Camp Cook

The first Young Woman Camp in 1912 was staged at Liberty Glen  in Murray, Utah. If church camp was held for girls of Mutual (MIA) age in my area when I was a girl, I didn't attend. But sometime in my fabulous 40's, I was asked to join a crew of woman who had been called to feed 100-plus girls--aged 12 to 18--and their MIA leaders for most of a week. I knew nothing about camping or camp-cooking but agreed to trade a week of vacation time, away from my office and the comforts of home, for a week of physical labor in the wild, three squares a day and a sleeping bag.

The camp kitchen director was Amy Johnson. While the girls were not at camp to vacation and were required to cook some of the own meals, one of Amy's visions for the week was to have the camp participants awaken each morning to the smell of hot cinnamon rolls and fresh muffins and provide hot out-of-the-oven cookies for afternoon or anytime snacks, all homemade from scratch. She had asked me to go to camp to be her baker.

Amy was a great cook with kitchen management skills. That meant that she and I, Jean Seavey and Lezlie Porter were kept very busy distributing food prepped for cooking to various campsites, preparing snacks for hikers, treats for evening campfire gatherings plus making and serving some full meals, three times a day, to eager and always hungry campers, leaders, priesthood brethren, parents or visitors. With the exception of making mini-loaves of bread--100 at a time--for a local cafe' during my early days of calling Nevada home, I had no experience in cooking for so many people. But while at Young Woman camp, I must have made more than 1,000 cookies, or so it seemed some days. Certainly a record for me.

Despite her expertise, and as well organized and thorough as the plan for the week was, the morning Amy went to the walk-in to pull chickens to prepare for the evening meal, those chickens had gone missing! Watching her switch gears on a dime, take stock of the options for preparing something else for dinner that night without sacrificing meals yet to come, amazed me. It came to light as the day pressed on that the missing poultry had never made the trip to camp, in a case of, "I thought you packed the chicken." "No, I thought you packed the chicken."

We had an avid reader among our group who brought a book with her, determined to read during the down time she was sure would be available. Instead, days were long and nights, short. The last straw may have come near the end of the week when I invited Lezlie to put her book aside, and rise up out of her lawn chair to help me pare and core apples. Amy had noticed that those apples were not being eaten, fresh. Unwilling to waste any of the precious food that had been hauled into us, on foot from a drop-off spot, uphill, downhill, maybe accompanied with a few Sam-Hill's uttered, Amy asked for suggestions. "Apple Pie," was my first thought. Lezlie convinced me that using them with peel intact was the healthier way to go, and perhaps in her mind, the quickest way to get back to her book. As she finished coring and slicing, she quipped that she was never going camping with me again because I made her work too hard. Many of the girls were away from camp that afternoon, involved in activities but when that unmistakable smell of hot, spicy apple deliciousness began wafting through the trees on late afternoon air, adults holding down the fort were seen, coming from every direction and heading for the camp kitchen. A slight summer breeze refreshed enough to make a piece of pie, though hot out of the oven, sound inviting, in that place and at that time, there, amid the forest of pines.

One evening, having already made and served freshly-popped popcorn and hot cocoa to everyone gathered for the evening's campfire skits, my mind had moved on to set yeast proofing for a huge batch of those cinnamon rolls Amy had requested. Folks returning from the festivities offered helping hands. Shortly after mid-night, we had trays and trays of rolled and shaped dough set to rise. Baking would begin early.

While the girls slept in tents at campsites scattered among the trees, camp cooks were assigned to a building adjacent to the kitchen. Inside, were platforms designed for tossing a sleeping bag or two on each of the raised slabs. Jean expressed the fatigue we were all feeling, set an alarm on her clock--as I'd asked her to do--and was soon sawing logs. I just took my shoes off and laid down, still fully dressed. Stories of bears in search of food had filled the camp each day, despite our careful stowing of edibles. Huge garbage cans were moved some distance from the kitchen to a designated spot down the road a-ways, then picked up and hauled away periodically, every day. I felt safe enough going to the kitchen, alone, in the early mornings. For now, I was just looking forward to some rest before the big bake began.

Br-r-ring...Br-r-ring...Br-r-ring... "It can't be morning yet," I thought. "Didn't I just lay down?" Stumbling in the dark, I tried to get around the end of my make-shift bed, quickly, to the opposite side where Jean lay, still sound asleep. I fumbled finding the "off" switch, then stared in disbelief at the glowing dial but forced my feet back into my shoes and headed for the kitchen before anyone stirred. Once I'd walked those few steps, unlocked the kitchen door, and had flipped on the light, the cold night air had done its job, bringing me back to full consciousness.

The camp kitchen was outfitted with big but old commercial, gas ovens. Lighting the pilot had to be done carefully and it usually took more than one attempt. Anxious to get them going, I knew the time it took to get them heated to a reasonable baking temperature. Sure enough, my initial attempts were unsuccessful. What appeared to be a flicker would sometimes fade and go out. Those heavy doors had to be opened all the way in order to get to the spot to light the pilot and as careful as I'd been, trying not to make noise, cold steel and repeated door openings made that seem impossible.

With pilots lit, I began to organize the trays of puffy dough. I dropped something. Turning my back to the door while retrieving the item, suddenly that door flew open, slamming on the wall with a loud bang! I jumped and whirled around, totally startled! Standing in the doorway, with a huge broom in her hands, stood Amy, bracing herself, all nearly-five-feet of her, ready to take on whatever had broken into the kitchen! I was glad there was some distance between me and her weapon of choice! Surprised to see that the intruder was just her baker, she lowered her broom. We both let out a sign of relief and tried to stifle our laughter, in the interest of a whole camp still in slumber. Amy checked her watch. Why was I up at least an hour too early? Jean had the answer. She had mistakenly set the alarm for the wrong time.

Julie Ann Frey had hot glue guns at the ready in the craft tent. I was dying to make something with that group but there was always more for me to do in the kitchen. Back in civilization and returning to our daily lives, girls camp and the craft tent became but a memory. Answering a knock on my door one day, there stood Julie Ann and her daughter(s), holding out to me the lovely, wooden doll I had wanted to make at the camp craft tent. It was the very one I would have chosen, with beautifully hand-painted features, Auburn curls, dressed in an Apricot-Peach Taffeta fabric trimmed in dainty lace accents, standing more than a foot tall! It was a wonderful surprise.