By Ethan Beaty
One of the many things I was taught as a young Boy Scout was that ounces equal pounds, and pounds equal pain. I followed this piece of wisdom religiously when amassing gear for backpacking trips, so my pack was always one of the lightest. After one particularly brutal hike, I collapsed at the campsite and began to prepare my dinner. To my bewilderment, I noticed one of the older scouts produce an entire Dutch oven from his pack, putting my meager Mountain House meal to shame. I was equal parts astonished that someone could—and would—carry a Dutch oven on a backpacking trip, and envious of the meal I was sure he was about to enjoy.
After dinner, while I was putting away my lightweight camp stove, the older scout gathered everyone up and revealed he was going to share the dish. He unveiled what he made: a perfectly baked peach cobbler. Like a magician he reached into his pack, this time pulling out a lunch box. Inside, nestled between half a dozen ice packs, was a gallon of vanilla ice cream. Pure bliss. The feat, the gesture, the mouthwatering cobbler. Everything about what he did was abundantly inspirational to my younger self, and the story circulated the troop for long after.
Years later, I found myself preparing for the very same hike, but this time I was the one who would be guiding the younger scouts. When planning what I would take, I fondly recalled the Dutch oven story and determined it was a tradition that must be carried on. While I do love a good cobbler, the dish is a bit hackneyed—especially among scouts. I wanted something that would make for a good story but would also be suitable as my dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook two dishes. I settled on a recipe for bacon mac and cheese—a good carb-load like we used to have in cross country.
On the evening of the trip, I compiled all the gear. There was the Dutch oven, a pot for the noodles, a flask for the milk, an insulated container for the bacon, and all the utensils I’d need. The food itself consisted of a pound of elbow pasta, a pound of bacon, two pounds of cheese, plus a myriad of spices and other ingredients. I had three more meals to cram in there as well. When I initially tried hoisting the pack onto my back, I immediately dropped it and marveled at the overwhelming heft. Begrudgingly, I swapped my regular tent for a bivy, dropped my sleeping pad, and figured I could do with one less bottle of water. I shed anything else inessential to the bacon mac or my survival, and the grand total came out to 61 pounds. It would have to do.
We got to the trailhead late Friday night and hiked an easy mile to the campsite. In the morning, we’d embark at 6:00 a.m. and hike for the full day. Morning came much earlier for me though. At 2:00 a.m. I lurched awake with sharp pains in my chest, gasping for air. I fumbled for the zipper on my bivy, and forced my face through the narrow opening. The air outside was just shy of freezing, and each gulp sent jolting pain through my ribcage. I swapped back and forth between the suffocating but warm air inside my sleeping bag and the frigid relief of the fresh air outside. Every breath took a deliberate effort, and I quickly abandoned any hope of falling back asleep.
The walls of the bivy seemed to encroach further around me with every passing moment, and the unbearable pain surmounted my desire for warmth. I crawled out from my nylon cocoon into the moon-lit woods, clutching at my side. Overwhelmed by pain, cold, and frustration, the only option I saw to make myself less miserable was to build a fire. Barred owls emphatically mocked me from every direction as I shuffled around the cramped campsite, scrounging for small twigs and pinecones. I desperately tried not to wake anyone else; I wanted to be considerate of those who could still get a few more hours of sleep and save myself from embarrassment. Eventually I got a fire lit and waited patiently for the rest of the troop to join me.
One of the other guys had medical training, and he said the symptoms suggested either costochondritis or pleurisy. My lungs were inflamed—from the weight of the pack, the rough couple of hours I slept on the cold ground without a sleeping pad, or some illness that set in. Regardless, I had 22 miles ahead of me, a 60-pound pack to carry, and a jury of 20 or so scouts who would certainly reach a harsh verdict if I gave up. So on we went.
I spoke to no one, kept my eyes on the ground, and counted every step. The pain restricted me to shallow breaths. The sheer weight of the pack wore at every muscle, tendon, and nerve in my back and legs. But as the sun began to set, I finally crossed the threshold of our campsite. After some rest, I enlisted a few of the younger scouts to gather fuel and help me build a fire in the ring at the center of the site. It was time to see if the struggle was worth it.
First came the bacon. I flipped the lid to the Dutch oven over and rested it on two thoroughly charred logs. I pre-cut the bacon into inch squares, so I just had to spread them across the lid and transfer the crispy pieces into my mess kit. I used the remaining grease as a base for the roux, melting in a stick of butter, then adding flour, and mixing in the milk to keep it thick. Meanwhile, my pot of water reached a boil, so I put the noodles in. The cheese and spices were stirred into the roux in quick succession: parmesan, gruyere, cheddar, and cream cheese, followed by garlic powder, nutmeg, sage, and pepper. Finally, I mixed in the cooked pasta and bacon.
The campfire’s glow flickered across the horde of onlooking faces, reflecting in their eyes like a constellation of stars. The scouts had abandoned their undercooked foil packet meals and measly tortilla wraps, lining up next to me with mess kits in hand, brimming with anticipation. After I took one bite, any recollection of that day’s agony had dissolved along with the smoke and embers from the fire into the night sky. There was enough for everyone to get seconds and then some. Since then, I have made the dish a handful of times at home, but I’ve come to understand that bacon mac just doesn’t taste as good if you don’t break your back for it.
