The Desertion Run

I had committed the grave error of agreeing to go camping with Booner & Scrap when I was thirteen or fourteen (they had not earned their Knowlton Pub warrior names yet, they were still just Kim & Sean).

They came to the conclusion that it was time to live rough for a few days - live on what you can carry or kill (odd for pacifists but I was not brave enough to challenge them on it, given they had taken to carrying bayonets around, again odd for pacifists). So a plan was hatched to prepare 80lbs of canned food, some really cheaply made East-Indian ceremonial swords, another 70 lbs of whatever gear young teenagers who never seriously camp feel they need, some large tarpaulins, and then load it into the heaviest world war era canvas rucksacks we could find. The guys running the Vimy exhibit at the National War Museum would have been in tears...

We were not actually going to an established, reputable campground at any point. I have no idea how, but they managed to convince dear old Wendy to drive her only two young sons and someone else's kid out near Pinnacle Mountain on the US border at 9pm on a Friday evening and dump us out there on a desolate country rod. "We'll see you in a couple of days" (MAYBE).

In the year 2006 any mother who would fall for that would have Child Protection Services pounding on the door with a battering ram and a shiny new orange one-piece pressed & fitted. I was lucky enough to be with two kids whose mother KNEW they had the skills to live without her for three days.

We slept in fields, woods, and semi-abandoned barns all over the south of Frelighsburgh for 4 days, walking everywhere we went except the one ride we got from Mickey B. Oddly, he didn't find anything amiss about three teenagers roaming the quiet countryside with swords and expecting to to hitch-hike successfully.

He survived the ride, as I did. I also learned that a man can survive on what he can carry. Walking on a country road in the middle of nowhere with your best friends is never a waste of time. Rain is just water and won't melt you. Food cooked on an open fire, eaten with a filthy swiss army knife can taste better than the filet mignon I can afford now, paid for with the winnings of far lesser risks than those I took when I so much younger.