RUFFIN' IT by Greg Porterfield
One day last spring, I decided it was finally time to find myself. A short “back to nature trip” to northeastern Kansas seemed like just what was needed. The dates of May 15th through the 20th were inked into my day-timer and preparations commenced.
By May 10th, preparations were complete. I had just about everything that any avid outdoorsman could use. I even purchased a new sleeping bag, guaranteed to keep polar bears warm down to 46 degrees below zero with a wind blowing 50 miles an hour.
Since the nightly temperatures had only been in the low sixties, I felt I would be plenty warm enough. Twelve manuals covering everything from edible wild plants to the ten most commonly asked questions about “Zen” were secured in my pack, along with my tent and plenty of freeze-dried food, water, and the pièce de résistance—my 38-blade Swiss Army Knife.
As all serious outdoorsmen know, a knife is an indispensable piece of camping apparatus, and mine is capable of everything from measuring a millimeter to picking teeth and plucking nose hair. What a tool!
In my effort to get an early start, I awoke at 3:15 on the morning of the 15th. But after serious reflection, I felt perhaps finding oneself should take place a little later in the day and promptly re-established unconsciousness. I re-awoke at half-past 7 a.m., which is much more civilized, and after a hearty breakfast, complete with plenty of Java—I was ready to head off to the wilds.
My perfect campsite, selected for its proximity to hills, river, and lake, is a mere hundred miles away. After missing a few critical turns, crossing into Missouri at least twice, and enduring one of the most grueling ten-hour drives imaginable—I arrived at my campsite in complete darkness.
I used my headlights to set up my tent and stow my gear. I was starving and ready for dinner. Using the can-opener blade on my knife, I opened and ate from a can of cold beans—having forgotten to bring along any matches to light a fire. Exhausted, I decided to call it a day, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into my snug new sleeping bag. I zipped it up and settled in for a good night’s sleep.
The wind picked up a little after midnight and I awoke as the first large drops spattered against my tent. Unabated, the storm maintained a constant intensity with flashes of lightning, punctuated by slow rolling kettledrums of thunder. As I shifted positions to cover my ears and eyes from the tempest, water began to pour into my sleeping bag from sources unknown.
The rivulets of water conjured up images of the Jonestown Flood, and I elected to save myself from a lethal baptism by springing from my sleeping bag. In a hurry, I apparently stripped the teeth in the zipper and found myself squirming and writhing in an effort to extract my body from the water-soaked tomb. The mechanical age—using the simplest of machines—made me its prisoner!
Rising cold water began to take on the proportion of a small river, as various aquatic creatures became uninvited additions to my nightmare. A medium size fish—a perch, I believe—found its way between my legs and caused me great alarm.
Desperate and drawing on superhuman resources, I struggled to extract myself, to no avail. Then I remembered my trusted Swiss Army Knife in the front pocket of my jeans—just an arm’s reach away. I squirmed over, retrieved it, and utilized the small blade to surgically split my straightjacket, from stem to stern. Breaking free and running nearly naked to my waiting car, I slammed the machine into gear and raced away from nature’s torture chamber. My frightened, dilated eyes searched the rearview mirror in an effort to catch sight of additional demons in pursuit.
These days, I seldom go camping. The sound of running water still recalls my titanic escapade and fills me with dread. Finding yourself does indeed carry certain risks.
