Camping

"Let's go camping!"

That was my friend Yahaira. She thinks I need more adventure in my life.

And what made more sense than wilderness camping for two people who between them don't own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and set out for Witch Mountain.

According to insiders, our campsite "wouldn't have showers per se." I'm the kind of guy who needs a per-se shower, so we decided to lodge in town and drive to the scenery. We arrived shortly after eleven ... p.m.

"We got a little lost," said Yahaira.

Pam, the check-in lady, pointed to our campsite "one mile yonder as a crow flies." Yahaira and I stared into the night with tilted heads, a couple of RCA dogs.

"What about security?" said Yahaira.

"Patrol doesn't go out that far," said Pam, "but there's a security gate. You'll be fine."

Yahaira squeezed my arm. You could hear the music from Friday the 13th: Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

We drove to the "security gate," a big yellow bar certain to keep away killers ... UNLESS THEY'RE ON FOOT. The pole was fastened with a Master Lock that could withstand anything up to but not including its publicly traded combination.

Yahaira circled with her flashlight two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser. I so wished we had brought a grownup.

We followed our headlights to stake number three. Home. Yahaira took to striking, or pitching, or whatevering the camp; I was in charge of swearing at the fire.

"What is WRONG with this wood?" I had spread the kindling thingies, sprayed chemicals, burned my sneaker -- nothin'. How do forest fires ever get started in the first place?

Fire seemed urgent on two counts: 1. It is an excellent source of light and heat, and 2. the eerie crunching sounds were getting closer. Every few minutes, a branch would crack in a way that made your neck-hair pay attention. Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.

Yahaira suggested -- okay, I suggested, I suggested -- that we turn back. But we had driven so far and I had already lost a shoe... We agreed to sleep in the rental car beside our trusty steak knife and with a deep breath drifted off to safety.

Until Yahaira woke up in a panic.

"What's the matter?" I said.

She had no air to answer. Yahaira's nightmares get that way.

"There's a dead body," she said. "Men are looking for us. I want to go back to town."

"Now?!"

It was two a.m., the witching hour when ghouls roam the forest with scythes and other scary, outdated weapons. In muddy socks I repackaged the campground while Yahaira, by show of support, revved the engine.

We skidded through the security gate, which had been left open, and didn't say a word until we found the highway. "Remember the woman's eyes when you asked about security? What about the open gate? Do you suppose Velma and Scooby are okay?"

Yahaira and I stopped at an all-night diner, I in one shoe, she in her PJs. We both reeked of lighter fluid. And here at our sticky table we laughed and gorged and planned our next trip to "almost go camping."

At five a.m. we stumbled into our well-lit, climate-controlled room and passed out on the pillow mints. Somewhere in the distance (20 miles yonder as a crow flies), the sun peeked through the aspens to reveal a hastily abandoned campground with one melted sneaker, an unused steak knife, and two half-crumpled cans of Budweiser.

Tch-tch-tch-tch-ah-ah-ah-ah.