CAMPING STORIES

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Copyright Rebenreck@aol.com

CAMPING WARS

Joyce and I went camping last Friday night in the Mark Twain Nat'l Forest at a campground called Silver Mines. WOW! An eighteen-hour trip seemed like an entire 48-hour weekend.

We weren't even to the forest area before we started seeing animals. About a ¼ mile before we got to our turnoff on Hwy D, we came across a bunch of piglets standing in the middle of the road. A quick blast of the car horn and they took off running. What a sight, eight or so squealing piglets, their short little legs pumping as fast as they could, heading for their sty that was located about 50 yards from the road. I guess we should've taken this as a sign it was going to be an unusual camping trip.

We arrived at Silver Mines about 4:30 PM. Just enough time to unload the car, set up the tent, gather some firewood, do a little fishing in the St. Francis River (caught 4 small bass), and then have a dinner. Our campsite was situated in a corner of the grounds in such a way that our tent was butted up to the weedy edge of the woods and we had forest directly to our left also. The river was about 200 yards from the camping area. We darn near had the place to ourselves, only two other families were in the campgrounds. I was really looking forward to the solitude of nature that we would be able to enjoy on this trip. Except for a few drops of rain that fell from an overcast sky as we prepared our dinner, it looked as though the weather was going to cooperate also.

At dusk I fired up the Coleman lantern, turned it on low light, and set it well off to the side of our camp. At the same time Joyce was busy getting the campfire started. It wasn't long before the last light of day disappeared and, with the heavy cloud cover, it became deep woods dark. Joyce had a good fire going and it provided the area with a shadowy illumination.

As we sat around the fire engaged in mindless chatter, I suddenly saw a small dark shadow dart out of the woods on the left, run perhaps 10 feet along the border of the woods and then duck back into the forest. WHAT WAS THAT?? Joyce said she didn't see anything. I wasn't sure, but I thought it must have been the cat we had seen earlier in the day roaming around looking for field mice. Seeing the creature reminded me that I had brought my one million candle power spotlight along to shine on the river at night to see if we could spot some deer or raccoons.

After letting the campfire die down quite a bit, we grabbed the spotlight and flashlight and headed down the road to the river. The road ended at a footbridge that crossed the river and we walked out on it to the middle of the river. I faced upstream and turned on the spotlight. The entire river lit up as if it were noontime on a sunny day. Unfortunately a light this bright attracts the attention of the moths and other insects immediately. In a matter of seconds, it looked like something out of a Steven King novel. A mass of winged, blood-starved creatures flying straight for the light and me. Immediately I turned the beam off. The only way to spotlight an area was to turn the beam on for no more than 3 seconds at a time, turn it off, and then wait awhile for the insects to disperse before turning it on again. With the light off, Joyce and I could barely see each other but we could hear the drone of a million insect wings. With the light on, bugs headed straight for us and some of the insects seemed to take on the proportions of a small bat. Perhaps some of them were bats come to feed on the glut of bugs I was producing. After about 10 or 15 minutes on the riverbank, we had to leave because every flying insect in the county was hovering around us waiting for the light to come on again. I was afraid to breathe for fear of inhaling a hundred insects with my next breath. I feared failure of the insect repellant we had sprayed on ourselves. I had visions of the other campers finding our dried-up, fluid drained, shriveled carcasses on the bridge the next morning. It was time to leave the river.

We headed back to camp and when we got to within about 100 yards of our site I decided to light it up with the spotlight. The instant the beam hit the tent we could see two small round circles of light shining back at us. They were the reflections of an animal's eyes. A raccoon was inside the screened area of our tent, leaning on our picnic basket glaring at us. Although the screen was zipped, the raccoon had found his way in under the side flaps. As we approached, he made a hasty exit the same way he had entered, under the flap and back to the woods.

After a quick inspection of the camp, it appeared we arrived back before he could really steal any of our food. The only damage was a hole in the trash bag containing our garbage from dinner (canned beef stew). How do you like that! Joyce and I are down at the river looking for raccoons, and the coons are at our camp looking for our food.

Since it was still early in the evening, Joyce put more wood on the fire to built it up again so we could cook hot dogs on our roasting forks later that night. We had our chairs facing so that the fire was between the forest and us with the woodpile right at the edge of the weedy woods. Again we settled into some idle chitchat around the fire.

The wood we were burning was very dry and burned quickly so Joyce, being the firebug she is, got up to get some more to toss on the fire. She was just a few feet from the woodpile when suddenly, from the shadowy blackness of the woods, something no more than 30 feet away let out a loud, snarling growl. We didn't know if a raccoon, a bobcat, or a vampire bat made the sound, but it caught us both off guard. While it scared the hell out of me, it must have terrified Joyce. At the same instant of the growl, Joyce started back peddling rapidly in a high stepping, high kicking, high jumping movement that looked like a cross between ballet and karate. Her hands were brought to head level with fingers spread wide and slightly bent as though she was ready to rake her nails into anything that came at her. As she made this retreating movement she let out a loud horrifying sound herself. It sounded like a cross between a scream, a howl, and a growl. I was no longer sure if I should fear the animal or fear Joyce. She looked and sounded to be a woman possessed by demons. She was terrifying me. The animal must have felt the same since we never heard it again. Come to think of it, she must have scared the other campers as well, for they gave us a wide berth on our trips to the outhouse. The incident left us with frayed nerves.

It wasn't long before we managed to calm ourselves and settled down in our lawn chairs again. We were both drinking a Coke and decided to pop open our can of Pringles. We had eaten just a few potato chips when a raccoon suddenly walked out of the woods directly in front of us, sniffed the air, and stared longingly at our Pringles. After the growling incident, Joyce didn't want to see or hear any more animals, no matter how cute they looked. She grabbed one of our 5-foot roasting forks and took out after it, and this time, thank God, yelled instead of growled. The raccoon got the hint and took off for the depths of the woods.

After settling down again, Joyce turned the conversation to ways of killing raccoons. I too was entertaining thoughts of coon skin hats and coats. As the evening wore on we decided the time was right to get out the hot dogs and roast them on the campfire. We had no sooner cooked the wieners and put the slightly blackened dogs on some bread when I heard a noise from behind me. Turning, I saw a family of three raccoons no more than 20 feet away heading straight toward us. This time we both grabbed a roasting fork and chased them away. Although I couldn't match the noise Joyce had made, I did give my best impression of a spitting and hissing Bobcat. Again the raccoons made a hasty retreat to the woods. I couldn't believe how unafraid of humans the coons were. It was then that we decided not to roast any of the marshmallows we had brought along. It seemed as though every time we brought out food, the raccoons would show up. I could imagine us being attacked by a mob of flesh eating, rabies infected raccoons.

They didn't bother us the rest of the evening and around midnight our adrenaline level subsided enough for us to be sleepy so we decided to turn in. We lined the outside of the screened area of our tent with chairs and other camping gear hoping to deter any critters from trying to come into the tent again. We also took the precaution of locking our food up in the trunk of the car.

The next morning there were muddy little raccoon prints all over camp. One of the chairs had been knocked over indicating they must have tried to get into the tent again. Our bag of trash and garbage was missing and nowhere to be found. There were paw prints on the cook stove, on the picnic table, and in one of the cooking pots. There were even paw prints on the back bumper and trunk of the car where they had tried unsuccessfully to get to the food by picking the lock. It was obvious the raccoons had given our campsite a complete going over.

After a breakfast and a short hike, we packed up camp and headed for home. On the ride home we continually patted ourselves on the back for keeping the raccoons at bay and not losing anything to those thieving bandits. It wasn't until we arrived back at the house and started unpacking that we discovered an entire bag of sandwich buns had disappeared from the picnic basket. Those rascally raccoons had gotten the better of us after all. They might have won the battle, but not the war. WE SHALL RETURN!!

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This is one of those "GOTCHA" ghost stories. When you tell it, be sure someone is sitting close enough to you so that you can grab them at the end of the story. Try to be very animated when telling this story. This ghost story has been told around campfires for well over a hundred years. The original author is unknown.

THE GOLDEN ARM

Once upon a time there lived two brothers who owned a tinsmithing shop. They got along quite well for many years until one day; one of the brothers had a terrible accident. His arm was cut off.
He turned to his brother and said, "Henry? Would you make me a new arm?"
He said "Hal, because you are not only my brother but my best friend as well, I will make you a golden arm."
So, he took all his savings to town and bought enough gold to make his brother a beautiful golden arm.
Hal was so proud of his new arm that wherever he went he laid his arm across his lap and tugged up his sleeve in order for people to see more of his golden arm.
The brothers got along well for many more years, until Hal grew old and feeble and was afraid he was going to die.
He said "Henry? If I die before you die, will you bury me with my golden arm?"
Henry said "Don't worry Hal, if you die before I die, I'll bury you with your golden arm."
A few months later he died and Henry was faithful to his promise. He buried him with his golden arm.
Without Hal, Henry wasn't much of a businessman and within a year he had to close the tinsmith shop for good.
One night Henry lay in bed all alone thinking how old and how poor he was. He hardly had money enough to buy food.
"Why am I so poor?" he asked himself. "I worked hard all my life, I saved my money. Ah ha! I know why I'm so poor! I spent all my savings on that golden arm. It's not doing anybody any good. Hal can't use it anymore.
"I think I'll go and dig it up," thought Henry.
Now he knew it was against the law to do that. He knew he wasn't supposed to dig up a grave. But, that night, he sneaked out the back door of his house wearing his long black coat. He went out to the shed behind the house and grabbed the sharpest shovel. He hid it under his long black coat. He looked around, it was very late at night and the streets were deserted.
Nobody was watching him. He started running for the cemetery. He ran and he ran and he ran. When he came to the big iron gate and fence that surrounded the cemetery he grabbed the gate and pulled it open. "Eeeeeeek." (Make a good squeaky gate sound.) He pulled the gate back on its rusty hinges.
As soon as he squeezed through he pushed the gate shut "Eeeeeek. Clank."
He ran again until he came to the very plot where his brother with the golden arm was buried. He started to dig. "Scrape. Scrape. Scrape."
He stopped. He looked around. Nobody was watching.
The moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the whole graveyard. He stopped digging and looked around. Surely somebody could see him out there, digging where he wasn't supposed to be. Digging the grave of his brother. But, no faces looked through the fence.
He kept on digging. "Scrape. Scrape. Thump."
He had hit the top of the box. He kept on digging. "Scrape. Scrape. Scratch." All around the edge of the lid he dug, until he had the lid loose.
Then, he reached his finger over the edge of the lid. It was already, moldy and rotten. He pulled up the lid. "Eeeeek." He pulled it up on its rusty hinges.
Up with the lid came cobwebs and dust.
Down inside the box he could see the golden arm glistening in the moonlight. Hal had been buried with his real arm lying over the top of his golden arm. He reeeeeeached down into the box and GRABBED IT!
(Make it loud when you shout the last two words.)
It wouldn't come loose from Hal's death grip. It was as if Hal was holding onto the arm. Henry yanked and he pulled and finally he jerked the arm free from Hal. He threw it off to one side.
He quickly looked around again. Nobody was watching him. So, he grabbed the top of the box, slammed it shut. "Eeeeek. Clump."
He picked up the golden arm. It was wet, slippery, and heavy. He hid it under his coat. He picked up his shovel scraped all the dirt back in the hole so nobody could tell he had been there and hid the shovel in some nearby bushes.
He started to run. He ran and ran and ran until he arrived at the gate. Just as he took hold of the iron gate to open it he heard, "Who's got my golden arm?" (Use a ghostly voice with this phrase.)
He opened iron gate and pulled it back. "Eeeeek." He ran through and slammed the gate shut. "Eeek. Clank."
He ran and ran down the road, and then from behind him, he heard it again, "Who's got my golden arm?"
He ran faster and faster down the road, but he couldn't stay ahead of it.
Its voice came: "Who's got my golden arm?"
He ran and ran until he came to his house. Henry got to his front door and once again he heard, "Who's got my golden arm?"
He ran into the house and slammed the door. Pulled the bolt across. Safe!
"Who's got my golden arm?" The voice seemed to come from around the eaves of the house like the wind.
He ran into the bedroom, carrying the golden arm with him.
"Who's got my golden arm?" Came the voice from around the corners of the bedroom.
He jumped into bed, and pushed the golden arm under the pillow to keep it safe.
"Who's got my golden arm?" The voice sounded even closer.
He pulled the covers over his face to shut out the voice. But the voice couldn't be silenced.
"Who's got my golden arm?"
It sounded as if it had climbed into the bed with him. He pulled back the corner of the covers so he could get one eyeball out to look.
A hand was reaching in through the window. It wasn't even breaking the glass but passing through it. "Who's got my golden arm?" Came the voice.
The arm reached over the bed.
"Who's got my-YOU GOT IT!!!

Be sure to interrupt the final, "who's got my...." in mid-sentence and grab the person next to you when you yell, "YOU'VE GOT IT!!" This should cause your listeners to come right out of their seats.

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Copyright Rebenreck@aol.com

GOOD TO THE LAST DROP

Let's face it, no matter how educated we become, no matter how brave we think we are, we're all afraid of the dark. We're all afraid of the unknown. It is those things that go bump in the night that can test a man's mettle. Only when a man has faced a deadly, unseen and unknown enemy will he know what he's made of.

I learned this lesson many years ago on a camping trip to a wilderness area. By wilderness area, I mean unpaved roads and no flush handle on the toilet. On this particular trip, my wife Joyce and I were sharing a campsite on a gravel riverbank with her brother and his wife. It was early June, and in Missouri the days were hot while the evenings were pleasantly cool.

This first day of the trip was spent fishing and swimming in the crystal clear waters of the Courtois Creek. That evening after dinner, my brother-in-law and I fished until the mosquitoes became unbearable just before dusk. When we arrived back at the camp, Joyce had already started the campfire so I slipped into our tent to change into dry clothes. You see, whenever I go fishing I always seem to trip, slip, or flip, stumble, bumble, or tumble into the water. It seems to be my fishing destiny.

After changing clothes, I joined the others at the campfire. I placed my chair near the fire so that my back was to the woods, and I was facing the river. The others were across from me facing the woods, forming a semi-circle around the fire. It wasn't long before the darkness of night enveloped our camp. It was a moonless night and the campfire provided us with a shadowy illumination of the area. Beyond our ring of light, it was pitch black.

We spent the next couple of hours talking of friends and family while we passed around the wine bottle(s). We drink wine by the way, for the sole purpose of obtaining the cork from the top of the bottle. Cork is a very versatile item and I recommend it to everyone who goes camping. Corks can be used as emergency plugs for air mattresses, they can be carved into fishing bobbers, the list of ways corks can be used is endless. Because cork can dry out and become brittle rendering it useless, we always bring plenty of wine in order to obtain a fresh supply of cork.

As the evening wore on, the conversation lagged, and we all acquired a case of droopy eyelids. The night air was still and cool, and the campfire had become a warm and mesmerizing friend. It was that time in the evening when everyone was tired enough to go to bed but wouldn't because they were enjoying the campfire so much. We were very mellow. My mettle was about to be tested.

From behind me I heard a faint rustle of leaves and a plop. Before I could turn to see the source of the noise, all hell broke loose. Joyce and my in-laws all registered sheer terror on their faces. Their eyes became as large as silver dollars, their mouths dropped open, and their arms and legs were flailing in all directions. They were spinning their wheels trying to leave, but getting nowhere fast. When their feet finally took hold of the ground they jumped straight up, sending chairs, wine bottles, and glasses flying, and took off running toward the river. They issued no warning to me. They just took off running. It was a classic case of "every man for himself."

All of this excitement caught me totally by surprise. Their sudden display of absolute horror and hasty exit frightened me enough that my legs went rubbery and weak. It was obvious an unseen monster was upon me. Try as I might, I couldn't leave the chair; my muscles had turned to jelly. I could only sit in my chair and await my fate. I was terrified. I was sure the Grim Reaper had come to harvest me. Once I accepted the fact I was going to die, I felt an inner peace and a warm feeling suddenly washed over me. Looking down, I realized the warm feeling was running down my leg. My bladder was emptying itself. I was amazed at my courage.

Now, before you start laughing at me, let me explain this action. Wetting yourself is a very primal reflex to danger. It is also an excellent escape maneuver. Think back to when you were very young and picked up that first small animal, bird, or amphibian that you thought needed help. Remember how it went potty in your hand and what you did? You yelled, "Eeeeeewwwwww!!!!" and dropped it like a hot potato, whereupon the little critter ran off and escaped.

But more than a defensive action, peeing is the very best response to an aggressive opponent. It is a show of force. It tells your enemy that you are marking your territory and you will stand your ground. It is a true act of bravery. This must have been the reason that I wet myself, not out of fear, I was responding to my courage. I would mark our territory and defend our camp. I would take a stand against the monster at hand and then potty on it. When it dropped me, I would escape and I would be the one to get help for our camp. I would be the hero. I awaited the attack--It didn't come.

No sooner had the last drop of pee left my body than my three camping companions abruptly stopped running, turned back toward camp, and started laughing hysterically. Apparently the crisis was over almost as soon as it had started. I regained my composure and turned to see what was behind me. Nothing!! I saw nothing. My defiant stand had frightened off the monstrous intruder. I was relieved--REALLY!

My wife and in-laws, giggling and laughing, came back into camp. My brother-in-law walked past me to the edge of the woods and picked up my pair of blue jeans that had fallen from the tree limb where I had hung them to dry. In the darkness, when the pants had fallen, the others could only see a large dark shadow with long legs jump from the tree. It wasn't until they had run fifty feet from camp that they realized what they had seen. My mettle had been tested by a pair of jeans.

They were still enjoying their laugh when my wife noticed the dark spot and trail on my pants leg. This, of course, was cause for even more merriment on their part. They didn't buy my explanation of primal courage. They didn't understand my heroic action. I was the brunt of their jokes for the rest of the trip. In order to tolerate this incessant ribbing, I busied myself by working hard to increase our supply of cork.

To this day, I'm still teased about that trip. My wife gets a kick out of adding a "box of Depends" to our camping checklist. I don't mind of course, because I'm sure my wife sleeps better at night knowing that, when it comes to using every ounce of courage, I'm "GOOD TO THE LAST DROP."

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Feel free to send me your comments, suggestions, or even your outdoor stories.

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