Boy Scout Camp in Retrospect

Boy Scout camp was a great excuse to connect with my inner yang.  No one expects a lot of yin-ish behaviors from women in the woods.  It's the woods for God's sake!  The land of "sceeters, tents, and port o' pots".

I am grateful that my tent mate was attuned to the yin (if behaviors can be categorized as such). She brought a fan, installed a shelf,  hung a clothes line, and "tarped" the roof of our tent to prevent the occasional monsoon from obliterating our canvas domicile.

Each day, Turner arose at 6:30 am, helped cook, cleaned his dishes, and managed to navigate the 600 acre camp with little assistance.   In the evening, the Root Beer Cantina  entertained the scoutmasters and attending parents, as well as, hundreds of boy scouts as they danced on the stage of the camp amphitheatre, hopped up on sugar and adrenaline.

We walked everywhere. No cars, no sirens, no negative news stories.    Cool breezes, lake views, and the sounds of camp life brought new meaning (for me) to the catchphrase "think globally and act locally".  Our community of tents provided an intimacy, not often found in our suburban neighborhoods.  Walls of brick and mortar were nonexistent.  The flimsy canvas structures encouraged a closeness more like a family than mere members of a Boy Scout troop.

As expected, Turner and I both survived our brief trek "into the wild".  The "sceeters" didn't kill Turner and I managed to not only make peace with the simplicity of our experience, I embraced it.  I discovered that forests, as well as, beaches can center and renew my spirit.

Boy Scouts, Bugs, and Backs

My back is a mess.  Nothing deadly or permanently debilitating.  Yet, a very compelling argument for NOT sleeping on a cot at Boy Scout camp for the better part of this week.  Still, as I sit in my lazy girl chair in my comfy living room writing this post, I find myself wanting to go.

Boy Scout camp is not Turner's idea of a relaxing time.  He hates bugs.  Well, more specifically, he hates bug bites.  

After last month's weekend camp out his eye swelled shut, the result of a mosquito bite.  He wanted me to buy him a pirate eye patch so that he could walk amongst the living without drawing attention to himself. I suggested Benadryl.

When I was Turner's age, my parents toured Europe with my brother and me.  Camping was our habitat.  My parents drank wine and feasted on local foods.  They were ecstatic.

I was most definitely not. My brother and I rarely spoke.  He was a surly 13 year old boy with pubescent moods.  I was a whiny, irritating and often carsick 11 year old girl. 

Even today, pictures of the Swiss Alps cause my stomach to churn.

Lovely.

Boy Scout camp is a mere 3 hours northeast.  With my aching spine and Turner's buggish fears it feels like a much longer trek.

Our lives are made up of moments and memories. Some are pleasant and warming while others are best stuffed into Pandora's trunk and forgotten.  Where Boy Scout camp fits is, as yet, unknown.  My guess is, we will be better for having taken this step.  Paradoxically, it is during our small journey's into the unknown when we become better acquainted with who we truly are.  It is in those moments that we learn that we can not only survive... we can thrive.