" I'm half-horse, half-alligator and a little attached with snapping turtle." - Davy Crockett, Davy Crockett

 

I’d like to meet a man brave enough to molest an alligator. I could only imagine one tough enough: Chuck Norris.

I can just see it now. “Judge, Chuck Norris is charged with molesting an alligator.”

“Really? How long can I sentence Mr. Norris to prison for before he gets out? Two years? That’s not very long. Not guilty. Mr. Norris, you are free to go. And we’re all very, very sorry to have bothered you.”

We went Cub Scout camping again this weekend. The camping I was used to when I was a kid involved deep depravation of all things civilized: by the end of the trip you were looking at chipmunks and wondering how they would taste if you fried one – or, on a longer trip, raw. The longest trips? Whole.

Our campsite? Running water. Electricity. I could have brought a hot plate, an air conditioner, and X-Wii-Station®, or whatever those rascally kids are playing these days. Heck, I could have brought a 59” plasma television to watch infomercials on prostates given by men on yachts. I hate missing those.

No, we roughed it – sleeping in sleeping bags in the tent.

In Texas, I don’t know if we could have had better weather: 74°F (342°C) in the day and 53°F (-273.14°C) at night.

We got there, set up the tent in the manner of barbarians before the final push on Rome, and settled down to a meal of charred protein and fat (hot dogs roasted over a fire). The Boy then proceeded to skewer some marshmallows and char them until they looked like puffy lumps of coal. Rather than burning tem and contributing to global warming, The Boy ate them.

He’ll take one for the team, that one.

The Boy and I had a long talk on the way to the campground. I told him that I considered it an offense worthy of being kicked out of the tent to be eaten by rabid raccoons if he yelled, “Stop it!” while I began to emit the soft, comforting noise that philistines the world ‘round seem to call “snoring.”

He said he was good with that.

We went to bed at 10PM. At 2AM, I felt a sharp jab of pain. My brain dimly tallied the number of such jabs in the previous four hours – something like twelve. It felt like The Boy had kicked me. I looked at The Boy – he looked to be an angelic being captured in the bonds of Morpheus (that means he was sleeping, not that he is Keanu Reeves in The Matrix).

I decided to check, and pretended to sleep, emitting that soft, soothing noise that occurs when I slumber. I felt The Boy’s coiled body whip, his tiny feet colliding with my midsection at about sixty miles an hour.

Strangely, I think I moved even faster in wrapping my hands about his neck.

I told him, in very calm, even terms, that I would cover him with bacon and drop him into a vegetarian conference (vegetarians love, love bacon) if he did it again. He didn’t.

I slept well. The next morning, when quizzed, The Boy indicated that he had slept well, too.

We went and saw poison ivy, ducks, alligators, and various forms of trees. I’m not sure what level of hell it puts me into when I look at a tree that’s been alive since 1832 and wonder, “How in the heck would I cut that sucker down?” Nevertheless, I thought about that, and all of the sweet, sweet heat that an oak that’s 8’ in diameter at the base would provide, and how many chipmunks there might be up there.

Next: The Next Night: Poor Food Planning, Snoring, and Saturn.