The Great Outdoors

I grew up in Alaska. We lived there for 14 years, and I have a lot of fond memories of my childhood there among the beautiful scenery, exciting outdoor activities, and various wildlife. Actually, the wildlife could be a little scary, especially the unexpected moose encounters in our backyard.

I also had my hair permed a lot. Which leads me to the subject of camping trips.

You see, back when it wasn't considered abuse to subject your child to unfortunate hair styles, my mother took me in every few months for a chemical-intensive torture session designed to punish me for all my misdeeds of the previous three months. And, because I was not supposed to wash my hair for two days after the perm (apparently washing it too early would have made it look even worse than it did with the perm alone), my mother and father always planned a camping trip right after my appointment. This created the added benefit of not having to pack any insect repellent, since the aura of stench emanating from my hair kept insects at bay for about a 50 foot radius around my cranium.

I spent a lot of my childhood on camping trips. We'd hitch up the trailer to our International Scout, pack up our clothes, food and all available camping equipment in the State of Alaska and hit the road. Sometimes we'd hit the road for upwards of 9 hours. Although, to be fair, driving only accounted for about 90 minutes of our travel time. The remaining seven and a half hours were occupied by bathroom stops, carsickness stops, my brother complaining about my stinky hair, turning around and finding trailer parts we forgot to latch down, and so forth.

Once we finally got to the campsite, we spent the next several hours trying to back in and level out the trailer. This was accomplished via the foolproof method of my mother standing directly behind the trailer, becoming completely invisible to my father who was desperately trying to look for hand signals or some other form of communication that would indicate whether he was actually in the right spot or dangerously close to backing himself over a ravine. My parents performed this act so many times, they actually developed a devoted fan base. Friends, relatives and sometimes even perfect strangers would each pull up a lawn chair, crack open a cold beer and watch as my parents argued about appropriate hand signals and as my mother directed my father and the trailer directly into a tree stump. It's really a wonder they're still married.

After the parking ritual came the building of the campfire and something my parents called "Cocktail Minute." Back then, you could buy these little Mr. and Mrs. T's pre-made drinks in cans. After several hours of performing the parking show for our friends, everyone would gather around and have several rounds of Cocktail Minute while the men started our campfire. Because I wasn't allowed near the fire due to the cloud of highly flammable fumes radiating from my increasingly stinky hair, I will be basing this portion of my story on several eyewitness accounts.

These campfires were truly a sight to behold. My father and his friend would gather up all available flammable materials within 10 miles of our campsite, stack them carefully in a pyramid shape, and then proceed to use 5,365,219 matches in an attempt to light the fire. After uttering several choice phrases that I won't write here because my children might read this someday, they would then douse the pile with something they referred to as "Blazo." It turns out "Blazo" was actually gasoline. Either my father or his friend would then light a match as far away as humanly possible, and attempt to hurl it in the direction of the gas-soaked wood, which would then burst into flames in what resembled a small missile explosion.

These fires became so hot they could burn aluminum chairs, sear off eyebrows from 20 feet, and turn Jack Daniels bottles into puddles of molten glass. My brother and I learned from a young age that fire was nothing to be played with. It was to be treated with respect, at least until you have participated in several Cocktail Minutes and decide to get into a whiskey-spitting competition with your best friend. My mother spent most of her camping trips with a look of extreme concern on her face.

I remember one time we arrived a little late to our chosen campsite and our friends were already there. They were well into the campfire and cocktails portion of the trip, having bypassed the "back in and level" portion by wisely purchasing a motor home and seeking out a pull through site. We could see the smoke from the campfire several miles away, but were not in the least bit concerned, because we knew that we were not looking at a wildfire. "There they are!" we yelled. Well, at least I was yelling, because my head was sticking out of the window in a vain attempt to air out my hair. We followed the smoke signal to our campsite and then began our ritual all over again.

Despite all of this, I have decided that it's time to take my children camping. I want them to share in the joys of being outdoors, lighting things on fire, and getting dirty. I want them to have the opportunity to be traumatized by mommy and daddy trying to set up tents (I don't know if our marriage could withstand parking a trailer) and start a campfire without the benefit of matches of any sort because we forgot them at home.

I guess it's time to make an appointment for Maggie to get her hair permed.

And, I just know my husband will forget the Blazo.