It was the summer of my 8th year, 1972, when I first experienced my first camping trip with my father and my Uncle Joe and Aunt Peggy. They were seasoned outdoors people, well-versed in the trials and tribulations of the wilderness. Their favorite getaway was a secluded part of Buckeye Lake, Ohio, a beautiful enclave home to countless species of fish and birds. This was where they offered me my first taste of the great outdoors.
My Uncle Joe was a kind, burly man who knew everything there was to know about camping. His love for the wilderness was contagious. Aunt Peggy was the one who kept us grounded with her calm demeanor and her homemade sandwiches that always tasted best after a long day of fishing. They both seemed most at home amidst the whispering trees and the open sky.
After a long journey, we arrived at Buckeye Lake. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow across the seemingly endless expanse of water. My eyes widened at the sight of my uncle’s camping gear, piled neatly to one side. There was a deep-green tent large enough to accommodate a small army, coolers full of food and drinks, fishing rods, a small portable stove, a bar-b-que grill, lanterns, and right at the center of it all, his prized possession – a gleaming, white boat that bobbed gently on the waves.
The boat was an old but well-maintained twenty-footer, the name “Fun Times” painted elegantly on her side. Uncle Joe took special care of the boat; he cleaned it, maintained it, and spoke to it as if it were another member of the family.
After we had set up camp, we sat around the campfire. The stars overhead seemed brighter than I had ever seen before, unobstructed by the city’s light pollution. We roasted marshmallows and shared stories as the fire crackled and the night sounds of the lake serenaded us.
The next day was all about the boat. Uncle Joe taught me how to steer, manage the ropes, and read the water. My father and I went fishing, and though I was clumsy and inexperienced, he was patient, showing me how to bait the hook and cast the line. I could see the pride in his eyes when I caught my first fish, a small-mouthed bass. Aunt Peggy cheered, promising to cook it for dinner.
That night, we feasted on the bass I’d caught, Aunt Peggy’s famous baked beans, and homemade cornbread. There was a sense of camaraderie, a feeling of being connected not only to each other but to nature itself.
As the trip drew to an end, I found myself feeling a profound sadness. But as we packed up, Uncle Joe put his arm around me. He pointed across the lake where the morning sun was turning the water into a mirror of gold and said, “This is just the first of many adventures, kiddo. Buckeye Lake isn’t going anywhere.”
I recently returned to Buckeye Lake for a night of camping with my children. It did not seem the same although good times were had by all. Once everyone was asleep, I kept thinking about that experience some 30 years ago. I finally figured out what was different this time, it was the fact that my father, my Uncle Joe, and Aunt Peggy were not with us.
That first camping trip taught me a lot about the beauty of nature, the value of family, and the joy of new experiences. I grew closer to my father, and I formed a bond with my aunt and uncle that would only grow stronger with every subsequent trip to Buckeye Lake. Uncle Joe’s equipment, Aunt Peggy’s sandwiches, and my father’s patient guidance were the hallmarks of those precious days—a simple, pure time that I would cherish forever.
I always think of them when my family goes camping, but I no longer allow those memories to interfere with the times I spent with my family. I think I need to get a boat.
