Camping

Alejandro Escovedo - Sensitive Boys

For my 19th birthday my father took me on a camping trip out west, in what the Albertans call, Kananaskis Country. Specifically, we took our things to the area of Bragg Creek. I didn't see a creek and was a bit upset by the lack of creek in our camping area. For about 30 minutes I was sullen that he had not taken me to my first camping spot choice, "Elbow-Sheep Wildland Provincial Park", where there was a chance to go horseback riding. I mentioned this to him in the car and he referred to the idea as, "Gay."

We found a spot that had somewhat of a scenic view, surround by tall pine trees that would make for good coverage when the time came to relieve one's self. I sat and took in the mountains that seemed to be perfectly framed by a valley that probably held other campers; teenagers or 20-somethings with dead end jobs and drinking problems. I thought about venturing out to perhaps try and bring a girl to my tent, but thought that it would be incredibly awkward, seeing as I was most likely sharing a sleeping bag with my father after leaving mine on the deck next to a Coleman flashlight and a cooler containing a 6-pack of Jones Soda (cream soda), and 3 Juice boxes. I had been ready to party, but of course in the reflective moment, felt dreadfully ill prepared.

My father threw 3 steaks onto a fire that he started with gasoline. I was certain that whatever method he was using to cook tonight’s meal was either illegal, or incredibly dangerous... or both. The smell was kind of cool. One steak was for an older fellow who my father had met in a bowling league he was in several years back. He wore a tan vest and a green plaid shirt. I studied his attire and immediately began thinking of lesbians. First lesbians with buzz cuts, and then lesbians with beautiful long hair hanging out, trying on different colorful bathing suits in my tent. I uncomfortably got an erection as my father offered me my steak, medium well.

I ate carefully, not saying a word, thinking about what old pioneer folk used to eat, without coolers to keep steaks fresh, or to keep a nice fresh box of orange punch perfectly quench-ready. I took out a book from my school bag that I had brought with me, filled with "just-in-case" supplies. I felt around, moving past my bottle of Aqua di Gio, my ball of yarn, and grabbed a paperback novel I purchased in a bookstore the night before leaving for this trip. It was called, "How To Stay Alive In the Woods" by Bradford Angier. I read until the light from the fire couldn't illuminate enough of the page for me to keep from straining.

I critiqued the book, damning it for it's verbose scholarly writing that was not very accommodating to a generally layman reader base. I pictured campers, boy scouts, and deadbeat fathers.

I skipped to a section on how to properly cook a rabbit. I read, studied, and drew several diagrams in a moleskin journal an ex-girlfriend had bought for me before she fucked another guy. I read, studied and drew. Then finally, I took my dad's flashlight and stared at both him and his companion and spoke coolly, "I'm going to hunt a rabbit for us guys." My dad lit a cigarette and threw me his hunting knife. I let it hit me in the chest as I kept my face covered, then picked it up off of the ground, scraping a couple of leaves and a handful of cold dirt.

Within 8 minutes I had seen what I was looking for. I kept quiet and approached with so much stealth that I forgot who I was and for what covert organization I had pled my allegiance to. I grabbed my father’s knife from my back pocket. I wound up, and threw the knife hitting the rabbit in what was probably his/her eye with the blunt end. It lay on its back and I walked casually, looking over my shoulder for some sort of positive affirmation from an audience filled with native Indian hunter gathers, Greek gods, plaid clad bearded men with orange vests, and my 6th grade gym teacher. No one was there. And no one saw as I picked up a wounded little cat that must have wandered away from a nearby campsite.

That night, after I returned the cat to it's little girl owner, receiving a verbal lashing from her grandmother, I ran through what I would have done had I really killed a rabbit. I went through the motions of grabbing the rabbit by its back fur, cutting a slit and peeling off the flesh. I would then cut the back feet off, and then remove the rest of the fur before cutting the front legs. I'm not sure if I would have to bleed the rabbit or if I would just start cooking it. I took a deep breath and ate a snickers bar that was in my, "Just-in-case" bag. I went to bed hoping that tomorrow there would be lesbians in my tent.