#tbt: Camping All-Star

As you read this, I am either getting myself psyched up to go camping, or actually driving to a campsite with my dear Evanshine. We will be celebrating our nation’s birthday as our forefathers intended: with grilled foods, fireworks, and sweat.

I get a little PTSD whenever someone suggests camping. You see, when I was a wee little girl, I went to camp Judy Layne Girl Scout camp. I got to take a mess kit, which is something that my doll Molly had in miniature, so I was surprisingly okay with the idea.

However, disaster seemed to strike soon after arrival every single year.

In 1992, I struggled mightily enough with outdoor sounds and bugs that I felt the need to describe it in my diary:

To add insult to injury, my parents took Ross to see Cop and a Half while I was away, which I had been wanting to see.

Then in 1995, I had a near-death experience in knife safety class. We reported to a shelter for class, where our teachers told us we would either be “honing” (haha) our skills on a block of soap or a tree branch. Obviously I elected tree branch, since I am an artist and artists don’t work in soap. The teacher told us: “The First Rule of Knife Safety is never cut toward yourself. Now, before we start class, go get yourselves a stick.”

I headed out into the woods and looked carefully at nature. Each stick candidate had something wrong with it – one was broken, another bendy, too little, etc.

But then I saw it. The Stick. It lay on the ground, seemingly bathed in the glow of angelic light. Only one tiny branch stuck out to the side, marring what was otherwise the perfect medium for the masterpiece I was about to create. So I whipped out my trusty Swiss Army knife and cut that branch off – cutting toward myself.

The knife, which had probably never cut anything before, went straight through the wood, through my thumbnail and into my thumb. It didn’t even hurt, which was nearly as surprising as the enormous amount of blood gushing into the leaves. One of my fellow Scouts screamed. I screamed.

A counselor came running, wrapped up my hand in a bandage and told me we’d go talk to the camp manager’s husband, who just so happened to be a real live EMT and could bandage me up properly. This was reassuring, but still I burst into tears, fearing the worst. I was losing a LOT of blood.

“Am I going to DIE?” I asked through my sobs.

The counselor looked at me like I was the crazy one. She was the one voluntarily working at a camp for an entire summer! “Uh, no.”

Despite these comforting words, I know that I barely survived Girl Scout camp that year. It is only by the grace of God that I somehow survived losing gallons of blood and am here blogging to you today.

My mom even noted this camping trip in my School Days book...
Not only did I slice my thumb open, I also got 80+ chigger bites!!

 

So you can see why I struggle with the idea of camping, even at my mature age. Wish me luck that I come back with all my fingers and toes. God Bless America, and God Bless air conditioners and hot showers when I get home.

(IF I get home…)