Tents, Trails & Toasted Marshmallows: Our Family’s Camping Life in the ’60s and ’70s

Back in the days of paper maps, Coleman coolers, and station wagons packed to the brim, our family had a summer rhythm: plan, pack, explore, repeat. Every weekend brought a new campground, new friends, and fresh adventure across New England. This is how we camped — and how those simple weekends became some of my favorite family memories.

The Anticipation Began in the Middle of the Week

The excitement started bubbling around Wednesday. That’s when the wooden “camping cabinet” — handcrafted by my grandfather — made its first appearance in the kitchen. It meant one thing: the weekend adventure countdown had officially begun.

Truth is, the planning went back much further. My mom had been dreaming up our summer camping trips months in advance. I remember the kitchen table buried under paper maps (the old-school, fold-out kind), with brightly colored highlighter routes crisscrossing New England. She had campground brochures, handwritten lists, and a hopeful gleam in her eye. It felt like we were planning a cross-country expedition — even if we were just heading a few hours away.

Mom was the master planner. She organized the food, mapped the routes, booked the campgrounds, and somehow managed to wrangle the rest of us into shape by Friday evening. Dad had his own domain: the camper and anything stamped “Coleman.” He was the keeper of the stove, the lantern, the cooler — all those musty-but-reliable camping essentials.

My brother and I? Well, we were mostly along for the ride — though we were expected to pack our own clothes (which always resulted in someone forgetting socks or pajamas). When departure time came, it was all hands on deck. I can still see Mom out in the driveway, arms waving like an airport ground crew, shouting over the car engine: “A little to the left! Okay, now back it up slowly!” as Dad tried to hitch the camper.

And then… we hit the road.

Friday Dusk: Setting Up and Scouting Out

We always seemed to roll into the campground just before dusk — not quite dark, but that golden, fading light where everything feels a bit magical and hurried at the same time.

While Mom and Dad sprang into action unloading gear and popping up the camper, my brother and I would take off like a shot. The campground was a whole new world to explore — gravel paths that led to mysterious loops, pine needles crunching underfoot, and always the hunt for other kids riding bikes or tossing frisbees near their campsites.

Setting up the camper.

Pepper found her spot.

Found a friend!

Mom moved with purpose — arranging the picnic table and unpacking the cooler.  Dad wrangled the canopy, made sure the stove was working and lighted the lantern before it got too dark to see what was what. The smell of pine mixed with Coleman fuel is still lodged somewhere in my memory.

By the time the stars were starting to pop out, we were usually settling into our first campfire — marshmallows, maybe a burnt hot dog or two, Dad's famous "campfire pies", and a lantern glowing on the table like a beacon.

Saturday: Adventures Await

Saturday mornings were our launchpad for local adventure. After a hearty camping breakfast — usually pancakes or scrambled eggs that tasted ten times better cooked outdoors — we’d pile back in the car and head off to wherever the map (and Mom’s planning) had pointed us.

There was Storytown U.S.A., a wonderland for kids in those days, with its fairy tale cottages and costumed characters. I especially remember the giant shoe — the shoe — where the old woman lived with all those children. We stepped inside its curved yellow walls, peered through the tiny windows with painted shutters, and tried to imagine what life would be like with that many kids under one (very strange) roof.

Storytown U.S.A. — one of our favorite stops on a Saturday side trip.

                                                                              The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe at Storytown U.S.A. 

Another weekend might take us to Fort Ticonderoga, where my brother and I imagined ourselves as soldiers in tricorner hats, standing watch along the old stone walls.

https://fortticonderoga.org/

These side trips weren’t just diversions — they were part of the rhythm of our summer weekends. We learned without knowing we were learning, soaked up history, and made memories in places that now feel like chapters in a family scrapbook.

By evening, we’d be back at the campsite, sun-worn and sticky from whatever the day brought — ready for another night under canvas and stars.

Sunday: The Slow Goodbye

Sunday always came too soon.

We’d wake up to the sound of birds, the rustle of sleeping bags, and the familiar clink of the Coleman stove firing up for one last camp breakfast. There was a different pace to Sunday mornings — a little slower, a little quieter, as if the trees themselves knew it was time to say goodbye.

Mom and Dad would start the packing routine like clockwork, folding up gear, organizing leftovers, brushing pine needles off everything. My brother and I helped in our own distracted way, half-heartedly rolling up sleeping bags while sneaking in a last game or goodbye with whatever campground friends we’d made that weekend.

Nobody ever wanted to leave, but the road home always called — school, chores, reality. Still, even as we pulled away, the car was already filled with talk of next weekend. Where would we go? Would we get the same campsite? Would the weather hold?

There was always something to look forward to — another map to unfold, another campground to discover. And that quiet joy of knowing, as a family, we’d be doing it all again.