Camping, something I've been asking for for years, is finally underway. The tradition welcomes me with open arms, but is somewhat lacking the stereotypes I remember so fondly. Slowly trucking down the long driveway in silence in the dusty white Ford was building up for a big reveal, even though I've seen the same house many times before
“For food, for raiment, for life, for opportunity, for friendship and fellowship we thank you, O Lord, Amen.” We uttered this prayer together before every meal on my Philmont Trek last summer.
Philmont Scout Ranch, located in Cimarron, New Mexico, offered large variety of foods. I remember the first time we set foot in basecamp’s mess hall. As we entered the room, the murmur of the crowd was dwarfed by the thundering tone of an upright piano flat against a wall. The pianist was playing Clocks, by Coldplay, a grand song that soon became the theme song of my Philmont adventure: grand, adventurous, and breathtaking. That evening, we ate roast beef, potatoes, cooked vegetables, and a yeast dinner roll. That was a delicious dinner labored over with care, a stark contrast to the packaged food we ate for most of the trek.