The much-anticipated e-mail finally arrives and I read it with growing excitement.

All week the ragged lines of Canada Geese pass over the house, honking their way north. A robin claims the neighbor's maple tree, loudly proclaiming his availability to any passing female. His urgent morning song draws the sun up over the rooftops warming the soil with renewed hope.

The e-mail I receive is cryptic and short. "May 7-9," it says. "Choose your meal." It's from Tom to all the men on the list. Spring is officially here.

There are a dozen or so guys on the e-mail list. I've know them all at least a decade. Names have been bandied about for what we do together, every spring and fall-The Great Adventure, Men in the Wilderness, The Return of the coureurs de bois. The official name, though, is short and to the point. It's The Camping Trip.

Doug, Joey and I strap our canoe to the top of the car and head out to the lake Friday afternoon. While the adults do the planning and organizing, the dozen or so under 16 crew, like Joey, form their own subculture-exploring the woods, fishing, sword fighting and cooking up marshmallows over the campfire together.

Our favorite campsite on the lake is large enough for a dozen tents, spread out beneath the cedars and pines. Tarps are hung incase it rains, clotheslines are strung, and gear stowed. By nightfall our temporary community is snug and secure.

In the morning we wake to the sound of Ken and John building up the fire and brewing fresh coffee. As the smell of eggs and bacon drifts through the campsite, we emerge from our tents, stretch, yawn, scratch ourselves and wander down to the fire.

After breakfast, if it's a warm day, we swim or lay on the rocks sunbathing. Later we go for a canoe trip or hike back into the woods, to where the beaver have dammed a creek and formed a marshy enclave for nesting birds.

The adults, as the e-mail reminds me, are responsible for working on at least one meal during the weekend. Over the years we've evolved and grown in our skills as campers and meal providers.

The first year we camped many of us, raised on Hollywood B movies, thought beans were the preferred meal when men of action roughed it in the woods. The first night the inevitable result could be heard throughout the otherwise silent campsite, emanating through the thin walls of our tents.

We've become much more sophisticated since then, honing our outdoors culinary skills to gourmet proficiency. The Saturday night meal has become a social and Epicurean event, choreographed by Randy and Peter our gastronomical wizards.

Mouths water remembering the Bullwinkle and Bambi stew, the squid hors d'oeuvres, fresh salads and home baked deserts. And of course the inevitable Jack Daniel libation, to loosen tongues for the evening of talking and games, around the campfire.

At dusk we gather on the cliff overlooking the water and watch the sky turn pale blue and burn fiercely through pink clouds, as the sun slips below the trees. In the middle of the lake the first Loon comes out, it's mournful cry sweeping across the water. We don sweaters and toques to ward off the evening's chill.

The hard wood cooking fire is built up with whatever the kids have brought in. As the flames flicker throwing off welcome heat, we gather around to catch up on each other's stories and relive some of our more exciting adventures, from years gone by.

There is the story of the time my dog swam after the canoe as we paddled back to the car for another load of gear. I tried to pull her into the boat in the middle of the lake and flipped us over, sending our tent poles to the bottom.

One spring, it snowed Sunday morning and by the time we'd paddled back to our cars they were beneath four inches of white fluff. The hills on the gravel road going out were so mushy the cars got stuck. At each incline we had to get out and push each other up by hand, travelling like a UN convoy for mutual assistance.

While the kids are out scrounging firewood in the afternoon they've been charged with a new task, in the last few years. We've discovered that a hollow dried cedar log stuck vertical in a fire, down by the lake, creates a roman candle a dozen feet into the air, better than any May 24 fireworks.

As the burning log dies out, we stand on the rocks watching the silver buckshot stars in an ink black sky. A falling star cuts a fiery trail through the Milky Way and pulsing purple from aurora borealis licks up from the northern horizon.

In the middle of the night a raccoon noses about the campfire and is sent hurrying back into the woods by the diligent dog. Sunday morning is bright and sunny. We linger over coffee, then slowly dismantle the campsite and pack the canoes. One last swim in the clear cool lake. Lounging on the rocks to dry off and soak up some sun, until it's time to go. No one wants to leave.

Finally, one by one the canoes slip away heading for the cars and back to our homes and families. The raccoon comes back to check the campsite, but finds nothing. We've left no garbage and taken all our memories away with us.

PICTURES FROM A CAMPING TRIP

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