We used to call my dad “Explo-o-r-e-e-r,” drawing out the end of the word in a singsong as he led us across rocky terrain and through aspen trees that looked too perfect to be real. My sister and I would run our hands down the trunks of the aspens, removing a thin white powder that we applied to our cheeks as sunscreen, like the Native Americans. We wore hiking boots that my dad claimed were unisex, but that I always suspected were made for boys. We threw on baseball caps and tucked in our t-shirts like my dad did, and we were ready to go.

We’d drive for hours before finding an available campsite, but we always found a place before dinner. We ate freeze-dried macaroni and cheese, which was mushy in some places and rock-hard in others, but we wolfed it down…that is, until my sister asked why Top Ramen wasn’t a better option. That was the last of the freeze-dried macaroni and cheese. My dad packed all the food we needed into our dilapidated blue cooler: beef jerky, soda, various gourmet cheeses, beer, wine, coffee, oatmeal, and whatever we had decided to mix with hot water and call dinner.

He insisted on packing and unpacking everything – he was an expert. He could find little nooks and crannies that the rest of us had overlooked and fit a lot of stuff into a compact space – including us. We were packed into the car just like everything else, surrounded by sleeping bags and folding chairs alike. I’m amazed that we were able to squeeze our way out for bathroom breaks without my dad clearing out the surrounding area first.

We were always required to help with setup. Setting up a tent became routine, and we even devised a go-to sleeping arrangement. Everything had its place – we’d learned that from watching him pack the car. I’d finish the tent and see my dad on one of the camping chairs, a beer in hand, watching the sunset like it was the last one he’d ever see. That’s what I love about him. He never gets tired of the little things.

Once it got dark, we began to make a pile of our overabundant supply of dry wood that we’d so gleefully collected. My dad lit a match, and the fire began to swell, hot, dry, and wild. I loved watching the flames leap towards the clear sky, even though I had to move around frequently in order to avoid the smoke. My dad always pretended that he’d forgotten the makings for s’mores, telling us that we’d just have to survive the night without a sugar high. But the night always ended with the taste of sticky marshmallows and chocolate and a great velvety canvas of twinkling stars.