Well, hey there, fellow campfire connoisseur! I've got a treat for you. This isn't just any old recipe, oh no. This one's been extracted straight from the secret vaults of a beloved spot in Victoria BC, which sadly had to close its doors during the pandemic. Now, how did I get my hands on it? Let's just say a few rounds of good tequila and some friendly banter, my friends loosens the lips of any freshly unemployed chef. I tell ya, there's nothing quite like a bit of liquid persuasion!

So, ready to dive into the world of campfire gourmet? Of course, you are. Get that fire going and warming that Dutch oven; Let's do this!

Meet my Baked French Toast – Campfire Edition:

Ingredients:

• One mighty loaf of brioche or challah bread (because why not be all fancy while roughing it?)
• 8 large eggs (straight from the chicken, if you can swing it)
• 2 cups of whole milk (the creamier, the better)
• 1/2 cup of heavy cream (because decadence is a virtue)
• 3/4 cup of granulated sugar (sweetness is next to godliness, right?)
• 2 tablespoons of pure vanilla extract (nothing but the good mexican stuff)
• 1/2 teaspoon of ground cinnamon (just a smidge of that warming spice)
• 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg (an underrated superstar, if you ask me)

Topping Time:

• 1/2 cup of all-purpose flour (the backbone of any decent crumb)
• 1/2 cup of brown sugar (for that deep, caramel-like flavor)
• 1 teaspoon of cinnamon (can't have too much of a good thing)
• 1/4 teaspoon of cardamom (a little exotic, a little spicy)
• 1/4 teaspoon of clove (add a pinch of holiday spirit)
• 1/4 teaspoon of salt (balances out the sweet, don't you know)
• 1 stick of cold butter, cut into pieces (because butter makes everything better)

Okay, so here's how we do it:

1. Cube up your bread like it's a game of Tetris and pop those little suckers into a greased 9x13 baking dish.

2. Whisk together your eggs, milk, cream, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a big ol' bowl until well mixed.

3. Drown your bread in that heavenly concoction you just made. Make sure every piece is drenched in milky-eggy goodness. Cover your dish, stick it in the cooler, and let it have a good long soak for several hours, or even overnight if you're patient.

4. For the topping, get your hands dirty mixing the flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Throw in your cold butter pieces and work them into the dry ingredients until it looks like coarse breadcrumbs. Stow this away in a zipped bag in your cooler.

5. Fire up your campfire oven to a toasty 350°F (175°C). (IR thermometer is good for this, or just guess, its not rocket science)

6. Sprinkle that crumbly topping all over your prepped and soaked bread.

7. Let it bake for about 45-60 minutes, or until your French toast is a golden-brown masterpiece.

8. Let it cool for a smidge before diving in. Add some powdered sugar, maple syrup, and/or fresh fruits as per your heart's desires.

And there you have it - your very own homemade baked French toast, perfect for a cozy campfire breakfast. Enjoy, eh?

Well, buckle up, because this story is a doozy. One fateful day, I had the brilliant idea to conquer the Portage Pass route solo. I'm a big strong kayak guide/instructor WCGW? I Yanked my kayak from the VCKC storage and checked the tide charts. Seemed perfect; the tide would be on the upswing just as I made my full loop around. What I failed to account for was that we were still in the falling tide phase, smack dab in the middle of a larger mixed semidiurnal tide. This, my friends, is where the plot thickens like mud.

With visions of adventure dancing in my head, I set off, but I couldn't help noticing I was paddling against the current as I passed under the Craigflower. Now, being the unstoppable beast I am, I shrugged it off and kept going, full steam ahead my kayak nearly on plane, into the upper gorge. a little current isn't going to deter me. <-(idiot)

As I made my way towards that funny-looking building at the end of the bay, it dawned on me that the water seemed shallower than usual. Alarmingly so. Still about 200m from the shore, I started hitting a metaphorical brick wall - I could paddle no more but managed another 100m of mud pushing and bum scooting hoping to juuust make it. Nope!. Reflecting on my predicament I realized that in a breathtakingly brief span of 15 minutes, I lost a full meter of water depth, transforming the bay into a desolate mud flat.

So there I was, the lone knight, smack in the middle of a drained battlefield, watching the last remnants of water retreat, and I thought, "Well, this is a fine mess you've got yourself into!" My choices? Wade through 100m of mud or wait a few hours for nature to take pity on me.

Opting for immediate action as I tend to do, I chose the first option. Let me tell you, that mud was up to my hips, and each step felt like trying to wrestle a grizzly bear. That 100m slog was more grueling than any marathon I've ever run. The best method I found? Roll body, anchor, drag kayak with rescue line. Rinse, actually no, don't rinse, repeat. After about 15 repetitions of this mud ballet, I emerged, victorious but worn, onto Midwood beach.

From there, it was just a "short" 1.5km walk from Midwood beach, up the road and back down the E&N, to Portage park, looking less like a triumphant adventurer and more like Swamp Thing's less successful cousin. Thank the stars for the kayak wheels I brought. I had almost opted to just leave them behind and carry my kayak across the short gap on my head as I have done once before when I had forgotten them. Exhausted, I collapsed into the water at Thetis Cove for a well-deserved rinse.

So, off I paddled, past the watchful eye of the lighthouse, but let me tell you, at that moment, I had had just about enough fun for one day. As thrilling as it sounded, tackling Tillicum Narrows, exhausted and on a full-blown tidal exchange, even if it was supposedly in my favor, seemed about as appealing as arm wrestling with the Kraken itself.

Biting the bullet, I swallowed my pride and rang up a buddy with a kayak rack."Oi, how about a daring rescue mission at the lagoon?" I asked, trying to make my predicament sound less muddy than I was.

So there I was, beached on the lagoon and about a half-hour and one more solid dunk in the ocean later when he rolls up to collect me. But let me tell ya, I still reeked like the underside of a wharf at low tide mixed with a healthy serving of prime, sulphury mud. Pretty alluring, eh?

And poor old him, well, he couldn't let it go. To this day, I can still hear him bellyaching about how I managed to turn his car into the unofficial aroma mascot for a back-alley fishmonger.

The chap had to drive around with his windows down for a good couple of days, trying to air out the pungent perfume I'd gifted him, for no good deed goes unpunished..

And that, my dear friends, is the legendary tale of how I got a crash course, quite literally, in the unforgiving, unpredictable, and thoroughly mud-splattered nature of semidiurnal tides. The lesson here is, It's not just the voyage, but also how much mud you're willing to wade through, that really builds character. So grab a paddle, keep a weather eye on the horizon, and for Neptune's sake, respect the tides!