She decamps in the hunt for comfort

By: AGNES DIGGS - Staff Writer | Saturday, June 4, 2005 10:48 PM PDT ∞

You know how it is.

A bunch of folks are standing around talking.

You're mostly listening, but drifting in and out of the conversation.

Then you hear that one statement, that fragment of a sentence that rivets your attention.

And not in a good way.

"... Then we can go camping ..."

My chest felt as if I had swallowed a snowball.

Had I said one vague umm-hmm too many? Had I inadvertently agreed to do something I had sworn never again to do?

Yikes.

But no one was looking at me, so I assumed no one was waiting for an answer.

The conversation bounced back and forth as different people told their camping stories.

Then they turned to me and smiled.

So I told mine.

Other than a carefully structured preadolescent stay at Girl Scout Camp, I ventured into the great outdoors only on one occasion.

Now remember, you're talking to a person who firmly believes that camping out means staying in a hotel room with no coffee pot.

But one time, and one time only, when I was old enough to know better, I went into the woods with the purpose of staying overnight.

My Dutch uncle and the guy I was dating had decided to go hunting. I thought it would be fun to go along.

They begged me individually and in tandem not to do it.

But me? I'm no 'fraidy cat. I insisted I could handle myself.

So they loaded me, pans, stoves, lanterns, sleeping bags and other equipment into a station wagon ---- the prehistoric cousin of the sports utility vehicle ---- and packed me in the back seat.

I traveled light: just a couple of gallons of adrenaline and half a brain.

I saw them carefully place four rifles in the car, but failed to make any connection with the firearms and the fact this was a hunting trip.

It was probably the worst day of their lives.

The road trip was great fun. My favorite part was riding with the window down and soaking in the sun and scents of the countryside.

We parked in a nice civilized paved lot in a recreation area and began unloading.

So far I had not complained about getting up in the hours I would usually have devoted to REM sleep. I hadn't complained about missing my morning coffee.

I didn't even complain when they divided up all the stuff into three manageable packs, strapped one of them to me and pointed me to a dirt trail.

No problem. I liked to walk. I was wearing insect repellent, a stylish jacket and really cute boots.

Suddenly the other half of my brain arrived and I realized that the little spade we were packing was camping's version of plumbing, and there were no cots and no tents.

"We're sleeping on the ground?" I said. "Outside?"

They seemed puzzled by the question.

"I thought we'd be sleeping in cabins. On cots."

Two sighs followed that.

But it was really my uncle's fault that things finally fell apart. He said something about getting an early start next morning and looking forward to bagging a deer. Maybe a few rabbits.

Long story short, we got home in time for a late lunch.

My aunt was very sympathetic and didn't remind me that she had told me not to go.

And, for the record, at no time did my uncle ever threaten to turn the rifle on me.

As for the friends who first steered the conversation to the subject of camping?

I told them to let me know when they found themselves in the mood for dinner at a nice restaurant.

Contact staff writer Agnes Diggs at (760) 740-3511 or adiggs@nctimes.com.