We went on the new Boy Scout beach camping trip. I was stoked, imagining quality time with the sand, surf, my beach chair, and my glossy gossip mags, but my enthusiasm dampened when I received directions to the campground.
Turns out our "beach" campground was actually SIX MILES from the beach. In a canyon, surrounded by hills, oak trees, and meadows.
But my disappointment was short-lived. I'd actually been to this campground before, and loved it. It's beautiful, scenic and serene--just not...beachy.
We arrived at camp early Friday evening. Mark was the senior scout for the night, which meant supervising the tent setup. This is akin to herding cats--if cats had opposable thumbs and could put up tents.
I only had to put up one tent (mine), so I returned to the boys' camp afterwards because it's always entertaining to watch them work.
As I sat watching in the dusk, a bird flew over my head, wobbling and flapping wildly.
"That's a weird bird," I mentioned.
"It's not a bird," a scout leader answered back. I smiled, not comprehending, then jumped, startled, when I realized what he meant.
"A bat?" I asked. I expected wildlife out here, but bats? It was Malibu--I expected deer, raccoons, coyotes maybe--but not bats.
Once the tents were up, the boys climbed inside, wrestling and acting crazy. This was my sign to leave, so I said my good nights, and went off to my tent.
The stars were out, and I was amazed at how many there were. And the moon was gorgeous, a little sliver shining between a couple trees.
The scouts woke bright and early Saturday morning. Mark emerged from his tent wearing someone else's shoes.
"I found my next pair of shoes!" said the child who treats every camp out like a shopping trip. He looked at my frowning face and said defensively, "What? Brian let me wear them."
The first activity of the day was making breakfast. Watching the boys cook is almost as much fun as watching them set up tents.
"Look how thick my batter is!" One scout bragged, barely able to stir the floury pancake mixture.
"I'm hungry," another scout said, flipping a pancake two seconds after he'd poured it into the pan. "I'm cooking mine fast, so we can eat sooner."
"Remember, if you flip 'em before they're done, they'll be doughy inside," a group leader told him.
"I like 'em doughy," the kid answered.
"Try pouring them on the side of the pan," another dad pointed out to his son. "When you pour one in the middle like that, you don't leave room to cook any others. It'll take a long time to feed the troop if you cook them one at a time."
When they were done, they invited the parents to eat. Moms and dads eat first, partly as a gesture of respect from the scouts, and partly because the boys descend on the food like starving locusts, devouring everything in sight. You never wanna go after the scouts, or you'll go hungry.
"Oh, these look good!" I said, planting a fat pancake on my plate. Two seconds later, the cutest little freckle-faced scout appeared, heading straight for the pancake pile.
"I can't wait to eat my Mickey Mouse pancake!" he told his friend. He reached toward the pile, then gasped.
"Where'd it go?" he cried, scanning all the plates, then stopping on mine, which---gulp--held a sort-of mouse-shaped pancake. Crap, I thought, watching his sweet little face turn into an angry scowl. I immediately ripped off part of an ear shape, stuffing it into my mouth, hoping he wouldn't notice (of course he did).
After the long and equally entertaining cleanup, the boys readied themselves for a hike. All the other parents joined in, but I politely deferred because a) those scouts (or rather, scout leaders) are hardcore about hiking, and I didn't want to lag behind, holding them up, and b) the thought of having the campground all to myself was heavenly.
It was a good 80 degrees already, and Mark was wearing jeans. I patiently explained that it was hot on the trail, and he should put on shorts. Then, when he shrugged, I not-so-patiently yelled at him to go change. He returned wearing a pair of green shorts that are NOT his.
"Brian let me wear them," he told me. I wondered if Brian regretted his choice of tent mate yet. But Brian was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, so probably not.
"When are we hiking to the beach?" asked one excited scout, who apparently didn't get the memo on the location change. An older scout explained there was no beach, that they were hiking to the site where the TV show M*A*S*H was filmed. These words meant nothing to a 10-year-old.
No one could really agree on how far the hike was--word around camp started out as a two-mile hike. The hike evolved into two and a HALF miles, which yielded further discussion.
Scout 1: "One way? Or both ways?"
Scout 2: "Yes."
Scout 1: "Yes, what?"
Scout 2: "Yes, both ways."
Scout 1: "So it's a five-mile hike?"
Scout 2: "No, it's a two and a half mile hike. Two and a half miles there, two and a half back."
Scout 1: "So a five-mile hike."
Scout 2: "No, the word hike just refers to your destination. Then you double the distance."
Scout 1: "WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME HOW LONG THE HIKE IS???"
And that is why I opted out. Scouts measure their hikes in distance; I measure their hikes in hours. And I've never known them to come back in less than three hours.
I left ten minutes after they did, but not on foot. I pointed my car toward civilization, heading to the nearest grocery store, ostensibly to buy paper plates and cups (Mark and I forgot our mess kits). I headed for Malibu, which is a city of extremes; I saw both a shiny new convertible Ferrari and a homeless guy taking sanitizing wipes from the cart area.
When I returned to camp, gale-force winds had replaced the scorching, still air. One of the leaders' tent was threatening to sail away, so I grabbed the scout bucket and staked it down. That's when I noticed a gap in the scout's tent line--and saw the tent that was formerly there at the end of the meadow, smashed into a bush. It was threatening to blow further.
I dragged it back, staked it down, and staked down another tent shaking wildly. A fourth tent blew back so hard the poles snapped, tearing the rain fly. I felt like a real mountain woman, fighting the elements.
The boys didn't return until 2 p.m. I knew they'd be ravenous, and it went against all of my motherly instincts to not set lunch out for their return. But the troop leaders frown on that kind of thing, too--interfering mothers do not encourage independence, and scouting is all about making the boys independent.
They were indeed hungry when they returned. They didn't even ask when they were gonna eat, they just asked how much they were allowed to eat.
"How many sandwiches can we have?" asked one young scout, a sandwich already in each hand.
"Until they're gone," was the answer. "After everyone gets a first serving."
After lunch and cleanup, the big boys returned to wrestling in the tents. The littler boys were still pretty squirrely, so a couple dads took them on another hike up to a water tower we could see in the distance. I sat around with the tired parents, talking and enjoying the afternoon.
Soon, it was time to eat again. Mark emerged from his tent, this time wearing two different shoes (neither his) and Brian's green shorts.
"Harrison let me wear his shoe," Mark said, by way of explanation. I'd actually stopped asking by that point.
The boys made chicken fajitas this time, which were fantastic. While they were cleaning up after, we had some visitors in the nearby meadow--a herd of grazing deer.
After dinner came the highlight of the trip for the boys--s'mores. Because of the fire danger level, we weren't allowed to build a wood fire--the boys had to settle for charcoal only.
Which was still enough heat to turn their skewered marshmallows into flaming torches. And that, along with devouring as much chocolate as possible, was really the whole point.
The sugar-fueled boys put on skits for our entertainment. They titled one "The Not-Beach Campout" and did a spot-on reenactment of the entire trip. I laughed so much, I couldn't stop.
The boys finally went to bed an hour later, not quite before their sugar buzzes wore off. I could still hear them laughing from my tent.
I was kidding myself if I thought there was any chance of sleeping in on Sunday morning. I heard the familiar call of "Troop 120, fall in!" at 7:06 a.m., and I knew I'd better get up and start packing. The boys may take forever to set up or clean, but they are highly efficient at breaking down camp.
They set a new record this time--we were in our cars, driving away, by 9 a.m. We left before the heat returned, tired but happy.
It was an awesome trip. Maybe not as close to the beach as we'd hoped, but great none the less. It was a fun group of boys, and I got to know a lot of parents I'd only known by name before.
And Mark got a brand new pair of green shorts out it.
"Brian gave them to me," he insisted. "He said he outgrew them."
I was tired from our fun weekend, so I just nodded. I made a mental note to wash and discreetly return them to Brian's mom next time I saw her.
And to remind Mark, prior to our next trip, that camping is really about the outdoors--and not so much about the clothes (especially other people's).
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