Alright, so some buddies at work asked you to join them for a camping trip. The last time you camped was, gee, 25 years ago, and that was in Billy Thompson's backyard. But never fear. Don't ask your friends for any help. This Moron's Guide will provide you the ability to:

1) Have a truly miserable outdoor experience.

2) Cause you to cry like a little girl.

3) Ensure your buddies don't ask you to do anything ever again.

Packing

Many guides argue that it's best to pack the night before you leave for the trip. Ignore that "logic." You can throw everything together in the morning. So, while you're friends sit exasperated in your driveway from 5 until 6:23 a.m., you'll be making an enormous racket in the garage, to the endless delight of your wife and 6- year-old daughter.

Comparing Equipment

Take a quick glance in the back of Tony's Expedition, and you'll realize that you are woefully unprepared to go anywhere with these Certified Outdoor Woodsmen. They have real backpacks with real equipment in them. Note the vast differences between their gear and yours:

a) Sleeping bag. Tony's goose down sleeping bag is rated to a frigid 10-degrees
Fahrenheit. He once "snow caved" in it, whatever that means. Your sleeping bag (the only one in your house) was made by Strawberry Shortcake and barely comes up to your waist.

b) Hiking boots. Nate, a former Reconnaissance Ranger in the Marine Corps, brought a pair of combat boots, and shows you the two small imprints where a Death Adder struck the leather on the heal. You're wearing a pair of Reebok Pumps with smiley-face laces. The left one squeaks when you walk.

c) Clothing. Steve's double-layer Gortex summit jacket, designed for "extremely nasty weather," contains a 24-hour mini survival kit. You have a lined flannel shirt you bought four years ago because you thought it looked tough. Steve will later point out that you need to cut off the price tag.

Getting Off On The Wrong Foot

After parking at the trailhead, try to look semi-bored while Nate shows you the map, the streams you'll pass, the peaks you'll summit, and finally, way way off the first map (this is a two-map hike) the tiny lake you'll all reach by nightfall. " If we push hard," the former Recon Ranger will add.

"I want my mommy," you'll sputter. But don't worry, you can cover for this.

"What's that?" Nate will say, sheathing a massive knife.

"This is my hobby."

Spiraling Downward

By mile 1 you'll earn the nickname "Whiney Pants." By mile two, your nickname will include the title, "Lil' Miss." By mile three, your pals will realize that you're still panting like a dog somewhere around mile two. They will return, encouraging you with a great many slaps on the back, but all giving one another the This-Trip-Is-Ruined-Because-Joe-Is-A-Pansy look.

Try to control your breathing as you gasp, "Hey, guys, four miles roundtrip isn't bad, is it?"

That's when Steve will point out that the mile marker you're leaning on actually has a decimal in front of the "2," that you've barely passed the port-o-johns, and that you can still see the parking lot through the trees.

After trudging another excruciating 6/10ths of a mile, lay down in the middle of the trail and moan, "Leave me here to die!" Your buddies, who already will have planned to do the whole trip the following weekend without you, will watch as a Cub Scout troop respectfully steps over your limp form.

"I guess we'll just camp here at..." Tony will pause, reading a marker, "...Campsite Greenhorn."

Going from Bad to Worse

After assigning you the task of Walking Stick Carver, the guys will set up camp and then head to the stream for some fishing. And because Nate won't let you borrow his knife, your efforts will amount to a pile of fully-needled pine branches sitting next to a sign saying, "No Campfires."

At this point, you will have correctly concluded that camping is not your forte. But, as with mountain lion encounters, do not panic. The following process will have you home by lunchtime.

Step 1: Attempt to light Steve's camp stove without his permission. You will thus create a brief fireball the size of a high-centered Basset Hound.

Step 2: With singed eyebrows, step backward, trip over a guideline and crash through Tony's $485 tent.

Step 3: The camp stove, melted to the sole of your left Reebok (the squeaky one), will ignite your "walking stick" pile, sending a blazing plume high into the mid-morning sky. This, of course, is when Park Ranger Bob (whose DNA most resembles that of a grizzly bear) will emerge from the foliage to observe his flaming No Campfires sign.

Going Home

After having your mug shot added to the "Do Not Admit This Idiot" wall at the Ranger hut, wait on a bench with your sleeping bag and pillow tucked under your arms. Within the hour, your wife and daughter will arrive.

Putting her arm around you, your daughter will say, "It's ok, daddy. I guess you're not quite ready for a sleepover with your friends." Then, wiping the tears from your eyes, she'll add, "Would you like to go get a treat, honey?"

And she's right. In times like these, there's only thing to sooth your shattered ego: bubblegum ice cream.



Joe Schneller, copyright 2006.