Memorial Day in Alaska: When the most peaceful spot for a campfire is your backyard

The last time Steve suggested a fishing and camping trip over Memorial Day weekend, it still sounded like a good idea. The slight hint of green on the trees and in the more progressive corners of the yard meant summer and its 24-hour days were near.

Romanticized images of camping filled my head — a campfire, falling asleep to the sound of a nearby creek, waking up to birds chirping outside. I was careful not to imagine the real bird that wakes me up — the one that has the consistent chirp of a truck backing up for several hours.

No, I imagined delightful birds and just a few, almost novel, mosquitoes. My ability to remember why we didn't camp on Memorial Day the year before was lost in all the details of unpacking gear that had been put away for the winter. Getting reacquainted with last season's gear is better than Christmas for me. And, it's a testament to my ability to forget.

So enraptured was I by the upcoming trip, I didn't hear the growl Steve made as we turned into the Seaview Campground in Hope. At first, I was overjoyed. Although it looked more like a fairground than a tent in the woods, it did not occur to me that both of us could have forgotten what "a little crowded" actually meant.

For two people who live outside of city limits, a little crowded means seeing any people at all.

"Doesn't look like there's a spot," I said.

I picked up on Steve's nonverbal cue as the truck made a five-point turnaround — he was not interested in wedging between the two honeymooners in a Pinto or the painted school bus advertising peace, love and music.

Since it was still before 6 a.m., we had plenty of time to find another spot. Steve liked to get an early start for just such reasons.

"There's not going to be a place without a crowd," he said.

This was the pertinent fact that we had failed to consider from previous years when we swore to learn from our mistakes. It was like deja vu with a twist of lament. Our last Memorial Day tour of crowded campgrounds did not end with the feeling of life-enriching elation.

"Maybe we could stop at that restaurant for breakfast," I suggested.

"Too late," Steve said. "We passed it."

The rule of not turning around once an establishment has been passed is driver-centric. And when the driver is desperate for a quality experience, the quality of the passenger's experience drops in proportion. It felt as though we were driving faster than normal even though our destination was unclear.

"I have a plan," Steve said, as if on a mission too severe to warrant additional detail.

The landscape turned from partly sunny with green sprouts emerging from the recently thawed woods to a shadowy, snow-covered stretch of road as we zoomed farther away from spring and into the remote still-winter pass where no one would want to camp.

We pulled into the second campground and this one was packed with winter sports enthusiasts clinging to the last bit of snow, a tent revival and an espresso truck. Before I knew it, a full-size English setter was sitting in my lap, and we were facing the opposite direction. That turnaround only had one point — a hard right.

"Where do we go next?" I asked. "Where is there a place that is so absolutely unappealing that only we would want to camp there?"

I was being rhetorical, but I noticed Steve eyeing a vacant gravel pit in the distance.

My first mistake — though I may not remember the correct order of my mistakes — was not to consider past mistakes. After that, I should have realized that while I would be happy to sit in a crowded campground just to get smoke in my eyes, my partner's idea of camping involved a fly rod, a spring creek bustling with trout, and the proverbial sound of crickets.

At the end of the day, we arrived in the very driveway where we began. We built a fire in our backyard firepit and cooked hot dogs until they were charcoal black.

"Next Memorial Day, let's come to this same spot," I said. "There's nobody around, and we would save a fortune in gas."

The great backyard does not invoke the same feeling as a mountain view or cooking a freshly caught fish over the fire. Sure, there are places we could find to get away if we hiked long enough. But first we would have to pass through the playground atmosphere of the weekend on the crowded roads, campgrounds and trails.

Memorial Day was first observed to remember fallen Civil War soldiers, and many of us reflect on the sacrifices made by those who served our country. I read somewhere that the only thing worse than war is the feeling that nothing is worth fighting for.

I am not staying home this Memorial Day weekend for any noble reason but rather to avoid the "fight" for a great camping spot.

While I am home, camped out in the yard, I'll reflect on the wild places worth fighting for and be grateful those places exist, not as a backdrop or a place to recreate but in our spiritual reserves.

The backyard is also wild country, although diminished and worn by human habitation. I have found it holds quite a few annoying bird sounds.

Christine Cunningham of Kenai is a lifelong Alaskan and avid hunter. On alternate weeks, she writes about Alaska hunting and fishing. Contact her at cunningham@yogaforduckhunters.com.