#campfirechaos

By the time they reached Bon Echo, Trey had already asked twice if mandatory camping counted as a wellness violation.

Coach said no both times.

Alton said the real violation was Trey’s travel hoodie.

Rhys said nothing because he was still trying to decide whether this was a bonding trip, a survival test, or an elaborate way to make the new guy carry something heavy.

Wells stepped out of the car, stretched his arms over his head, took one look at the trees, the lake, and the campsite, and grinned.

“Bros,” he said, “we have officially gone full Canada. again this week”

Coach shut the trunk.

“Unload.”

That was the end of the opening ceremony.

Camp setup revealed everyone’s true nature immediately.

Coach had his tent up first, clean and sharp like it had received orders. Rhys followed the instructions carefully and somehow did better than everyone expected. Alton unfolded one tent pole, stared at it like it had personally insulted him, and said, “This is architecture without dignity.”

Trey got into a fight with a groundsheet and lost.

Wells took his shirt off halfway through hammering tent pegs and acted like that was essential wilderness procedure.

Alton looked over.

“Is that helping?”

Wells grinned. “Morale.”

Trey, still tangled in nylon, shouted, “It is working and that is annoying.”

By sunset, the campsite looked mostly functional. The tents formed a loose circle beneath tall pines. The lake flashed dark blue between the trees. The air smelled like smoke, pine, bug spray, and the specific panic of men realizing they had forgotten at least one useful item.

Coach handled the fire like he did everything else: quietly, firmly, and with zero tolerance for nonsense.

Trey held up a marshmallow.

“How burnt is too burnt?”

Coach looked at him.

“If it falls into the fire, you have failed.”

Trey nodded solemnly. “High stakes.”

Wells roasted his marshmallow slowly, turning it with perfect focus.

Rhys watched. “You’re taking this seriously.”

Wells did not look away from the flame.

“Golden rule, bro. You respect the marshmallow, the marshmallow respects you.”

Alton raised an eyebrow. “That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

Five minutes later, Trey set his marshmallow on fire, panicked, blew ash directly onto his own shorts, and declared the result “rustic.”

Coach banned him from holding two sticks at once.

After the fire settled, they leaned back and watched the stars appear over the dark line of trees. No gym lights. No phones. No music. Just the lake, the fire, the sky, and a silence deep enough to make even Trey lower his voice.

Rhys stared upward. “You can actually see everything out here.”

Alton sighed. “Annoyingly beautiful.”

Wells smiled. “Careful. Nature might get a compliment out of you.”

“Negative,” Alton said. “I said annoyingly.”

Coach sat back in his chair, arms folded, cap low, watching the fire like he was pretending not to enjoy himself.

Eventually, the cold crept in.

Coach stood.

“Bed.”

Trey looked at the tents, then at Coach, then at Wells.

“So we are all just ignoring the tent assignment?”

Wells gave him a slow look. “You mean the normal, practical, space-saving tent assignment?”

Alton sipped from his mug. “Yes. The deeply normal tent assignment that Coach specifically told us not to make weird.”

Rhys looked between them. “Should I ask?”

“No,” Coach said.

“Yes,” Trey said at the same time.

Coach pointed toward Trey’s tent.

“Sleep.”

Trey saluted with his marshmallow stick. “Affirmative, wilderness daddy.”

Coach stared.

Trey lowered the stick. “Too far?”

“Bed.”

A few minutes later, the campsite went dark except for the last red glow of the fire.

For almost thirty seconds, everything was peaceful.

Then Coach and Wells’ tent started making decisions.

A rustle.

A thump.

A low grunt.

A very suspicious pause.

Trey’s voice floated into the night.

“Is that a bear? or is Wilderness daddy is active.”

“Both and do not call him that,” Alton said laughing.

Another thump.

The tent shifted hard enough that one corner lifted.

Rhys whispered, “Is the tent supposed to move like that?”

“No,” Trey whispered. “But apparently Coach packed advanced techniques.”

A muffled, breathless laugh came from Wells.

Then Coach’s voice, firm and calm:

“Again.”

The silence outside the tent became religious.

Rhys whispered, “Was that camping related?”

Trey pulled his sleeping bag over his head.

“I have decided not to know.”

Alton sighed like a man witnessing history against his will.

“Bon Echo: cliffs, lakes, and apparently after-hours instruction.”

Another rustle.

Then Wells’ voice drifted out, amused and muffled:

“Coach, the whole campsite can hear you.”

Coach replied, calm as ever:

“Then they can learn quietly.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Trey whispered, “That is between Wells, Coach, and whatever structural limits that tent has.”

Alton muttered, “Mandatory bonding. Advanced level.”

The tent finally settled.

Then Wells’ voice came one last time, tired and laughing:

“Next time, bigger tent.”

The lake stayed still.

The stars burned overhead.

And the rest of the campsite decided, unanimously and silently, that whatever happened in Coach and Wells’ tent was between them.

Ready to go full Canada with the Golden Bros? Pack your gear, trust Coach, roast responsibly, and find out what happens when brotherhood goes off-grid: Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

If someone (let’s say… Elrond, for reasons) gave you an entire week off and insisted you go camping to 'relax your delicate nerves', what would you pack? Who would you bring (if anyone)? What activities would you do? And most importantly, how long before something deeply strange or mildly cursed happens in the woods?

Ah, what a divine question—finally, someone acknowledges that I too crave the woods and moss and mist and a break from the ever-mounting piles of parchment.

Contrary to what certain people (Glorfindel) may believe, I do in fact love camping. I adore the sound of wind in the leaves, the smell of pine and wet earth, and waking up at dawn with the sun turning everything gold. What I do not adore is someone stealing my boots in the night or replacing my herbal tea with “something stronger, it builds character,” Glorfindel.

Now—what would I pack?

A map (hand-annotated, colour-coded, waterproofed, thank you very much)

My journal

My sketchbook and watercolours (also a set for Eredin, because he likes to pretend he’s not an artist, but the last time we camped, he painted a moth that made me cry)

A tent, because I am not sleeping under a tree like a feral forest sprite unless the stars are particularly charming that night

Herbs, bandages, snacks, a travel kettle, and cocoa powder, because what’s the point of communing with nature if you can’t be cozy?

As for companions…

Eredin, of course. My dearest companion in life, mushroom-identification debates, and emotionally fraught fireside conversations.

Glorfindel, because if I don’t invite him, he’ll invite himself anyway and then say things like “you didn’t say I couldn’t follow you.” Plus, he is useful when a tree needs to be dramatically chopped for kindling or wrestled.

Elihal, because we require a ranger, someone to tell us which berries will kill us, and quite frankly, that man deserves to unclench his jaw and touch moss without pretending he’s not enjoying it.

Activities, you ask?

Gentle morning walks to collect mushrooms, herbs, and possible cursed stones

Sketching by the river, where Glorfindel will inevitably fall in “accidentally”

Campfire cooking, which devolves into a chaotic symphony of spice debates and Eredin pretending not to be a culinary genius while somehow plating a stew like a forest prince

Trail hiking, complete with stories, light complaining, and possibly a brief and completely unprovoked race to the top of the hill

How long before something deeply strange or mildly cursed happens?

Ten minutes. Max. The woods hum differently when we enter. Last time, a frog stared directly into Eredin’s soul, we found a ring of mushrooms that Elihal refused to acknowledge, and something kept rearranging our boots. Glorfindel claimed it was a squirrel. I claim Glorfindel was the squirrel.