A flickering fire and it’s smoke mixed with the leftover smell of cigars covers me. But not like a smokey hatred, more like a warmth of a familiar blanket. Outside. A cool, summer night, and the sun slowly disappearing from the grasp of my sight, only to shine on another place. We’ve been doing this since I could ever remember and it’s the reason why summer nights are one of my favorite things.

We would pull up after a long drive to an empty cleared area in the middle of a forest. It sounds like torture to some: no television, minimal electricity, long walks to bathrooms, but to me it couldn’t be further from the truth. With the car overflowing with supplies and people, we all unload and set up our tents. When the job is finished we lounge in chairs and wait for everyone else. The best moments occur in that first night; that’s when everyone arrivest and we roast hot dogs around a huge campfire. My dad’s favorite 90s music blasting, the rustle of kids playing manhunt, and everyone chatting while the wood in the fire crackles.

Sometimes my Dad would take the top cover off the tent so we could gaze at the stars. All the kids would be together on an air mattress and as soon as my sister and brother fell asleep I could sneak out. By then, only the dads of the families were left around the fire, talking about things I probably didn’t understand at the time. I would sit on my Dad’s lap, already in pjs that were most likely already filthy. One of the best feelings I recall was wearing pajamas outside because it was just of the many things that made camping so different from home. I always curled up on my father while he chatted with other fathers, with the familiar smell of a fire and bugspray and my dad’s heart beat under my ear.

The heat of the sun usually awoke everyone earlier than expected. But the once loud night camp had to be quiet and there was never much to do early except wait and eat cereal, cold and bland, until more people woke up. As soon as everyone was up again, the campground was as lively as before. We left in groups from the campsite to explore around, eat blueberries and visit the beach. Almost always, the children would create a secret house made of bark-ridden sticks and a leafy roof. Somehow it always seemed to entertain us until the day’s end. Usually other kids from nearby campsites were found along the route of the day, and the endevors continued with the nightly routine and another fire.

Usually on the last night, all the kids of each family would gather as much kindling for the fire while the fathers would find larger branches and dig a hole in the sand of the beach. We would take all of our folding chairs of fluorescent colors and sit by a large bonfire on the beach. Surrounded by the sand on my feet, the warmth of the fire, and the cool breeze from the waves, I was home.
Set up was always annoying but never nearly as sad as packing. Driving away, wondering when we could ever go back was always a melancholic feeling. We don’t go much anymore but it’s still funny how well I can remember the houses we built, the holes my brother got stuck in, the fires that were blazing, and I can still sing along to all the campfire music from years ago.