Braving the Great Outdoors

Growing up with brothers, taught me to never back down. Being told that I couldn’t do something, well that was just an invitation for me to prove somebody wrong. Even if I didn’t want to do what I was told that I couldn‘t do, well, I'd do it anyway or go down in flames trying to prove that I COULD. Make sense?

I’ll admit it wasn't always pretty to watch... like eating a huge pile of wasabi in one gulp... owww... that was just stupid. Or tightrope walking 12 feet of wobbly wire fence. That one knocked the wind out of me. But I can run faster, hold my breath longer and scream louder than any of my brothers... those are true survival skills.

I had difficulty resisting a challenge, so when my brother Rod declared that I wouldn’t last a night out in the woods by myself, I just couldn’t manage to keep my mouth shut and let it slide. Immediately protesting that I most certainly could, I was egged on with the hackneyed expression, “Prove it then!”

At the age of 15 I deplored camping. My years of prior experience had cured me of any lingering urges. Teenage girls can’t sleep in dirt, on dirt, eat dirt, wear dirt. And where would I plug in my curling iron?

The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night in the great outdoors, but now I HAD TO, because someone told me I couldn’t... curses!

Unfortunately, there was no way I was actually going to sleep out in the middle of nowhere by myself, so I recruited my best friend Sherry and eight year old brother Ray to help defend my honor. I didn‘t consider that cheating; I simply needed witnesses.

After gathering, piling, stuffing and compacting more than we would need for a week's stay, my father with unspoken misgivings, drove the three of us to Freeman Reservoir campground among the scenic mountains in northwestern Colorado. I suppose my dad had selected this site for its proximity, conveniences and lack of fervor. Little or no possibility of trouble, or so he hoped.

Excited by our forthcoming independence and restless for adventure, my disdain for camping was temporarily forgotten. Gently declining all offers of help from my father, we eagerly said our goodbyes and began setting up camp in the midst of towering pine and aspen trees.

Truthfully, if my brother hadn’t been along, we’d have slept in the open air. He was the only one among us that could translate the conglomeration of poles, ropes and nylon tarps into an actual structure capable of withstanding rain and wind. He systematically constructed two perfect tents side-by-side, Sherry and I trying to assist as directed and stay out of the way otherwise.

After we had laid out sleeping bags, unpacked essentials and gathered firewood, our site looked fairly respectable. Neighboring campers probably didn’t imagine our lack of experience.

Our labors had worked up a hunger, so we began the arduous process of starting our fire. I’d never paid much attention to the methodology, but what was the big deal? Put some logs in the pit and throw a match on it... right? Two or three attempts with this approach proved me wrong.

We tried adding paper towels.... Immediate and gratifying flames burst to life, but died out just as quickly. We were obviously doing something wrong, but we didn’t have a clue what to try next. After consuming nearly all our paper goods with our efforts, I made an executive decision to seek help.

With a metal camping mug in hand, I headed to an adjoining campsite where I had earlier seen father and mother types. Certainly they’d help us.

You should have seen the way they looked at me when I, with cup help out, respectfully requested to borrow some gasoline. There followed a litany of questions... what do you want with gasoline, where are your parents, you’re here alone, why don’t you let me help you get it started...

I must have been quite the sweet talker, because eventually they acquiesced and I walked carefully back to our camp, dripping and slopping a trail of flammable liquid all the way. (Would you give three unsupervised kids, camping right next to you, gasoline? Scary...)

Within in a few minutes though, we were roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, basking in the glory of our very own fire. To celebrate, Sherry brought forth a couple beers that had been acquired mischievously. We were actually having fun and I was the last person who would have thought this possible, here in the middle of nowhere.

As our fire waned and darkness fell, the reality of sleeping without an adult nearby began to set in. Our campfire stories had left a lingering unease, as the shadows grew long and unidentifiable.

It was decided that Ray should share a tent with us... I didn’t want him to get scared sleeping by himself... really... We found comfort in periodically checking out flashlights to make sure they were still working. We whispered and worried after vague far off noises long into the night, until finally drifting off.

Morning came sooner than anticipated. As we stiffly staggered from our shelter, we were gladly greeted by the warmth of the sun. No one complained about eating a cold breakfast, wanting to forgo another fire fiasco.

After taking down the tents, shoving what we could manage back into the once organized bags, we were hot and sweaty. We donned swimsuits, cutoffs and flip-flops, and opted to explore the picturesque expanse around the lake.

Discovering a small stream, nearly hidden by low shrubs and trees that clung to its banks, we followed it away from the lake. Wading through its shallow, cooling waters until we came upon a larger pool.

Sherry and I intended to wash our hair with two leftover, warm beers that we had brought along. (Why, I just cannot tell you?? Teenage girls are absurd...??) After the breathtaking plunge to wet our hair, we poured our cans of over our heads. Before effectively rinsing away the barroom stench, we were swarmed by thousands of gnats. We could neither breathe nor speak without ingesting them.

We flailed madly from the shrubs, swatting, cussing, blinking, spitting away the remaining pests. Our hair, skin and clothing caked and buzzing, we plodded toward the lake, with Ray in tow. We were not to be deterred.

Though the mountain water as cold, we waded in up to our waists, sucking in clenched gasps with each additional inch we submerged ourselves. Reluctantly we dumped handful after handful of lake water over our heads, until finally we felt refreshed.

We tramped toward the bank only to discover that we were nowhere near clean. Little bits and pieces of lake gunk clung to our legs and stomachs. My attempts at flicking them off were unsuccessful.

At that same moment, my brother’s eyes grew two sizes bigger as he screamed, “Leaches!!!”

I hated all things creepy-crawly, and slimy-blood-sucking things were no exception. I ran for dry ground shrieking, “Get them off of me!! Hurry, hurry, hurry! Get them off, NOOOOOOW!!!”

I made my poor brother pick each and everyone off as I danced wildly. I just couldn’t bring myself to touch the disgusting little, slippery, black worms embedded in my skin. As each one was plucked off, a small rivulet of blood flowed down my wet skin.

After 20 minutes of careful investigation and plucking, we were finally leach-free. And it was then that I remember how much I loathed camping. I wanted to go home.

When my father and Rodney arrived to pick us up, I didn’t have the energy to gloat. Yes I had survived, but I could care less. The details of our trip would be revealed as we drove homeward, howls and snickers issuing from my brother. I cared not if he mocked me, I only wanted a hot shower and I would take anyone down who got in my way.

Thank goodness I finally outgrew my pampered princess phase. Camping has become a great joy, especially with my children. And by the way, my brother Ray turned out is the best outdoorsman I have ever known. When he goes camping, I love tagging along.

In March, my sister-in-law Wendy (Ray’s wife) and I are hiking ten miles into Havasu Falls at the Grand Canyon and camping overnight. Just the two of us! We’ve been planning this trip for months and the fact that we are taking NO kids or husbands or brothers makes it even sweeter to anticipate.

The ultimate independence—not because someone said I can’t do it, but just because I want to do it! And hopefully I’ll fair better than I did when I was 15...