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: Clever WoT

The Non-Survivalist

Every boy imagines himself a tough, resourceful outdoorsman, capable of braving weather, hunger, and wild animals to survive. 99% of men have a moment in which they realize they are not Daniel Boone, and would likely die if they got stuck in their backyard without a shower and a microwave.

For me that moment was about two days ago, blinking tears out of my eyes from the campfire smoke, trying to jab foil packets closer--but not too close--to the fire. I turned to my wife and said something along the lines of "I'm not really sure how to OH FUCK AAAAAAAGH!" After minutes of pawing at lukewarm tinfoil, I had happened upon a spot that burned burned burned burned, as if it contained the Earth's molten core instead of a chicken burrito.

By the time I yanked my finger away, the fingerprint had already been burned smooth and the skin was starting to bulge and stretch upward. I shook it vigorously, because I was pretty sure I read in a First Aid manual somewhere that wailing and jumping around cured burns. Somewhere by the picnic table, my wife was about to die of laughter.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked.

"I don't know," I replied.

I did know. My finger felt like it was going to fall off.

"I don't know," I repeated. "I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I hurt myself."

I really WAS hungry. I really WAS tired. I REALLY was dirty. And my finger may or may not survive this experiment. And like a magic spell, those words floated above my head for a moment, and I realized an important lesson.

Camping sucks.

I'm no Merriwether Lewis or Teddy Roosevelt. I'm an increasingly academic law student who considers browsing the internet to be wilderness exploration (if you don't agree, you're doing it wrong). I'm a former Boy Scout who instinctively brought a hatchet on this "camping" trip, much to the amusement of my wife who reminded me we were staying in a cabin in a crowded campground. "But I'm going to do some serious outdoorsing," I promised, vaguely aware it was probably a danger sign that I didn't even know the proper verb to use.

So there I was, forlorn by the fire, all my childhood dreams of wilderness heroics slipping across the lake and away from me forever. It was the sort of lesson impossible for a child to learn, because you need to be able to clearly see the man you are instead of the man you wish you could be.

I wish I could jump out of a plane into the jungles of Borneo, carve a knife out of the thigh bone of some ferocious creature I strangled with my bare hands, drink the morning dew off leaves, and not just survive but thrive with nothing but my wits. The only trouble is that I don't like flying, I'm terrified of falling, I couldn't best an alley cat in hand-to-hand combat, I have no wits, and I'm not 100% sure where Borneo is.

It will take time to get used to this new, non-camping Kurt, but in the meantime I'll be savoring yet another post-camping discovery: there is nothing in the world as wonderful as a shower. I'm going to go crank up some scalding water and just stand there and enjoy it.

Maybe I'll pretend I'm standing in the rain in Borneo.

Full post as published by Clever WoT on August 18, 2007 (boomark / email).