I’m not a good camper. It feels like a lot of work and dirt to play Pioneer Days.

For years, a group of my friends have gone to a favorite mountain camping spot. Not only are they my closest friends, but they are the closest thing to professional survivalists I’ve ever seen. They’re trained professionals with all the gadgets and gismos right down to a solar-heated shower.

Although, I am envious when I see their photos of hiking, feasts, singing, laughing, and chatting around the campfire. At the same time, I’m relieved, not to be there.

But when my son, Sam, asked if we could go this year, I decided it was time to give it a try.

I borrowed a tent and a sleeping bag. I tossed my Louis Vuitton duffle bag in the trunk, my Jack Russell Terrier, Socrates, in the back seat, and Sam in the front, and we were off to the wilderness.

For our contribution, I made tortilla soup. In hindsight, I’m not sure a bean-driven soup was the best idea for a meal at a location without indoor plumbing.

I was ready to spend quality time with Sam while I set up this large tent. Sam had other ideas. He set up an even larger tent, then blew up a mattress.

“Did yours come with turndown and maid service?” I asked.

The first night was everything the past propaganda pictures had promised. Warmed by the fire and shots of whisky, we all sat around the campfire and sang songs. By midnight, I was curled up in my sleeping bag, looking up at the stars through the opened mesh.

Two o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a loud rumble. The heavens opened up, and rain poured inside my tent.

“Move over,” I pushed Socrates. My backside was soaked while he snored comfortably inside the sleeping bag.

A fine layer of grit and grim added another layer to my sunblock-coated skin. I yearned for a Clorox wipe.

The next morning, the smell of last night’s campfire lingered in the air. Socrates mingled with the other canines. Still in my damp clothes I plopped down and slugged a cup o’ joe. I was clueless about the condition of my hair, how I smelled, or what was in my teeth for

that matter. There I was the oddball friend begging to borrow everything from a cup to a fork because it never dawned on me to bring utensils.

Conversely, my friends looked refreshed in their darling outfits, ready to go into town for lunch. As did Sam when he emerged well rested from his dry tent.

Suddenly, Socrates shot out from the bushes, leading the pack of domesticated dogs, with a furry treasure firmly clentched in his jaws.

“Drop it!” I shouted to no avail.

Socrates stared, proudly displaying the baby squirrel dangling from either side of his mouth. Game on! Socrates darted around the food tables, forcing everyone to jump onto the tabletops.

I grabbed him through the plumes of dust he had kicked up and shook him upside down and right side up. I used a small stick in attempting to pry open his mouth but his jaws clenched so tightly that he broke the stick. Sam held his body while I jimmied his jaw open. He flung the squirrel’s guts that stuck to my sticky skin like flies on fly paper.

“Anyone wants squirrel for breakfast? Its good eatin’.” I joked.

No takers.

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