This nostalgic camp story comes from one of our Portland-based Meadowlings.
In the summer of 2012, I had just moved back home to Montana after 5 years away attending college in Oregon. My body had acclimated to living at sea level, which was my justification for how out of shape I was for the 3 miles and 1,600 ft of elevation gain our hike required to reach our destination for the weekend.
The hike up to Lava Lake in southwestern Montana was as beautiful as it was vertical, and rewarded us with a stunning deep blue lake nestled between the mountains. But, as it often goes, the campsite was on the side opposite where the trail met the lake. So our gung-ho group of six adults and two schnauzers mustered up a second wind, slowly clambering our way over massive boulders for the next two hours to reach our coveted campsite.
I still remember how difficult the climb was and the awe at that first glimpse of the lake. I remember the absolute absurdity of maneuvering over giant, precarious rock formations with all our camping gear, tossing sleeping bags to one another to free up hands. I remember drinking God knows what alcoholic drink from from plastic cups and making hilariously impractical bear prevention plans to preserve our impressive stock of hot dogs. I remember waking up to the quiet wilderness of the Spanish Peaks, an idyllic summer morning, a type of tranquility hard to come by in our modern world. I remember the ice-cold morning dip in the lake and sunbathing on the warm rocks.
But mostly, I remember the cake batter-filled-oranges that Sara smuggled in her backpack.
Who has ever heard of such a thing? Out of principle I still I have not googled the recipe, the kind that’s best passed down by word of mouth from one seasoned camper to another, a badge of campfire cooking authenticity and originality.
The trip was a birthday celebration for my best friend, and Sara was determined he should have birthday cake. Imagine selecting the largest oranges, delicately removing each fruit from its rind while preserving its integrity. Then, mixing up the cake batter the morning of, pouring it into the empty peels, securely wrapping them all in tinfoil, covertly stowing them all in your bag with icepacks to keep fresh, and hiking them up a mountain, over boulders, and around a lake to the campsite. To me, this was the most thoughtful, brilliantly sneaky, labor intensive, and truly magical birthday surprise of all time.
As night fell and the campfire coals glowed, we baked those tin foiled oranges full of batter ever so patiently, right in the fire, longer than you might think, until they turned into delicious fluffy morsels of greatness.
It’s the kind of meal shared with friends that anchors in a memory. Food, especially food made with love, has a special ability to bind us to a specific moment in time, transporting us back as if it were yesterday.
Our camping crew has since scattered across more than a few states. But we’ll always have orange campfire cake, devoured with love in the Montana mountains at 7,118 ft.
-Amanda