We were just a few yards from shore, but for Bridger it might as well have been the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. We had just launched his Grampy’s Old Town pack canoe from camp on the Moose River in Rockwood while his mother watched nervously from the dock.
I was nervous too, paddling slowly and cautiously upriver toward the armada of fishing boats that lined a nearby slip. I was worried it might be overwhelming for him at only 2 ½, and he was being uncharacteristically quiet while clinging tightly to the thwart.
But the moment he spied them, Bridger’s face lit up, and he excitedly yelled out “Dada! Big boats!” We spent a while looking them all over, then made our way back, both grinning from ear to ear.
It was the weekend of the Fourth of July, but more importantly, a weekend of firsts for my little boy.
Bridger’s grandfather, Rick, bought the camp more than 25 years ago. The balloon-framed old boathouse, with a living area situated above a boat storage space, is just a few feet from the water’s edge.
Despite having power, running water, television, Wi-Fi and a monitor heater, the camp largely remains a time capsule. An old wood floor creaks underfoot. A stack of firewood in the entryway waits to feed the woodstove.
Old photos, camp signs, a paddle, oil lanterns and a cluttered coat rack adorn the walls. The piston-operated glass storm door opens hard and slams even harder upon closing.
Time and the elements have pushed the structure slightly out of level, and toward the river. Two large, rustic, wood doors guard the opening of the lower portion, where previous owners stored their sailboat.
Surrounded by beautiful, newly built and renovated modern “camps,” the old boathouse remains one of the few real camps that looks as though it truly belongs. It’s perfect, and became one of my favorite places the second I stepped inside for the first time.
This was Bridger’s second trip to camp, but he was only months old the first time. It was our first trip as a complete family, with his baby brother Emery in tow, and of course our lab Winston.
With the canoe trip out of the way, Bridger turned his attention to one of his most prized possessions; a lime green Ninja Turtle youth fishing rod. We’d practiced casting the plastic pizza lure in the backyard on several occasions, as well as from shore, in preparation for his first real-world attempt.
As I tied on his first size 6 baitholder hook, Bridger cautioned me with, “Be careful, Dada. That hook is sharp.” We put a bobber a couple feet up from the hook, grabbed our crawlers and made our way to the end of the dock.
After threading on the crawler, I tried to help Bridger cast, but was met with an angry “No Dada! I do it!” The whole rig made it about two feet, and soon, Bridger became more interested in digging through the worm container than fishing. Nevertheless, we were both grinning from ear to ear.
We next checked his first bait trap we’d set the previous evening for crayfish. Bridger couldn’t understand why we had thrown bits of raw meat into a weird looking mesh container, then launched it into the river and tied it to the dock.
But as he pulled on the line, bringing the trap closer, he screamed and giggled when he realized there were creatures splashing around inside. He helped me open the trap and shrieked when he saw the dozen or so crayfish smacking their tails and waving their claws around.
“Baby lobsters!” he yelled. “Let’s let them go.” I was hoping he might want to try eating them, but the decision was his, so back in the water they went as he tipped the trap upside down.
Canoeing, fishing and setting crayfish traps were the meat and potatoes of his first “big boy” trip to camp, but there were other firsts of note too.
We took his first picture with the famous flying moose statue on the way into Rockwood. He took his first tour of Indian Hill’s sporting goods section where he excitedly pointed at, and talked to, all the animal mounts displayed.
And of course, he fearlessly climbed up the spiral stairs of the fire warden tower at the visitor center in Greenville while holding my hand and repeating “Don’t be scared, Dada.”
I’d like to think Bridger will remember all those firsts, but it’s doubtful. I will cherish every single precious moment. I suppose they were more for me anyhow.
My hope is that seeds planted early will grow something special, and that someday our boys will take their own kids to camp for a few firsts on Fourth of July.
