Why Don't I Shut UP?

Part II - Wilderness Strikes Back

It is well known fact that I am a local legend of sorts when it comes to "roughing" it. The laws of nature that would apply to a normal person do not apply to me. Think of people like Tarzan or Bigfoot or even Gilligan. They all managed to survive in the middle of a natural surrounding living off the land and the co-habitating with the creatures of their surroundings...miles and miles away from civilization as we know it. Hell, Gilligan's gang learned to make a basketball out of a coconut for crying out loud. Nature-type folks are straight-up survivors.

I, however, am at the opposite end of that spectrum.

I'm lucky if I don't choke on granola. I can't clean a fish (not that I'd want to...and how can they be dirty living in water all the time?), I can't start a fire without a gallon of gasoline and a blow torch. If anyone in my camp were to fall ill or get attacked by a racoon the only thing I could do would be to cheer them on and bury their corpse when they die. I love air conditioning. I love my digital cable. I love having a roof! ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY MICROWAVE!!!

I know that i suck...i came to terms with that a long time ago at my cousin's church camp. Long story there but it ends up with me wondering lost through the woods in the middle of the night singing the theme to Happy Days at the top of my lungs.

So with this informative knowledge resting in my brain at some spot between my love for pudding and my extensive knowledge of matchbox cars, WHY would I even consider camping out with my kids? Who was I kidding? I had as much business sleeping in a forrest as Motley Crue has at Sunday Bible School.

Yet there I was....

My daughter's birthday party had long since wound down. All of us were spread out, some on the dock and some on the banks, watching the hillbilly fireworks display. A large majority of the "neighbors" in the area who own their own little river shacks were relatively friendly...specially under the influence of holiday booze. And of course, in honest american fashion, they spend thousands of dollars on fireworks. Their cars may not have tires on them and their house may be falling over but god dammit, come fourth of July, they're gonna blow something up. When sober, I find myself questioning the logic behind shooting off professional-grade fireworks in a forrest full of leaves and twigs and dried out old trees. But after a few beers I'm all about explosions.

After the fireworks ended, it was my task to get the girls settled into their tent. Getting my kids to sleep is a feat WITHOUT the sugar and caffiene that goes along with picnic food. But I managed to toss them in the tent and zipper it shut before the little junkies could scurry out between my legs.

Sue and I parked our tired asses in a couple lawn chairs on the bank by the river and watched the moonlight flicker off the water's black glass surface. We relaxed, waiting for the giggles and chitter-chatter from within the girls tent to die down.

At some point, Sue decided to retire to our little tent and I was left standing guard over the two tents like an unarmed sentry. I sat there watching the night and replaying the days events and listening to the sounds of the forrest. The chirp of a bird. The chatter of crickets. The sploink of a fish jumping out on the river. The scream of a small animal being devoured in the distance. The crunch of footsteps off in the woods *insert wide eyes*, the growl of a giant saber-toothed mountain buffalo from behind a row of whateverthefucktheyare trees.

Suddenly the beautiful song of nature was sounding more and more like the Blair Witch Soundtrack. As I sat on the bank, frozen to my lawn chair, on the verge of a little 4th of July pants explosion of my own, I suddenly came back to the realization I made many years ago at Camp Swatara with the little bible thumpers.

Nature wanted to kill me.

Its as if all god's creatures, large and small, sat in their forrest hideaways doing their thing and pretending to be normal squirrels and salamanders and spiders and saber toothed mountain buffalos. Go on about your business...nothing to see here. Until all the hairless apes fell asleep. Then they whipped out their cell phones and blackberrys and paged the single conspiratory message to each other:

Operation Eat Wit is a go.

Well I had news for these fucking furry bastards. I may not know how to skin a ground hog and make it into a hat. I may not be able to make a stew out of tree bark and mushrooms. But I'll tell you one thing...after owning 3 dogs, 4 cats, and a number of other four-legged freaks I've learned something. I can kick the hell out of any animal...and you know what? I like doin' it!

So with my chest puffed and my confidence in my kicking ability boosting my ego I bent down to tighten the laces on my.....

SANDALS?? Oh for the love of God! I can't kick anything much bigger than a cat or a crippled beaver with my bare feet. I'm not Jackie Chan for christ sake. If anything larger than a french wombat comes tearing out of the forrest my only defense would be to point to the tents and yell "EAT THEM FIRST!!!"

So i decided to do the only thing I COULD do. Head up to the confines of my parents cabin and leave the girls to fend for themselves....

Stay tuned for Part III - Quit Buggin' Me

posted by Michael Witmer @ Thursday, July 14, 2005