In partnership with Leatherman
Growing up, I had a serious disdain for pancakes. I truly did. Waffles or crepes on the other hand, I could eat any time of the day. This year, however, something changed; I developed an odd hunkering for fluffy, buttery pancakes. I would look forward to weekends where I could make us Sunday morning pancakes, experimenting with different recipes and additions. The kicker though- I had never really made pancakes in my life, so my experiments were exactly that- experiments. They were truly abominable; ghastly little doughy pucks hidden under copious amounts of last season's rhubarb jam. They were crispy, yet under cooked, some were too acidic, some too sweet, some too cake-like, some the dogs wouldn't even eat. With this new hunger for creating the perfect pancake, I gave in and bought a fancy little bag of pancake mix before our last adventure into the Caribou; partially for ease, partially because I had given up.
With the sun at high noon, after a morning of roaming down through the canyon, through the hills of silver sage, we pulled the stove out to make some fancy-bag whole wheat pancakes on the tailgate. The dogs ran through the grasses, and the cast iron frying pan heated up on the camp stove, Bryan whisked the batter, I peeled the oranges and started melting the butter for those perfect golden brown flapjacks. Western medowlarks sang out above the spattering sounds of pancakes on a hot griddle, and we sat back basking in the sun. It was glorious.
A couple flips, and they were finished. We smothered them in saskatoon syrup, and took our seats along the edge of the canyon wall watching the shadows from the clouds sweep across the opposing wall. The simplicity was what we needed in this moment. (Until Bryan shifted over and sat in a cactus). We spent the remainder of our adventure roaming through this canyon dessert, up into gang ranches and into some new territory for another adventure. ...I am still searching for that perfect pancake recipe however.