After my last post, several people shared how they started camping—what gear they had, and how they eventually moved up to glamping. Well, that got me to thinking… which is not always a good thing, because it tends to send me down a rabbit hole of “what ifs.”

Truth is, I can’t really remember when I started camping, it’s just always been a part of my life. (That, and my ongoing lifelong feud with mosquitoes. Spoiler: they’re still winning.)

My dad loved anything outdoors—hunting, fishing, or just walking through the woods. He grew up in Kentucky and was one of 13 kids (11 boys and 2 girls), so there were always uncles and cousins running around like a squirrels at a peanut festival. My mom and sister camped too, but once a year it was “boys only.” You had to be eight years old to get invited, which at the time felt like being promoted to the big leagues.

Some of my earliest memories are of a giant canvas tent that must have weighed 500 pounds. It took four grown men and two little boys (whose only real contribution was getting in the way) to set it up. We didn’t have cots or air mattresses, just a tarp on the ground and a sleeping bag. Looking back, that served me well when I later joined the Marines. Nothing prepares you for carrying half a tent on a 10-mile hike like those trips. And nothing prepares you for sharing a big GP tent with 30 sweaty Marines who haven’t seen a shower in days like sleeping on the ground with your cousins.

Those camping trips were special. We’d sit around the fire at night, listening to the adults tell stories from way before we were ever thought of. This was in the late 60s, and most of the men were veterans—my dad included, who was 100% disabled from WWII. I don’t remember much cussing. Maybe the occasional “hell” or “damn,” but if a kid repeated it, we got whooped. One of my uncles—tough as they come—once told us that cussing was for emphasis, and if you used it every other word, it lost its punch. (Honestly, I think that was the most practical grammar lesson I ever got.)

Those week-long trips were an education. Sure, we learned to hunt, fish, build fires, and cook what we caught—but we also learned about respect. Respect for nature, respect for people, and respect for ourselves. They even talked to us about civil rights, the Vietnam War and how to treat folks right, no matter who they were. (three of the big things I remember them talking about were the Kent State shooting, Dr Martin Luther King and landing on the moon)

One of my uncles was a NASA engineer, and he always stressed education. I think he was the one who pushed me to take school seriously and eventually go to college. Looking back, all of them being veterans probably had something to do with me joining the Marines at 18.

Now, don’t get me wrong—none of these men would’ve been caught dead at Starbucks or sipping tea at a fancy party. They were rough around the edges, no doubt. But I swear, if we had put them in charge of Boy Scouts (one of my biggest regrets to this day is not making Eagle Scout), summer camps, or even a few police departments, a lot of today’s problems with kids would disappear.

These trips went on until I was well into high school, and I don’t ever remember a cousin missing one. Thinking about it now, I realize my dad and uncles knew exactly what they were doing back then. They weren’t just teaching us about camping—they were teaching us about life.

And you know what? I wouldn’t trade those tarp-on-the-ground, mosquito-bitten, canvas-tent days for the fanciest “glamping” setup in the world.