A while back I wrote a few posts about why I hated camping so much. I decided I’m in the mood to write one more for  you.

Growing up in Utah, squished right up against the great Rocky Mountains gives a boy scout a plethora of opportunities to learn to hate camping.  One particular year, our Venture scout troupe decided to go on a big 4 day ‘high adventure’ backpacking trip.  Despite a running tally of unfortunate and totally predictable camping experiences, I consented to go.  I even, as always, pumped myself up for the big event.

The plan was to hike up to a like in the mountains. The path to the lake was only somewhere between 5 and 1 million miles long.  We started off the hike with plenty of energy, darting around, throwing pine cones at each other while touting our oversized backpacks stuffed with everything from our camping checklist, including cotton swabs, flint and steel and a change of clothes for every potential weather circumstance for every day we would be gone.

We were men.

After about 3/4 of a mile however, the novelty of the hike began to wear off and we started to feel the wear and tare of the path (virtually flat, mind you).  The frolicking and tomfoolery dropped off at a steady rate, and people began to question how much further we had to go. If only we knew…

We were about to stop for a break when we rounded a bend and saw where the trail would lead us. The climb wasn’t vertical, but we’ll say this… if we were supposed to climb 700 vertical feet in the first mile of the hike, the upcoming 100 feet contained 790 of those vertical feet.

Suddenly this backpacking adventure turned into a backpacking punishment that was considerably worse than being grounded for the summer… without food or water… forced to clean dirty toilets until sweet death graced you with its presence.

We managed to make the climb, surprisingly, without losing one human or pack.  The trail then continued to wind through the mountains.  At every bend, we tried to mentally will the path to open up into a beautiful basin containing the lake that was our destination.

Hours passed. No lake.

Finally, a boy collapsed. (Not kidding.)  One of our leaders picked up the his pack and carried it for him while we ushered him the last mile or so to the campground.  We arrived just in time to set our tents up in the dark.

I ran off to a distant corner of our campground to relieve myself.  It was cold, and I was exausted.  I obvously wasn’t paying much attention, because I did’t clear the runway before takeoff and ended up peeing all over my shirt.  That’s right, while I was debating between freezing to death in the bitter cold and darkness or collapsing from exaustion, I peed on myself. Best. Campout. Ever.

The next morning, my scout leader decided to use his portable propane stove to cook us some breakfast. Little did he know the propane stove had a small leak… and when one leaks propane on to himself and then lights a match, he lights himself on fire.

So there we sat, groggily watching my scout leader scream in terror while he flailed his flaming arm around the campsite trying to put it out.  After a few cinched arm-hairs, we managed to control the blaze and continued with breakfast.

I guess, more than anything I should just be happy I survived stuff like this, right? I mean, it builds character.  And one day, I’ll have a kid, and I’ll get to take him to the mountains so he can pee on himself and watch me light parts of my body on fire for him… because that’s what love is.