shouldn’t be too long, anywhere from three to ten days. It’s not that way anymore (thank heavens).

Our ward usually holds its fathers-sons campout on a member’s property just outside of town. Men show up around 6:30 for a really good dinner cooked over gas stoves. Then there will be an inspirational talk around a campfire. After that the kids run and play while men gab. As the evening wears on most of the men will drive back into town to their warm beds leaving those of us with young sons to tough it out on the mountain.  We only do this because our sons still think it is fun. Tough it out may be overstating it a little. There were several trailers there this year with all the accommodations of home.  Me and my sons? We don’t have a trailer. Nope, we toughed it out.

Out of five sons I only have two left at home. Unfortunately for me these last two boys like to camp unlike their three older brothers. I am not training these last two boys as well as their brothers. We found a fairly level spot by a juniper tree to set up our “four man” tent. Notice the quotes. That tent will sleep four like a Honda Civic accommodates eight. Ironically, a neighbor boy who has no father joined us for the campout. We fit in the tent as long as we lay with one shoulder on our neighbor. It felt like we were a line of dominoes that had been knocked over.

After dark fell I got the two eight-year-olds tucked in. My twelve-year-old was out playing cops and robbers with the other boys his age. That’s a game like tag, but with flash lights. No sooner had we gotten settled than it began to rain. Growing up I spent entire summers with my dad building trails in the mountains of the Western states. The sound of the rain pattering on the tent roof brought back many memories for me. My eight-year-old wanted a story and suggested cobras. To the steady sound of the rain I told him all I knew about cobras and their mortal enemy—mongooses.  This seemed to satisfy him. He and his friend were fast asleep very quickly.  I was nearly asleep, too, when my twelve-year-old crawled into the tent. The rain was getting harder. Half sitting on me he got his shoes off and then squeezed into his sleeping bag. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was happy by his off-key humming.  In spite of the cramped conditions the drumming of the rain soothed me to sleep.

It was 4:00 am when I woke up. Boys were crammed up against me and I was very uncomfortable. The next two hours were long, but eventually 6:00 am came, the sun rose, and the birds began to sing. Someone was attempting to start a fire. My boys awoke, pulled on their shoes, and went out to watch. When I finally joined them, the wet wood was still just smoking heavily. The man who was starting the fire was trying to do it the pure way—with wood shavings– to teach the boys. The man who owned the land thought that enough teaching had taken place. He poured some diesel fuel on the wood and in a moment the fire was roaring. Yes, there is a time when the teaching must end and we must face reality.

After a fantastic breakfast to which many men from town drove back up to enjoy my kids ran off to play again. I put the sleeping bags away and cleaned out the tent. I suppose a really good dad would have made his boys do that to teach them responsibility. They were having such a good time and I needed something to do so I did it myself. I’ll make up for it by having them do dishes and mow the lawn. My older son did run over and show me how to fold the tent so that it would fit in its case. Impressive.

No, fathers and sons campouts aren’t what they used to be. There wasn’t a lot of hiking and fishing and survival training. Still my boys had a great time. They told me so. We spent a night crammed together in a little tent and listened to rain on the roof. And it was good.