Close Encounters of the Best Kind - Part One

'Close encounters of the third kind' weren't heard of fifty-six years ago when Ken and I first ventured into the woods but I'm sure our first camping trip caused just about as much excitement.

It took us several years before we could afford the luxury of a tent, four sleeping bags and a cook stove.  We were in the midst of building our own house and money and time were pretty scarce.  Camping was about the only type of holiday that matched our pocketbook.

I think all children should experience the thrill of camping outdoors at least once in their lives.

On the first day of our departure, the kids and I spent the morning trailing from house to car with armloads of various camping supplies while their father frantically finished off some cement work or other construction. Ken worked until the kids and I had the car all packed up and then tried to get 'in the mood' before we took off.

There were always last minute skirmishes to make sure we had all the necessities.  I remember making a long list and checking off each item: an axe, matches, bandaids, food, with reminders from certain members of the family "Don't forget the peanut butter, mum!"

We seldom left in gay abandon as there was usually an unexpected disaster just as we thought we were on our way. It often took until we were over 'the hump' of the Malahat before I saw the pressure gauge of my husband's face slowly change from one of tense preoccupation about an unfinished project at home to anticipation of joys ahead. Then he began to enter into the mood and started joking about the bears we might see and adventures we might experience.

I well remember the first time we stepped out of the car at Englishman River Falls.  Our little son was so excited.  He was about four years old and had difficulty speaking some words.  He spotted a squirrel running up a tall tree and ran to his dad shouting "Daddy, daddy, I see a skurl, a skurl!"

Daddy, trying to guide his son down the road of life, stopped to correct Mark's pronunciation.

"You mean squirr-el, not skurl'"

Again our son tried to twist his little tongue around that elusive "Q" but with no success. Finally, in desperation, he shouted out "Oh, okay then, 'chip-mump!" With that being settled, father and son wandered off down the path to find the skurl.

Oh the fun we had collecting water in pails and gathering firewood by the armful for our campfire.  There is nothing to equal the aroma of bacon frying early in the morning or seeing the soft curl of smoke from the fire drifting up through the trees, while the echo of someone chopping wood rang through the stillness.

We lay awake at night listening to the distant roar of the waterfalls and telling creepy stories, but the kids felt safe because we were all together in our cosy tent.

There was a house on the corner of the road leading into the campgrounds where one could buy delicious home-baked pies which we often purchased for dessert when our supplies began to run low.

As we explored the trails around the falls, Ken added to the fun.  Sometimes he unobtrusively tossed a stone into the bushes and then said "What was that?  I think I heard a bear!"

The kids entered into the spirit of adventure and squealed with delighted fear.  We also hid pennies in the trunks of dead trees and the kids had a great time trying to find these hidden treasures.

Sometimes we left the campground and went to the beach at Parksville where we spent the whole day playing in the water, knowing it was perfectly safe and shallow, stretching for miles over warm sand. 

On those days we packed a picnic lunch and returned home at the end of the afternoon to our home-away-from-home in the woods.

To be continued...