Camping in the 70s, 80s and early 90s was a cheap family holiday option. Throw the kids in the car, fill the boot with camping gear, and even use a roof rack or trailer to carry stuff. Off to the Wairarapa coast perhaps, or a road trip following campsites around the North Island.
The children enjoyed it when small, helping dad get the gas stove going in the tent annexe. Cooking brekkie out of the rain. Cooking dinner over an open fire, billy tea, using the thermette with slivers of dried totara kindling and a wee dose of methylated spirits to light it. Camp ovens, billies, fry pans. Plastic or metal plates and those awful metal eating utensils.
Being used to the stinky long drop, really high in summer. Cold and draughty in winter. The friendly buzz of bluebottles. You never quite knew where they all were, always an adventure.
Long days in the bush or on the coast exploring. Sitting with mum and her friends while dad and his mates collected kaimoana. Eating paua steaks cooked on the fire, crayfish boiled in a special big pot.
Teenage daughter watching dad eat kina on bread and butter with a nice cuppa, expressing her disgust at the yukkiness of such food. The drama of it all.
Going to bed early, tired out. Sun-burnished and happy healthy kids. Spending the days playing with any other kids around. Friendships come easy when camping for both adults and children.
Mum and dad sitting around the campfire with other adults talking quietly into the night over cocoa or something a wee bit stronger after a long day. Eating the baking one of the mums did the days previous to the big adventure.
I suppose camping life came easily to us. My wife was a tramper in her teenage years and I spent years traipsing the hills around my family home, hunting, camping out, just being outside in the bush. I also did a bit of tramping as a teenager and young adult in my policing days.
As the kids progressed through school, we had school camps and Scout camps at Lake Wiritoa. Both children went to Durie Hill School so as a family we spent time at two Mangatepopo School camps at the foot of Mt Tongariro, accompanied by boisterous Year 6 children and their hard-working teachers.
Climbing to Ketetahi Springs on one occasion on the side of the mountain. Sensible and in control 11-year-old daughter with her friends ascending the lower mountain in a group of giggles and laughter. Four-year-old little brother running all the way, only to fall asleep at the springs and descend back to the carpark on dad’s shoulders and pack top, nodding off. Grabbing dad around the eyes on occasions; nothing like the little gingernut encrusted fingers of a small child grabbing your face and hair.
Our kids still camp themselves on occasion. Daughter used the family tent at a music festival with her then-boyfriend, coming home proud as punch with herself. The festival got rained out as did most of the tents, but artist daughter, along with other young adults who knew such things, pitched her tent on highish ground. One of the few safe, dry places at the festival. Party time in the tent.
Son was a soldier after college so was well used to the rigours of outdoor living by the time he arrived in Waiouru for basic training. Not a worry to him.
Learning to live in the bush and on our rough coasts teaches kids self-reliance, risk assessment and versatility. It makes them not fear some things and gives them a quiet confidence. It’s also really good fun.
Our outdoors is beautiful but needs to be respected. Learning that early in life is a boon to many New Zealanders; learning about things without really knowing you’re learning. It’s just all fun and adventure.
Great memories still mentioned by the middle-aged kids today.
