You have to take risks. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen. -Paulo Coelho

We went Boy Camping this weekend.

When we are not boy camping, we are doing your typical PNW Snooty-Foody camping. We listen to NPR on the way to our campsite. we pack along charcuterie and tapenade and lots of good books to read. We do a respectable hike. We find an obscure lake to camp by. We drink in the stars and the mountains and have a bonfire. There is a toilet.

Boy Camping

When we are boy camping, we listen to butt rock on the way up to the campsite (This is AC/DC, Judas Priest, Poison, Def Leppard).

We camp by a dangerous body of water (river with rapids, ocean etc.).

There is no toilet.

Lots of talk about Star Wars- obscure references to Mara Jade, who was on the planet of Tatoone when Luke Skywalker was to be fed to the sand monster (who probably has a more Star Warsy name than that). She was posing as one of Jabba’s dancers.

The boys are 39 (my better half) 21 (his son) 18 and 11 (my sons). Sometimes our friends join us too (these are the same people we snooty/foody camp with too).

How Boy Camping is Really Different

At boy camp, the boys play games. They play a game called “Sasquatch”, where you throw a hatchet at a tree. You pretend the tree is sasquatch, see, and you yell things like “Got him in the head.” or “In the heart! In the heart!”

They also do things like shoot bb guns, venture across quickly moving rivers on fallen logs, and play midnight hide and go seek.

They beat on a bucket by the fire.

They do not wash.

The most spoken phrase is “Watch this”. The second most spoken phrase is “Ow”.

I talk about water and fire safety. I fret over the possible emergency room visit. Rubin chopped off the tip of his thumb a few years ago (with the hatchet, while chopping at a log over the river. I kid you not. I was in Portland at a meeting. He was being watched by somewhat responsible grown-ups or so I am told).

Brian, my better half, says, “Don’t be such a mom.”

Ike and the River

Ike, the 11-year-old, gets a little sad. He can’t throw the hatchet well. He’s not a crack shot. He’s much younger than his older brothers.

In his daily life, he is timid and reticent. He is the last person off the bus. He is a little shy. He doesn’t have a lot of friends. He is not invited to birthday parties.

So, when he says, “Mom, you’re going across the river with me,” I can’t say no. He needs someone to teach. I am the only one available.

Never mind that the river is rushing 10 feet below us. We have to walk across on a log and I’m klutzy and I could crack my head on a rock and drown before anybody noticed.

He jumps up on the log. He asks if I need help. I climb up. He tells me to watch out for tree limbs. He tells me to put one foot in front of another.

He gets halfway over the river, and he turns around. I haven’t started yet.

He gestures to me like a platoon leader, leading his soldiers to their deaths. I’ve seen him cup his hand by his face like this before, playing by himself in the ravine behind our house.

All I can see is the water rushing under his feet.

I say, “You get to the other side, honey. I can’t go while you’re out there.”

“Okay,” he says, “It’s not that bad.”

I walk across. I don’t look down. The water is rushing white beneath me. I have to go about 20 feet.

One foot in front of another, focusing on the stillness of the log. It’s solid and strong.

I get to the other side and he says, “Good Job, Mom.”

He leads me through the forest, a maze of fallen trees. “You need to follow my exact route. You can do it, Mom.”

He takes me back over the river another way, across an island.

On the island, I see a brown sparrow, and I think about that bible verse where God takes care of even sparrows. He knows the number of hairs on our head.

Then I think about the stories that pepper our news, about the people that drown in this river every summer.

“Mom.” Ike says, “This log has 2 obstacles that you need to get around.”

He points out an enormous growth, and also a limb. He walks across with confidence. Then he climbs another tree to watch me.

I am ridiculously afraid. White froth swirls beneath me. One foot in front of another, stepping over and around, I reach the other side.

My sweetheart Brian, says, “I told Ike you wouldn’t do it. Good job, sweetie!”

I see him wink at Ike. I am on dry ground. We are safe as houses. His brothers high-five him.

Here’s a link to a picture of the river on flickr: Oak Grove Clackamas River.

I like boy camping.