Let me set your expectations: if you’re thinking your first backpacking trip will be some Instagram-worthy journey of self-discovery, think again—especially if you’re sharing a forest with a swarm of scout troops. My first time backpacking was with a bunch of them, and let’s just say, I learned a lot about camping, chaos, and questionable life choices.
Fishing: Misadventure Training Wheels
Like every outdoorsy prodigy, my step-dad decided my entrance to nature should be fishing. If you’re wondering what that’s like, imagine Groundhog Day but every “day” ends with you not catching a fish and sunburnt in places you didn’t know you had skin. You repeat the same things, with the same hope, for the same nonexistent fish—kind of like dating in high school. At least I was outside, successfully defining the lowest bar for “adventure.”
Enter the Scout Troop: Let the Games Begin
Fast-forward to the ripe age of 13 or 14, an age when my prized possessions were comic books and a blast of Megadeth cassette tapes. Hair report: potential mullet. Actual evidence: conveniently missing.
The plan was simple: backpack one mile to Ruth Lake under the guidance of a scoutmaster who claimed it was “hidden.” What he meant was that 30 years ago you could park a car and not worry about running into a traveling band of thirty pizza-wielding scouts. Now, apparently, Little Caesars outsells hot dogs in the wild.
Man Wolfy
Comic Heroes, Tents, and Tragedy
Before the trip, I’d been consuming a steady diet of Man-Wolf comics (don’t ask, just know he’s the werewolf son of an astronaut) and Megadeth’s “Peace Sells.” Inspired by neither classical literature nor healthy social skills, I figured this was all the spiritual preparation required.
Take it from me: camping near scouts is basically the camping equivalent of stepping on Legos in the dark while blindfolded. The only thing more satisfying than annoying them with scary stories? Watching a thunderstorm quarantine them to their tents for long stretches—which, unfortunately, also quarantined me with my tent-mates, Jade and Jason.
The Birth of the Man-Wolf: Sorry, Jade
Cue the storm. Jade and Jason sensibly tried to sleep, so clearly it was my cue to provide entertainment. Channeling my inner Man-Wolf (very method acting), I zipped myself into my sleeping bag, started growling, and then reached out—because who wouldn’t want their face gently petted by a faux-werewolf at 2a.m.? Jade, apparently. Choose your tent-mates wisely.
And because every performance needs a killer soundtrack, as soon as my Man-Wolf act ended, I transitioned naturally into the only Megadeth lyrics a 13-year-old knows: yell-singing, off-key, about three lines from “Peace Sells.” Rinse, repeat, for about five hours. I’ll admit, my commitment to the routine was Oscar-level.
The Aftermath: Scouts, Smokey, and Sarcasm
By sunrise, the entire tent village was up, likely plotting my demise, which I took as a compliment. Between grumpy faces and someone muttering about “annoying assholes,” I knew I’d made my mark. Jade took most of the “credit” for the night’s antics, though a stray jab about Smokey the Bear and forest fires let us all know who the real culprit was.
If you’re considering camping with a scout troop or, honestly, anyone under the age of 16 carrying a pizza box and a roll of tent tape, just remember: bring earplugs, pack extra patience, and know that one day you’ll look back and almost wish you’d gone fishing instead. Almost.