I miss camping. And as the word “miss” implies, it has been a long time since I headed into the great outdoors to “rough” it, escape humanity, be one with nature.

Nothing like a week in the woods to put one in touch with his/her inner self. To tap into the reservoir of the very roots of humanity.

You know, a chance to get stinky, bitten by bugs and fill those lungs with seven days of campfire smoke.

No point in waiting for the annual wildfire smoke to inhale, not when I can do it myself.

Now if it sounds like I’m not a fan of camping, you, my friend, are wrong.

Ever since I was born naked, I’ve felt some kind of primal connection with nature.

There’s something manly about camping, or at least there used to be.

For one thing, saying something is manly these days is a good way to get shunned on social media, not that I give a rat’s behind about social media.

But let’s not deviate down that path.

I have fond memories of camping, especially on those rare occasions my family and I could convince Dad it was time to get away from his neighborhood grocery store and take us kids camping. My Dad, bless his heart, was a workaholic. Raising four kids, including three oversize boys, can cause this.

Even with his own grocery store, it was no doubt a challenge logistically and financially to feed the Bandel boys.

So, at least once a year, and usually during the Father’s Day weekend, we would fill up the 1940-something “woody” station wagon with gear, guys and Ladybird, our beloved black lab.

Off we traveled deep into the wilds of...Cooney Dam, a man-made reservoir about an hour from Billings, my hometown.

As we left the pavement at Boyd and turned down the dirt road that led to Cooney, our hearts and minds raced. We were ready to get away from it all, to leave the hassles of the big city behind and live like the pioneers did.

Cooney was at that time (haven’t been there in decades) an oversize mud puddle that was actually home to some trout and lots of suckers. To us that meant great fishing.

And we often caught a trout or two, waking at the crack of dawn and tumbling out of the back of the station wagon, heading for the water's edge.

That was in the days before I discovered coffee….can’t imagine doing anything like that now without the proper amount of caffeine.

The dog would already have succumbed to her primordial instincts and gone for a swim, sometimes in pursuit of our fishing bobbers. She wanted to help, or perhaps just mess with our minds.

The rest of the day would be devoted to “pioneering” things like swimming, taking a nap or skipping stones.

Nightfall meant the crown jewel of camping, the coveted campfire and a chance to stand around twith Dad and hear some stories about WW2 or anything else related to the “good old days”.

Dinner was usually something like campfire hot dogs and pork and beans, which would later provide the evening’s musical interlude and tons of laughter. Who knew Dad actually “tooted”.

One particular morning, Dad was up earlier than usual getting the campfire stoked to life and rattling some pots and pans. He had gone through the store’s meat department before we left on our camping adventure, and grabbed a feast of bacon, sausage and steaks, to go with the scrambled eggs, hash browns and other breakfast treats.

Toast over the campfire. Sizzling meat and eggs with bits of ash from the fire.

How can you beat that?

Outings like that set the tone for some serious camping trips to come for my older brother and me. West Rosebud and Emerald Lakes in the Beartooths were favorite destinations, bodies of water that were home to lots of pan-sized rainbow trout.

We hiked up the river trail to Glacier Lake and camped there several times. I will never forget how sweet the air smelled at that mountain-top elevation, at least until a short time after more pork and beans.

We became pretty good campers.

So when I say I miss camping, I really do. Unfortunately, the “thrill” of waking up with pine needles stuck to the side of my face faded over the years.

Somewhere along the way, passing gas around a campfire became more of a routine thing than a laugh starter.

After four back surgeries and six decades of living, sleeping on the ground lost its glamour.

None-the-less, I miss camping.

I’m determined to get away from it all this summer and spend a few nights in the woods. Most likely sleep in the bed of my truck with a nice, thick piece of foam rubber to make it softer. No fancy-schmancy RV for this dude!

Pretty sure I’ll have a campfire, but cooking will probably be done on a propane stove. Got a box of those waterless bath wipes to keep the layers of grit down.

But there will be no microwave involved.

This won’t be “glamping”, glamorous camping. I will return to my roots, even though they are getting grayer by the day.

I’ll keep the bear spray handy.

Maybe I’ll even see if I can rent a dog.