The Runaways

When I was about 10 years old I ran away from Girl Scout camp.

Let’s bounce back to the summer of 1971. It was hot and steamy. For whatever reason someone thought it was a great idea to send us city gals to an overnight camp in the middle of the forest on in the outskirts of Pittsburgh. It was not. Our Girl Scout troop was not like the others. I am certain of that. Our Scout leader was far too “fly” to have been a leader anywhere else except in North Braddock, Pennsylvania in the 1970s. When we needed to raise money for our troop, we would have blue light in the basement parties and sell cans of Faygo for a quarter and hot dogs for one dollar, or perhaps have a bake sale from time to time. We sold Girl Scout cookies at that time of the year and whatnot, but nothing about our troop was status quo. So there we were. Four city girls in a tent in the woods. None of us adequately prepared. We had sleeping bags that our parents had grabbed on sale at the local Hills department store. Not the kind that are suitable for camping mind you but the cute kind that you take to a friends overnight in their living room. We didn't have any camping gear what so ever. Not even hiking boots. How were we supposed to know what was needed for a week long camping trip when no one in our families had any camping experience? After my first night in our tent, freezing in the woods in a pink cotton sleeping bag, I knew the outdoor life was not for me. This was my second attempt at sleeping under the stars. The first time, we pitched our tents for a Girl Scout overnight in a local park. I woke up at the bottom of the hill, lying completely exposed in my pink sleeping bag with the tent still in tact at the top of said hill. Imagine my 10 year old self waking up to the sun in my eyes and glancing backwards to find the tent, not over me but sitting atop my camping spot like a green maraschino cherry on an ice cream sundae. I was none to pleased. The situation only got worse as we were expected to shower in a concrete trough lined up in a row right there out in the open for world to see. Absolutely not! That should have been the end of it for me, but nooooo. My mother had signed me up for a week long camp mid-summer. I’m sure she was happy to have her break. Her joy did not spread to me. Back to camp " Not Having It ". I wake up at sunrise to my friend Della’s voice asking was there a spider on her? Her head is fully submerged into her sleeping bag. I could hear the fear in her quivering voice. I had not considered that we would wake up covered in spiders but now this is making sense. I glance around our tent and notice the flaps are rolled up. An excellent hiding place for spiders. I feel panic creeping into my sleeping bag right alongside the imaginary spiders. I quickly jump out of bed and do a quick inspection of all of our sleeping bags and announce that we are spider free. At least for now. By this time we need to go to the dining cabin for breakfast. I don't recall what was served but I remember that I was not impressed. We broke off into groups. Our group was directed to a cliff where we were going to repel ourselves over the side dangling from a rope. The instructor gave us a quick lesson of what were supposed to do and what NOT to do at all costs. It’s my turn first. I have always been very good at following directions and paying attention so I preformed well. I actually liked it. Another 2 girls follow suit. Now its Della’s turn. Needless to say she did everything that she was not supposed to do. After her first 2 steps over the ledge, paralysis sets in. She’s frozen like a statue. The instructor tells her to march Iike a soldier, then put your feet together and jump. Della makes some military marching sounds but to no avail. She marches 2 or 3 times and attempts to place her feet together to jump. Her foot slips and now she’s hanging upside down on the rope, as she swings back and forth, her head tapping lightly against the mountain side. She begins to panic. The instructors are actively trying to talk her through it. Finally someone repels down to aid her and get back to upright. By the time her feet kiss the ground she is covered in rope burns and embarrassment. This was not her best day. As we gather for lunch none of us are in our happy place. The camp counselors keep speaking of serving us “bug juice” which sounds not only disgusting to me but horrifying. I am frightened to death of insects. Especially the hoping kind. I refused to eat turkey as a kid because I read somewhere that they ate grasshoppers. So to drink a juice named after my worst nightmare was out of the question. After lunch we were told that our group would be in charge of cleaning up and washing dishes because our group failing at the rock repelling lessons. Huh? I didn’t. I quite enjoyed it. Now I’m expected to take one for the team? I did not sign up for any of this. Why did I have to pay for my friend’s upside down ? After lunch, we 4 city gals decided this entire camping thing was too much. This adventure was not for us. We went back to our tent, rolled up our gear and started our hike back home. After sliding down a nettled covered hillside, we found a highway and started the long walk home, in the blazing sun. We were running away from camp. Just about an hour and a half into our walk home we were caught. Our 4 brown faces were obviously missing or someone ratted us out. Probably the later. Now were in some counselor’s truck on our way back to camp. Nothing good was going to come of this. Nothing! Our punishment for trying to escape was to clean up everyday after meals for the remainder of our stay. The next 4 nights are a blur. I believe I’ve blocked that memory as a matter of simple survival. I blacked that part out from my memory as a coping mechanism. I hated every minute of it. To this day if someone mentions camping I cringe. That’s going to be a hard NO from me. Camping to me is a hotel without room service. Recently my good friend sent me a video of an outdoor experience and something about “glamping”. This luxurious experience with air beds and a few conveniences like coffee machines and a tv. I am still not going. No ma’am. Camping is not for everyone, and it is certainly not for me. No matter how you try to slap lipstick on that pig. Glamping. Camping. It’s all the same to me. Just call me the runaway, because I would certainly do it again. Did someone mention The Ritz?