My Camping Trip

This is going to be a long one. And a gut-punch if you make it to the end. This is a true story from the 21 ^st year of my life, written about a friend who recently died. I apologize for any typos as it was painful to edit once I finished. Please be kind, if you choose to comment. This was written not for pleasure, but to pour my grief into something I could share. Also, I have an unusual way of using a combo of first-person/second-person narrative, that's just how it comes out when I write.

All characters/people involved are over 18.

My friend said it was a terrible idea. She warned me not to go, that I didn't know what I was getting myself into. But I knew exactly what I was getting into. I was just going camping with you, a good friend. A male friend.

Some people called you Doc back then, a nickname that was never fully explained to me. I called you that at first until you told me I didn't have to, until I realized you didn't actually like the name. Then we started calling you Bear. It makes much more sense for you to share the cuddly nickname of our 26^th president. You are imposing, but also gentle. A man who speaks softly, with the confidence to knock you on your ass if you pull a fast one.

You've been promising to take me camping for years. Two years to be exact. As soon as you learned I'd never gone camping, you eagerly exclaimed I had to go. I've gotta go camping at least once in my life, you claim. Even if I hate it, even if it makes me miserable, I've got to try it. You were always so passionate about trying new things, to not be afraid of life.

I've packed up a duffel bag and stuffed it with clothes, a swimsuit, flip flops, a towel. I've got my own sleeping bag- an old army green bag that belonged to my father. It smells like the musty closet it's kept in, but it was less embarrassing than bringing my old bubblegum pink bag from the sleepover days of my adolescence. And I don't want you to see me as a child.

You promptly pick me up at noon, pulling up to the apartment I share with a female roommate, a friend of a friend. The apartment that was supposed to belong to me and my ex-boyfriend. The boyfriend who cheated on me with his coworker - a checker from the local Shop n' Kart. A girl with big teeth and saggy tits. My cruel joke is she'll hopefully bite his dick off when she tries to suck it with her massive overbite.

Your car rumbles up with a shuddering V8. Some old muscle car that stinks but sounds fearsome. You've named it Darlene and talk to her when she stalls, softly telling baby to start for daddy. I feel myself get warm as you speak in this hushed tone, caressing the dashboard encouragingly. Darlene turns over with a tired cough, and you pat the steering wheel. That's my girl, you coo.

You look over at me and assess my outfit. I'm wearing denim shorts that go to my knees and a t-shirt, with a pair of Converse hightops. Did I bring a jacket, you ask. Yes, a sweatshirt, it's in my bag. You tell me it'll be colder because we're going up in elevation. Not too high, you assure me, but high enough to get out of the smog of southern California.

I offer to share in the driving but you insist that Darlene wouldn't hear of it. This is my trip to enjoy. Really it's Darlene you don't trust me with, but once we hit the steep twists and turns up into the hillside, I'm content to let you wrangle her rack and pinion steering.

We chat the entire way, playing the radio quietly in the background. When a song comes on that one of us really likes, you pause the conversation to crank it up. You get so excited by the simple joy of music, singing along off-key, lyrics you've memorized while bobbing your head enthusiastically. I laugh at your dramatic performance, so you just turn up the music even louder. The radio signal fades as we climb deeper into forested landscape, switching into static. You snap the radio off; Darlene only has an eight-track player that is busted.

I'm only vaguely paying attention to the changing environment as we talk. Our conversations are always wide-ranging and rambling. We hop from topic to topic, both of us eager to share opinions and observations. You are full of random data, evidence from a life of movement and chaos. Deadbeat dad, drunk mom, foster care, military, and even a short jail stint in Mexico. Stories that could be more fiction than fact, but over the years I've learned you may exaggerate but you don't lie.

The road is hemmed in by towering trees that darken the road with their shaded overreach, a drop in temperature that makes me rub my arms. See, you comment. It's going to be colder. We've driven for two hours, and I'm feeling a little sleepy from the soothing darkness of the forest, and from being in your comforting presence. Something you tease me about that I always fall asleep on you. A joke you started after you'd first met me. A joke that really speaks volumes about who you are. When a 25 year old man finds a 19 year old girl drowsily asleep at a party, tucked away on a couch surrounded by other young party-goers, he doesn't leave her side and insists that someone go tell my dipshit boyfriend to take me home. Bear had spoken, and the boyfriend was found and listened. I wish I had listened too.

You tell me it's ok if I need a nap; you know I worked the night before. You know it's hard work being on my feet all night and going to school. I'm embarrassed because I think my retail job is nothing and you work in a hot and sweaty garage. I still feel like I'm pretending to be an adult while you've already lived years in the trenches of life, years in the meat-grinder of warfare. But you never patronize me, you never talk down to me.

My eyes do briefly close and you begin to hum to yourself. An old song... something by Bob Seeger. I'm inwardly cracking up as my mind dozes off, feeling very content to hear your low and semi-gravelly voice. At one point, you playfully insert my name into your song lyrics, testing to see if I'm actually asleep.

I wake up when Darlene is groaning as she heads up the near vertical climb we seem to be doing. You're talking to her, reinforcing that she "can make it old girl". I hope you are right because this will suck to walk down this near abandoned highway if not.

Finally we seem to level off and crawl a few more corners before you pull into a small parking lot. A gravel lot with a porta-potty in the corner and a posted sign warning what you can and can't do in the forest. Including a sign saying no camping.

We begin to unload our gear from Darlene's trunk, listening to the metal ticking of her cooling engine and the chirping of birds. There's only one other car in the parking lot, a sensible looking Volvo with a bumper sticker that says "Save the Whales". I wonder if they'll appreciate your bumper sticker that says "My other ride is your mom".

You've laid everything out on the ground, counting some things and tallying up jugs of water. You prepare me by saying that we have to hike into our campground, to get past the boundary where camping isn't allowed. You did forewarn me about the hike, and I planned ahead by wearing my most outdoorsy of shoes which is still not great. You on the other hand are prepared in full on hiking boots and an old pair of brown Carhartt's with at least a dozen pockets. Your old t-shirt layered underneath a long-sleeve flannel is just the standard grunge apparel of the era, but it still fits the environment.

My duffle bag isn't practical to carry, so you shove it inside this old black backpack that smells like cigarette smoke. You show me how to strap my sleeping bag to the outside and then help me into it. I try not to be distracted as you keep circling me, cinching up the straps, your hands brushing against my thin t-shirt, glancing the sides of my breasts. I can tell you're trying not to make contact, your cheeks even turning a little pink, but I just chuckle and say it's ok. Our eyes meet for the briefest second and I see something in your brown eyes that is not embarrassment. Something I hope you see reflected back in my eyes.

After a few more careful tugs, you're done. Then you set your enormous backpack with a metal frame onto Darlene's trunk. It's the same type of backpack my stepdad would use for mountaineering, so I make a crack about when will we be scaling Everest. You give me a cocky wink and say whenever you're ready little Chica.

You have lots of nicknames for me. Some I like, some I don't. Nothing too derogatory, just blatant descriptions of who I am and how I look. I'm petite, skinny, shy but temperamental. A brown eyed girl who's white on the inside because she grew up with her white mom and stepdad without her brown father. But you're also brown, a Beaner you call yourself, even though your longer shiny, black hair gives a hint of your mixture of Native American. You also grew up in mostly white households. Most of our friends are white. Together we make each other feel less like outsiders. Together we are a hybrid version of Latino pride.

I watch you wriggle into the frame and start snapping down straps and cinching it up. I assist a little, hooking on two jugs of water. It looks heavy and I feel guilty. What else can I carry, I ask. You pat my head and tell me to just bring myself and that's enough.

We begin our trek down a well worn but narrow dirt path. You lead the way with the sloshing water and I follow behind. The sun is now well over the hillside and heading towards the ocean. I worry we could end up walking in the dark and ask how long will it take to get there. Not too far, you answer, and I refrain from sarcastically questioning your judgement.

Surprisingly, our hike is going downhill, a gradual slope through a clearing of timber that was probably harvested a few decades ago. It looks like we will head back into a dense forest in a short time, and beyond that I can't see. Supposedly there will be a lake, according to your description of our campsite. If I can't see it, I know it's going to be awhile.

My hightop-clad feet are trying to keep up with your long strides, while we chat as we go. You tell me a horrifying story about how you accidentally walked into a wasp nest that was buried in the ground. It was while you were serving overseas; you didn't see the wasps hovering around the hole because you were busy looking out for other, more deadly obstacles. I ask how bad did the wasps hurt you, and you just shrug that it hurt like a "mo-fo" but it could've been worse. The desert is full of bugs you tell me.

These are the stories you tell about your time in the marines; anecdotes of wild dogs and dust storms, bizarre travels through ancient villages. But never about the fighting. I know you were wounded at some point. Your ex-girlfriend told me not to ask about it, that you would never say how bad it was.

We continue to chat as the sky becomes shades of orange and pink, just as we enter the dense canopy of tall evergreens. I can feel the chill on my arms and legs as we go farther in, the forest heavily shadowed to the point that I keep seeing things when I look into the bushes. You hear the worry in my voice when I mention how dark it's getting, you assure me it's just a little farther. We go thru these trees and then back down a bit and then we'll hit the lake. You have flashlights, you have protection. What kind of protection, I ask. You peek over your shoulder at me and grin. I love it when I can make you laugh.

Jokes aside, you retrieve a small flashlight from your pocket and hand it to me. I ask don't you want it since you're walking in front? Nah, you confidently answer. You know where you're going.

A wind is starting to pick up as we emerge from the forest and onto another clearing. The lake is just down the slope, less than half a mile perhaps. It's an easy walk until we get close to the bottom of the hill. The solid, packed dirt floor transitions to sandy mounds that are easy to trip in. I almost fall on my face half a dozen times, whining that you brought me out here to break my ankles. You chuckle that there are more conveniently located ways to disable someone.

When we get to the bottom I am relieved and also stunned. The setting sun reveals a lake of shimmering blue that goes for at least two miles, surrounded by a bank of sandy beach that is dotted with bushes and tall seagrass. It is so peaceful and quiet, and there isn't another soul in site. It is perfect.

You say we have the beach to ourselves so where would I like to set up camp. Not too close to the water, obviously, and being under a tall tree is dangerous- you warn that old or weak branches can get knocked down by the wind. You know some dude who was killed in his sleep by a giant tree branch when he was camping in the Redwoods. With these warnings in mind, I look around. The end of the lake nearest to us has a beach that lumps up into a large sand dune of sorts. The sand dune shifts up into the hills, but there is a small plateau of flat that has a gathering of trees. I like the sort of cozy look of this area that has the hillside for privacy on the one side, and the hump of the sand dune on the other, and the stand of trees beside it. I point it out to you and we walk over to assess.

There's a large flat area that may have been someone's campsite before, a cluster of rocks that might have been a fire ring. You walk back and forth, nodding. This is good, you decide. A good choice from the novice camper.

With the sky growing darker by the minute, we quickly go about setting up the tent you've been carrying in your massive backpack. You explain how it's super easy to set up, but we need to set down a tarp first. This helps keep the bottom of the tent dry. I watch as you nail down the tarp, and make a joke about why you have this stockpile of tarps. And stakes, and a little mallet. You reply that you also have rope. If you only had some black garbage bags, your murder bag would be complete. We crack up at our morbid joke, and you grin at me. I can't help but grin back, a giddy feeling in my chest.

Once the tarp is secured, you unfold this bright blue roll of nylon and a bundle of skinny black poles. You show me how the poles unfold in this way that reminds me of a blind person's collapsible cane. The process of inserting the poles into the tent is simple in theory but tricky in practice. Your patience is tested as I overextend the flexible pole and nearly poke you in the eye, smacking myself repeatedly. Eventually we manage to assemble the pile of fabric into a small blue dome. I'm surprised how small the tent is compared to the large roll it appeared to be. In fact, as I walk up to it, I realize that it is really, really small.

My five-foot three inch frame will easily fit inside the dome, but your broad-shouldered six-foot two inch frame cannot possibly fit in this thing. You see my skeptical expression and explain that the tent is just for me. You'll sleep outside on the tarp. What?

There is about two feet of tarp outside of the opening of the tent, and you'll just put your sleeping bag on that. Heck, there were times you didn't even have a tarp to sleep on.

I'm confused, but more disappointed. I don't think you expected that, finding yourself surprised that I am not pleased with your chivalrous sleeping arrangement. You make a joke of it saying you'll be sleeping guard for me, like a guard dog. I can only say you're not a dog, and leave it at that.

The dusky twilight distracts us from this, and I realize I need to use a bathroom in nature. I mumble this with some embarrassment and you explain in very frank terms that it's easiest if I find a tree to lean against and squat so that I won't pee on myself. Thanks for the tip.

I manage to employ your method only after I've had to drop my shorts around my ankles and realize that being a woman when camping sucks. I think you can see this on my face when I come back, and you cheerfully announce that you're making dinner. There are a couple of logs you've placed across from each other, making a place for each of us to sit, with an old green army blanket spread on the ground. You've managed to stash a surprising assortment of food in your backpack, along with many cooking utensils.

I take a seat on one of the logs and see that there is now a fire and a tin kettle rattling on a perch of stones. We'll have chili with cheese and fritos, aka ghetto nachos. You even brought hot sauce and sliced jalapenos. I watch as you cut up an avocado, admiring your skill. We begin to discuss food and things we like. I'd never eaten an avocado until I met you. I think you're an amazing cook, a job you've sporadically done over the years, but ultimately steered away from.

I start nibbling bites of cheese and avocado while we wait for the boiling water from the kettle to transform the dehydrated bag of chili into an edible meal. You scoop a frito into the avocado you've mashed into a little paper cup combined with a dash of hot sauce and chunks of jalapenos to create the laziest version of guacamole. After I'm done snickering at this invention, you offer me a bite, daring me with your hand extended. I open my mouth and the tip of your finger brushes my lips. The guacamole is not bad, I say, but it could be better. We chuckle and laugh over it, ignoring the way it feels when you touch me.

We eat the chili/ghetto nachos and nearly finish the entire bag of fritos. You've cleverly devised a system to wash and rinse our dishes, giving me a well-meaning lecture about how you need to clean up when you go camping. Food attracts bears, bears can be trouble. You've never seen one in this area, but you've got protection just in case. I know you mean a gun, something I've seen stashed in your jacket before. But I make a crack about bears needing birth control and you snicker again.

The sky is now completely dark, stars becoming visible as crickets begin to chirp. We're sitting by the fire, a sensible distance apart. I shiver, despite the old sweatshirt I've retrieved from my duffle bag, and you quickly take notice. You hand off your jacket, a rugged denim lined with shearling. It smells like campfire smoke and weed and cologne. It smells like you. I snuggle into the fuzzy interior and make a goofy face of delight, making you laugh. When the laughing ends you keep my eyes for a fraction of a second longer than intended.

You suddenly decide to boil more water so we can have hot chocolate. I feel like you want to keep yourself busy, and try to ignore this ache in my chest. The one that usually starts when we've been hanging out all day, laughing and joking like old buddies, but it changes once night falls. Since you already seem a little uncomfortable, I decide to bring up the topic of our exes.

I ask if you've seen Veronica around, your latest ex. A beautiful girl with long black hair and a body that defies physics. It was rumored that she was a stripper, and used to be an escort. I don't know if I believe those catty rumors, but I know I was envious of her when she was your girlfriend for about 3 weeks. You tell me no, you haven't seen her since New Year's Eve. And you're really glad because she was a "real head-case". She kept accusing you of cheating on her when you went to work. Because being in a garage all day with a bunch of dudes is a surefire way to pick up chicks, you joke.

You ask me if I've seen Kelly, your original girlfriend, the reason I even know you. A pretty and sweet blond, naïve. Her parents hated you. And I'm fairly certain that you still love her, and can't get over it. Even though she broke up with you over a year ago and has now been seeing the same guy for the past 8 months. I don't tell you that Kelly thinks her current boyfriend is going to propose to her, and she's going to say yes to the very white and waspy boy who takes her to visit his family in Palm Springs.