by Clint Thomsen
GUEST COLUMNIST
The last rays of sun disappeared over the horizon and our minds focused on the steaming black pot on our scoutmaster's camp stove. The stew warmed my double-gloved hands as I ladled it into my tin bowl. A long, cold day of hiking in the Cedar Mountains had left our empty stomachs begging for nourishment. The campfire crackled to life, its graceful flames illuminating the succulent bisque in my bowl. The dish was something we called "hobo stew," where every person brings a can of something -- anything -- and adds it to the pot. It's the Boy Scout version of the potluck dinner, but simpler and much more efficient. This night's batch included ravioli, beef stew, green beans, corn, and chicken noodle soup. It was one of the best meals I've ever had.
We are now in what I call the Greater Holiday Season -- that holly-draped interlude between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day that makes winter a little more bearable. Crisp air outside and warm thoughts inside of babes in mangers, snowball fights, and family. Woven throughout this patchwork quilt of festivities is the all important thread of food. It begins with turkey and stuffing and ends with chips and dip, with pies, cookies and hams in between. Any dieting I have done during the previous 11 months will be negated by the first week of December.
Other than the holidays, the only time food occupies such a prominent place in my thoughts is when I'm camping. Whether I'm hauling a trailer or wearing a pack, one question lurks in the forefront of my mind any time I'm in the wilderness: What will I eat?
After any significant amount of time running the mazes of the concrete jungle, entering the backcountry is like crossing into an alien world. The synapses seem to fire differently and everyday tensions begin to dissolve. The subconscious mind regresses to the primitive instincts it's been craving, revealing new perspectives on life -- and food.
Certainly I'm not the only one who sees the irony in our approach to food when we're roughing it as opposed to cooking in our home kitchen. If you've done much camping, you know what I'm talking about. Raw nature has a magic ability to transform powdered drink packets into fine beverages and MRE's into feasts fit for kings. What is it that makes Malt-O-Meal and Cup-O-Soup so amazingly delicious in the mountains? What is it about the open air that turns a culinary novice into an Iron Chef?
My dad's not much of a cook at home, but break out the Coleman camp stove and he becomes a regular Emeril Lagasse. Fresh trout never tastes better than when Dad fries it up over a propane burner. But his real specialty is "chilghetti," an original invention and a family classic prepared by combining cans of chili and Spaghettios.
For me, camping meals always center on meat. If meat doesn't play a major role, the meal is just a snack. A longtime favorite fireside entrée is my friend Tyler's grilled bratwurst, which he tenderly nurses over the coals, periodically spritzing them until they are bursting at the seams with juicy goodness. A simpler staple among my friends is fire-roasted slabs of whatever meat happens to be on sale at the local grocery store. Just slide the meat onto a stick and hold it over the fire until it seems done.
Something about camping compels me to throw normal food sensibilities out the window the moment civilization is in the rear-view mirror. The five-second rule has no application when I'm roughing it. If a hot dog falls on my kitchen floor at home, it's gone -- no questions asked -- even if it's one of those gourmet all-beef franks. Yet in the mountains, just brush off the dirt and I'm good to go. If a fly lands on my steak at a patio barbeque, I'll cut around that area. But, if a mosquito does a nose dive into my oatmeal while backpacking and I can't immediately pick it out, oh well, I can use the extra protein.
Normal health precautions are also victims of nature's spell. Over a simmering pot of macaroni and cheese in the High Uintas, a friend once offered this useful advice: "If you can't smell the butter you haven't added enough." And any decent camp chef knows that you don't drain the bacon grease because you'll need it for the scrambled eggs and, well, everything else. Counting calories is the last thing on my mind when I'm sitting by the campfire, wondering why on earth five-star restaurants don't serve ramen noodles or powdered Gatorade.
I eat some things when I'm camping that I would never think of eating at home, like boiled pineapple or trout spaghetti. One night in the west desert we boiled a canned whole chicken in the coals. It was delicious. But, occasionally a camp stove creation tastes so great in the wild that it's hard to resist the temptation to try it at home. A breakfast of rock-fried pepperoni quesadillas was great after a morning hike in the southern Oquirrhs, but not so great when I made them for my wife the next day.
You see, the spell of good camp chow tends to dissipate once you leave the wilderness. Like Cinderella's carriage at midnight, the magic wears off and that mouth-watering meal returns to its true, plain state once it crosses that imaginary line back into civilization. There may be exceptions to this rule, but it's best not to risk it. Just enjoy camp food in the moment, and don't try to recreate the magic back home.
Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.