A Tale of Two Campfires part three

by Keith Fisher

I hope you have been following this story. I wrote it years ago and thought that with a little editing, you'd enjoy it. Remember last time? I had just tripped and hit my head after finding a trail where a modern road should have been.


I woke up to the sound of an ATV going up the road. The driver couldn't see me because I had landed in a clump of oak brush. Judging by my wristwatch I had only been unconscious about ninety minutes. I felt a nasty scrape on my head, probably from the fall.

The road that I remembered was right in front of me. I watched the taillights on the ATV disappear up the road and it turned quiet again.

With all I’d been through, I doubted my senses, but I heard the sound of an engine running. Using a log to push against, I carefully climbed up and turned around. My trailer stood about a hundred yards up the hill, right where it should've been. It seemed as though the whole hillside was illuminated from the lighted lanterns, and stoked campfire.

I shook my head and walked slowly up the hill. I later learned, my family was preparing to search for me. When I hadn't returned to fix dinner, my cousins roasted hot dogs. They assumed I’d be along soon to ask for help bringing a deer back to camp. I shook my head and thought of the deer in the other camp. Then I began to try and make sense of my experience.

At the demands of my camp mates, I sat down in my folding chair, in front of the fire, to tell my story.

"Fog, what fog?" My uncle asked when I began. "It was sunny all afternoon on my ridge."

Because of his surprise, I began to wonder if it all had really been just a dream. Or maybe someone slipped some strange mushrooms in my food. While I told my story, Jim, one of my cousins, began to turn pale as if he had seen a ghost. "That explains the guy I saw today."

As it turned out, Jim had been in camp earlier. He was sitting in his trailer when he saw a man dressed in a red plaid jacket, and old wool cap, come into camp. The man seemed a little shook up, and walked a circle around camp, stopping frequently, to stroke his beard and shake his head. Jim’s apprehension increased because the man carried a rifle.

Jim watched for awhile, hoping the man would just leave. He went over to a truck and looked it over, as well as a couple of the camp trailers. He leaned over to examine a propane lantern, and moved on to the Dutch oven tables and camp kitchen.

He reached for the Mair lid lifter, and grasped the handle. He seemed to catch on to the purpose of the tool because Jim saw him grin when he raised and lowered the lid. Next, he found a charcoal briquette, and after sniffing and crushing it in his hands he seemed to recognize what it was. When he noticed the Campchef two burner stove, he started toward it, but tripped over an ice chest. He looked down and opened the cooler. Jim said he had an astonished look on his face.

During the whole experience, Jim noticed the man hadn't stolen anything and didn’t seem to be threatening, so Jim stepped out of his trailer and approached the man. "Can I help you?"

The man looked up from his examination of the stove. "I'm sorry for intruding but you have some very strange things—I’ve been looking them over. My name is Robert." He extended his hand.

"No Problem. I’m Jim." They shook hands. Jim showed him the workings of the propane stove, as well as the butane lighter. Robert seemed so fascinated with the lighter, that Jim offered to let him have it.

"No, thank you, I just need some directions," he said. "I seem to be a little lost . . . well, maybe I'm very lost."

After drawing a map and helping Robert see where the road was, Jim said goodbye to a strange and bewildered man.

I spent the rest of my evening in silence. Nobody around our campfire seemed willing to say what he was thinking. We just watched the fire and slowly drifted off to our beds to sleep.

The next morning, I looked around our campsite, squinting and tilting my head. After looking from several angles, I determined our campsite was in the same place as the one I’d visited. I found the spot where I reckoned a cooler pit had been dug many years ago. I used my shovel and dug another one. I fashioned a lid from the welcome mat in my trailer and covered it with fallen leaves.

I didn't go out hunting that day, there didn’t seem to be a point. I remained in camp and using coals from the campfire instead of charcoal, I tried to make a stew. I even found a forked stick.

After a little practice, I baked a pretty good bread roll, using nothing but campfire coals.

I must confess, however, I did use my Dutch oven table. It keeps the pots off the ground and I don't have to keep bending over.

I don't speculate whether the man who came to my camp was the man Jake worried about. I hope Robert found his way back home. I wish I could have repaid a debt by feeding him from my Dutch ovens.

I don’t let strangers pass by anymore without offering to feed them. I’m not stupid, though, I take a good look at them first.

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A Tale of Two Campfires part two

by Keith Fisher

Today, we continue our three part story. Remember last time, I had just emerged from the bushes and discovered I was in someone else's camp.


The three men in camp all wore red shirts, not flourescent orange, which is a requirement for Utah deer hunters. The wall tent across the clearing had been pitched using recently cut lodge poles. There were horses staked out under the trees, and someone had been busy building camp furniture from fresh cut trees. A Dutch oven hung from an iron tripod over the fire and one of the men dipped something from it onto a tin plate. I turned to leave without bothering them, but I needed to find out where I was.

"Hello in the camp." I called. I didn't want to surprise anyone with my sudden appearance from the fog.

They turned and stared at me. One man quickly stifled a laughed.

"I got lost in the fog. Can you tell me where I am?"

The man with the plate welcomed me and invited to have some stew. "I’m Jake," he said.

"I’m Keith." I offered my hand. I just need to find my camp, but that stew sure smells good," I took the plate and sat on a hand-hewn bench.

The other two men moved away from the fire. They were using binoculars, trying to see something through the fog. They looked worried.

I heard the clang of another lid and turned to see the cook dump coals from the lid of another Dutch oven. He reached inside, pulled out two sourdough bread rolls, and handed them to me.

"You want some butter on those?"

I nodded. "Sure, you’re a great cook," I said. I watched as Jake went to a pile of straw. He lifted a mat made from a bunch of sticks lashed together. He reached into a pit dug into the ground, pulled out a bowl, and handed it to me. I liberally dabbed fresh, creamy butter on the hot rolls and watched it melt.

Jake returned the mat and the straw then snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot. Would you like a little milk to wash it down?"

"That would be nice if it's not too much trouble," I said.

Jake shook his head. "No trouble." He pulled the mat up again and reached into the pit.

I watched Jake pour milk from a tin can into a cup. I became fascinated by the spectacle. Jake had been cooking with firewood coals, lifting lids with a forked stick, and making food that would rival anything I’ve seen at the Worlds Championship Dutch Oven Cook Off.

When I finished eating, Jake asked me if I had seen his friend. "Robert set out this morning in the direction you came from, and he hasn’t come back yet."

"No, I haven’t seen him," I said.

"Well, he probably downed a really big one. Not like those puny deer we got." He pointed at three large bucks hanging from a tree. If those deer were puny, I’d love to go where he hunts.

"You were very lucky to find those," I said. "I haven’t seen anything but a doe and two fawns all day."

Jake stared at me with a look of disbelief.

One of the other men came and sat next to me. He started drawing a map in the dirt with a stick.

"This is Henry, he knows these mountains like the back of his hand," Jake said.

"Good to meet you." I stuck out my hand.

Henry shook my hand then directed my attention to the map. "Now this is Strawberry valley." He pointed at a spot in the dirt. "And this is the road over Daniel's Pass." He showed me his representation of every landmark within 40 miles, and showed me where we were.

"This is the trail we came in on." He dug the lines deeper in the dirt. "And this is the one that goes to Current Creek."

I began to recognize where we were from the landmarks I knew. I noticed he referred to all the roads as trails. "Where is the road . . . uh, trail you came in on?"

"About a hundred yards in that direction." Henry pointed.

I nodded my understanding. I knew my camp could be seen from the road, so I decided to follow the road until I found camp. It would be dark in about an hour, but if I got on the road, I could hitch a ride on an ATV.

I thanked Jake for the good food, and offered to help cleanup. I also offered to help pay for the food I’d eaten, but Jake slapped me on the back. "Don’t be silly. You never turn a man away from your fire unless you've fed him."

"If you see Robert, tell him to get back to camp, will you?" Henry asked.

I said I would, and shook both men’s hand. I set out in the direction of the trail and was almost out of earshot when I heard Henry talking. "That boy sure is a strange duck, I wonder where he got them bright clothes. He must be some kind of dude from out of state."

I walked about eighty yards and found a trail. According to my reckoning, it should’ve been a road. I wondered how those men got their horses up there. Then I realized I didn’t see any vehicles in camp. I thought of my 23-foot trailer. If I were in my camp, I’d probably spend the evening watching a movie while being warmed by the furnace in the trailer.

My mouth fell open when I reached the trail. The fog suddenly lifted, and the temperature climbed about ten degrees. The sun hung on the treetops in its last throws, before dipping down behind the ridge to plunge the world into darkness for the evening. In my confusion, I stumbled on a rock, and fell down. I remember a sharp pain in my head, then nothing.

continued next time

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A Tale of Two Campfires

Although it won't be linked on the LDS Neighborhood until Monday, I'm posting this blog on September 11th. The significance of the day will be in some of our minds forever, and for the first time, I would like to say a couple words, then get back to camp cooking.

On the morning of September 11, 2001. I left for work thinking about the big Dutch oven gathering I had organized for September 15th. It would be a wonderful party and we had invited all of Utah County. I was the president of a Dutch oven society and we had announced our event in the news and given out fliers. The food was in the coolers ready to be cooked.

On the radio news, I heard about an airplane hitting the World Trade Center. The receptionist at work purchased a television so we could stay abreast of the developments. I watched my Senator make a fool of himself over partisan politics, and I went home, sat in my desk chair, turned the television off, and mourned the loss of my world.

I knew life would never be the same, and I wished with all my heart I had been born during an easier time in the world. I have since realized every generation has their own set of special problems but on 9-11, life changed.

I hung an American flag on the pavilion at the Dutch oven party, we all cooked more food than any of us could eat, and we invited everyone in the park to come and partake. I personally blamed Bin Laden for messing up my party. I hope someday we can finish what we started and get back to finding him. Until then, support our troops. You don't have to agree with your leaders to support those who are defending your freedom. Pray for the wisdom of our leaders, and try to reason with them. Try to sort through the politics and misdirection. Make wise choices.

Now on to the crux of the matter. Today, I begin a short story told in parts. It's designed to inspire you to get out and do some camp cooking. Let me know what you think of the story.


A Tale of Two Campfires part one
by Keith Fisher

It had been an unusually warm deer hunt. I sat on a ridge looking down at the beaver pond in the valley below. The early afternoon sun illuminated the panoramic view. I couldn’t see any deer for miles.

To say the least, the morning hunt had been disappointing. I traipsed up and down the ridges and only saw one doe and two fawns. Like so many hunts in recent years, this one looked like a bust.

I started to daydream, but decided to be productive and plan dinner. I’m the self-proclaimed camp cook in our family and I wanted to prepare a special dinner to make up for the bad hunt. Perhaps, shredded meat enchiladas, I thought. While resting my back against a log in the afternoon sun, I fell asleep.

I woke up sometime later and felt groggy, like being pulled from the grave. Something was wrong, but what? A thick fog rolled in. It muffled every sound and gave the appearance of an otherworldly realm, and I listened to the sound of dead silence. According to my wristwatch, I had only been asleep for half an hour, but that was impossible. I’d never seen fog roll in that fast before, it just wasn’t right. Bewildered and shivering, I reached into my backpack and pulled out my coat.

It was hard to distinguish between north and south. It would be tough getting off the ridge. After a few minutes I remembered my footprints. I began to follow them down the backside of the ridge in the direction where camp had to be.

The footprints led me to a rock outcropping I couldn't remember crossing on the way up. It seemed to be taking too long to get back to camp.
I must be going the right way. My footprints can’t lie.

After a while, my confidence turned to fear. My easy trek became a forced march. I needed confirmation that I was on the right trail. I began to grope each tree for any sign of recognition.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound. I froze and willed my heart to stop beating. I held my breath and listened. I heard the sound again, and I smiled. Just ahead of me, I heard the sound a cast iron lid makes when it’s placed on a Dutch oven.

"I wonder who’s messing with my Dutch ovens?" I said to myself. Nothing against my family, but if left to their own devices, I believe that many of them would resort to PB&J rather than worry about cooking a meal in camp, so I was a little surprised someone would be in my camp kitchen.

The footprints led in the direction of the sound, so they had to be mine. I trudged forward through the fog, knowing I had to be close. The footprints went around a tree, and I suddenly emerged from some bushes into the campsite. It wasn’t my campsite.

continued next time



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Dutch Oven Legends

By Keith Fisher

Where has summer gone? Last spring, I planned to spend my summer catching up on social commitments, and cooking for my family. I planned to hold the block party. I’ve postponed it for a few years. Like all of you, I’m running out of weeks, and school has started again.

Enough of my whining, how are you doing with your list? When trying to think of something to write about, I remembered a story you might enjoy. My dad told it to me once, while we were fishing.

After talking about his youth, and a treasure hunt Dad participated in, he told about a bank robbery that took place in the early 1900’s in Spanish Fork. The robbers, Chuck and Jed, had heard about a large payroll so they made plans to steal it. They were outfitted for a trip into the mountains on horseback leading two packhorses. The daylight holdup left the two men running from the law. They stuffed the loot into Jed’s saddlebags and lit out, up the canyon and over the mountains to the east.

In that small town, it didn’t take long to raise a posse, and the robbers were feeling the pressure. At the Diamond Fork River, they separated. Jed turned one of the packhorses loose, and rode up the fork. Chuck continued up the canyon to Tucker. He climbed into a boxcar, headed up the summit. He heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t have to worry, Jed had the money, and they promised to meet in Denver.

Even with the helper engines, the train traveled slowly up the grade. Halfway to the summit, in a place called Dry Fork, the train slowed to a stop. The boxcar door slid open, and the posse pulled Chuck out of the car. They beat Chuck, but he never revealed the identity of his accomplice. He went to prison for the robbery.

Years later, after his release from prison, Chuck found Jed in Vernal, and demanded his share of the money.

"I can’t give it to you," Jed said. "I’ve been looking for that loot for twenty years. I just can’t find it." He went on to tell Chuck what had happened.

After they separated, Jed got nervous. He knew the posse wasn’t far behind and he suspected they would follow him and not Chuck. He needed to travel faster, so he considered turning the other packhorse loose. That’s when he got an idea. He figured if he didn’t have the payroll with him, nobody could accuse him. He could always come back for it.

He didn’t have much time. He put the money into a Dutch oven, and stuffed the pot in the cavity of a rock. Jed sent the packhorse in a westerly direction, climbed onto his other horse, and made good time over the mountains to Denver. When he heard Chuck went to prison, Jed tried to get the money. He tried for twenty years, but he never found the place again.

"Where do you think it is?" Chuck asked.
"I know it’s somewhere between Springville Crossing and the Strawberry Valley," Jed hung his head. "I’m so sorry, I would’ve tried to make your life easier in prison if I had found the money."
According to the story, Jed died a year later, after trying to help Chuck find the Dutch oven. Chuck spent the rest of his life looking but he never found it either.

Doesn’t that story stir the imagination? Does it make you want to go and look? The details in this story are fiction and I’m not sure if the story is true, but I’d like to think so. If the story is true, and you found the Dutch oven. What would be more valuable to you? The money, or the Dutch oven? Theoretically, a Dutch oven with the lid held down should be airtight, and should protect the contents. So I ask you again, which would be of more interest to you? What would you do if you found it?

The answer, for me, is the Dutch oven. The money would be too old to spend anyway, and the government would probably force me to turn it over to them. The Dutch oven is a link to the past, an antique that represents a happier time. When life was easier—when icehouses were big business. Just think if the cast iron was seasoned, and if the rocks protected the pot from the weather, I could clean it up and cook with a 100-year old Dutch oven.

Notice the picture above. The Dutch oven is in the LDS Church Museum in Florence Nebraska. Its over 150-years old.

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