COLUMN: Mother Nature is out to kill me
Mother Nature has PMS.
That, or she hates me. Either way it doesn’t bode well for me.
My problems with Mother Nature started when I became a boy scout. My scout master loved to take us camping at the most inopportune times to the most inhospitable places.
“All right boys, pack up your stuff for this weekend’s trip to the Mariana Trench.”
“We’re going to the middle of the Pacific Ocean?”
“No, you maggot, we’re camping at the bottom of the Trench. I hope you learned how to scuba dive – though it probably won’t help you at that depth. Now tie me a bowline and drop down and give me 20.”
OK, so maybe he wasn’t that intense, but sometimes it sure felt like it. The camping trips we went on were either in deathly hot or frigid cold temperatures, but I didn’t mind too much because I love camping.
I’ve enjoyed camping since I was a boy. I love building campfires so large they make Hitler’s book-burning parties look like a moderate pioneer campfire. I enjoy getting away from the daily grind and take a moment to observe nature at its finest.
Just when I’m starting to relax and take it all in, nature strikes back with a vengeance. I don’t know what I ever did to tick Mother Nature off but I’m sure she wants to kill me.
She had plenty of opportune moments during my formative/traumatizing/painful scouting days, too. Every camp out seemed normal enough at the outset, but as soon as we started setting up camp, Mother Nature began her torture session.
Inevitably, the wind would pick up as I began to set up my tent. Trying to pitch a tent in howling wind is a most aggravating task. The tent moves every other second, then flips over and ties itself into better knots than I could manage had I been trying – though I did unsuccessfully try to pass the tent knots off for merit badges.
By the time I untangled my tent, dark storm clouds would move in and the sound of distant thunder would ripple through the air as an omen of a long, miserable night ahead.
Lifting the tent poles to fit into those infuriatingly small tent loops made me a welcome target for the lightning that always seemed to start up at exactly that moment. Fortunately, I was never struck, but there were plenty of times I felt the hair on my arms raise, causing me to drop the poles and run screaming like a little girl – which at age 12 isn’t hard to do.
Nothing motivates speed of setup like the fear of being electrocuted, so the tent would quickly be propped. Just before I got the rain flap on, the rain would fall in sheets, drenching the tent, everything inside and my chance at a warm night’s sleep.
One particularly awful scout camp, the rain continued from the moment I set up my tent to the day before I went home. The day we broke down camp, the sun miraculously showed itself and I swear I saw a cloud give me the bird.
Even though it was raining, the camp counselors of that concentration camp, I mean scout camp, demanded we go swimming.
“What? You’re scared of a little lightning? Look at Crazy Tex over there, he’s been struck by lightning three times and he’s just fine. Hold on a sec. Tex, get your face off that grill, your nose is not a sausage.”
I was then shoved in the choppy, frothing water and forced to dog paddle to keep my head above water. Mother Nature knew I was in her grasp and since I wasn’t much of a swimmer back then, I near drowned while the nazi camp counselors stood by on their row boats and laughed. Somehow I survived, but that only made Mother Nature more determined to kill me.
She got her chance a year later when my troop camped at Schofield Reservoir. One beautiful afternoon, my friend Tyler and I were canoeing and had made it to the direct center of the lake, when – surprise, surprise – out of nowhere a freak lightning storm causes a recall of all craft on the water.
I should have seen this coming and prepared better, but once again Mother Nature caught me at the worst possible moment when we were further from the shore than any other boat. We paddled frantically to get back to shore but no matter how hard we tried, our canoe simply spun in circles. The only way we could make it back was to back paddle our way to shore.
Back paddling works for a little while but it can quickly wear you out. Despite the nearing lightning strikes and being sitting ducks on the water, we avoided instant death. By the time we made it back to shore we were exhausted and hated the water. I had beaten Mother Nature again. Seth 3, Mother Nature 0.
At that point I figured my luck with outwitting Mother Nature was better than Captain Kirk’s at avoiding death, or genital herpes, so I called it quits with camping. To this day I steer clear of lakes, rivers and hiking, knowing that Mother Nature’s rage could flare up at any moment.
I hope one day she’ll let up on her fury and let me get back to enjoying nature. Until then, I guess I have to keep sending letters to the National Weather Service requesting a planet-sized dose of Earth Midol to be taken in the Pacific Ocean.
Seth Hawkins is a senior majoring in public relations who still wishes he could become a tornado chaser, though he knows Mother Nature would definitely get him then. Questions and comments can be sent to him at seth.h@aggiemail.usu.edu