My First Camping Trip in the Ozark Mountains
I was eight years old the first time I camped in the Ozark Mountains. Dad and I pitched our tent on a gravel bar at the Jacks Fork River.
At night sat around the campfire with a full moon overhead. I was lulled to sleep by the jug-a-rum croaking of a bullfrog in a slough.
Many camping trips have come and gone since that summer long ago, but none so memorable as the first one—just me and Dad, swimming, fishing, and exploring the river for three whole days, seeing nary another soul.