The Campout

Writer's Cramp--Keeping with the Summer theme... Use the following items in a story or a poem... a dog, a unique way to roast marshmallows, and a large glass.

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         Jim and I set off to have ourselves a super camping trip. We left our wives at home, and it was gonna be just me and my brother pitching the tent, positioning the old fishing poles, and popping the tops off beer cans. Oh, and we had plenty of the kind of food men take when the wives aren’t along.

         Anyway, no sooner did we get the tent posts hammered in, the canvas stretched across its poles, and the sleeping bags rolled out and ready, than it was time for a quick snack of peanut butter and honey on thick slabs of the homemade bread my wife had sent. The coffee pot was bubbling hot on the campfire, and Jim liked to dab his brew with a couple of tablespoons of honey, so the large glass jar was still sitting there with its lid off. I was about to screw the top back on when a fuzzy little black and white guy came nosing his way into our campground.

         Now Jim and I aren’t fools. We never would have had any problem with that little fellow if Jim hadn’t brought his dog. That dumb dog started in yapping and darted in to attack, and of course, the skunk shot his tail straight up into the air. We thought we were goners, but Pee Wee backed up a mite. The skunk decided that was fair enough and turned around and headed the other way. Should have ended there, but Pee Wee got his stupidity back and took off after the skunk. Shoot! I’ve never seen my brother move as fast as he did then. He caught that dumb dog and threw him into the truck.

         So there we were, breathing in and out and appreciating that we could still do so without its stinking worse than the portable toilets down the way, when the dog started in worse. Jim yelled at him to shut up, which of course, did no good. Then my brother shrugged, ripped open the barbecued potato chips, and stuffed some into his mouth, while at the same time, throwing the case with the fishing rod onto his back. I had to keep up with my brother, of course, so I started opening a giant-sized bag of marshmallows, holding it under my arm like you do to tear it open real fast, when the biggest, meanest, brownest and shaggiest-looking bear you’ve ever seen, walked into our little campsite. That animal had teeth that would have made a shark whimper!

         The bear was between us and the truck, and it was coming towards us, growling and teeth gnashing, darting looks at us and then at Pee Wee, still raging and throwing himself against the inside of the truck. The bear was looking mighty grumpy. I think a barking dog just wasn’t on his calendar for the day, or maybe Pee Wee was disturbing his nap or something.

         Neither Jim or I said a word, we just kind of edged away, real slow. We kept moving in reverse until our backs were up against a tree. Meanwhile, the bear had discovered the open jar of honey, the potato chips, and all the rest of the food that was supposed to last us a weekend. Jim didn’t protest about it when the bear started munching, and I sure wasn’t going to argue. We were both too busy shimmying up that tree.

         It wasn’t until Jim and I got up high enough to figure ourselves safe from Mr. Bear that we started laughing. You see, Jim still had his fishing pole case strung over his back, and my arm was clutching 'round those marshmallows like they were going to keep me safe from a bear attack.

          We sat there for awhile up in that tree, watching the bear go through all our provisions. Hunger started to hit us before old frowzy was even done with the honey. I tossed a marshmallow over at Jim -- bulls-eye, right in his mouth. I ate a couple, too, but the funny thing is that, after that first couple of marshmallows, you don’t want anymore of them raw. You want them cooked, like God intended.

         Only problem is that the fire was down there, and we were stuck in a tree. I could hear the coffee still boiling away. I could smell the sweet, piny flavor of wood burning. Shoot, I wanted me one of them half-dissolved, ashed-black melty marshmallows, and I was getting mad about the bear eating our food and old Pee Wee down there, barking away, making no more sense than a ghetto blaster in a library.

         And then it hit me. Jim had just shifted the fishing pole bag off his shoulder and onto a limb. I stared at it, and I thought about those hot, melty marshmallows.

         “Jim, put that fishing pole together, and let’s see if we can’t do some fishing up here.”

         Jim looked at me like I’d said I was going to invite Mr. Bear to sleep in our tent that night.

         “Just do it," I said with my big-brother-demanding voice.

         Jim shook his head, shrugged, and started screwing together the parts. When his pole looked ready -- threaded and hook tied on, he handed it over. “What are you going to fish for --- bear?” he said, laughing at his wit.

         I pulled a marshmallow out of the bag, plopped it onto the hook, cast off, and lowered slightly, right onto the fire. It only took a few seconds. I reeled the marshmallow back in, burned my tongue, and savored the taste.

         Jim was laughing, but he wanted his turn, of course. We spent the next hour casting and roasting marshmallows.

          And then, when the bear finally took off, so did Jim and me. Sometimes a camping trip just ain’t meant to be. We decided it was time to go home and see what the girls were up to!


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Featured in the Action/Adventure Newsletter June 26, 2003