December 2- 8, 2004

slant

Outward Unbound

This survival camp wasn't character-building. It was full of characters.

by Gogo Lidz

You may have heard the story of the innocent 15-year-old preppy who signs up for a wilderness course and is mistakenly lumped in with a bunch of at-risk youths. She tells the group's leaders there's been a mix-up, but no one believes her. She tells the other teens and is laughed at, cursed at and treated like just another juvenile delinquent. So, for the next three weeks, she does her time.

Well, four years ago, I was that kid.

Reluctantly, I had agreed to my father's wish that I attend a three-week survival camp in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. The minute I got off the plane, a greasy boy sidled up beside me. He had no front teeth and a head full of chalky hair that looked as if it been dunked in a toilet bowl of bleach. "Gotta tell you about my last birthday," he said. "I was at my dad's shop and all his friends lined up and said, "Happy birthday, kid. We got you a present!' They moved apart and there she was, this 110-pound… ."

I hurried down to the baggage area and found my counselor. I was led to a van. Inside were Toothless and two other rough-looking kids. I got in and sat beside the only girl. Short jungle-red hair peeked out from her bandanna, and a half-dozen tattoos crept from under her ratty camping shorts. Three were of hypodermic needles. The rest were of naked Lara Crofts with spiked dog collars around their necks. Hooked to the collars were things that looked like long noodles.

Another kid stepped into the van. He was tall, with a goatee and plaits in his hair. Next to him was a kid with a dozen piercings in his cheek. He smelled horrible and mumbled to himself.

The counselor asked, "Why were you in lockup?"

"Lockup?" I said. "I'm not a criminal. I must be in the wrong van."

"That's what they all say."

The counselor turned to the other kids. "OK, so who's gonna be first?"

"Weed," said Toothless. "I got caught dealing it."

"Crack," said Noodles. "They caught me smoking it."

"Arson," said Goatee Boy. "I burned down my house."

"Mumble, mumble," said Mumbles. Translation: He had bonked his stepmother on the head with a hammer.

The counselor looked at me. "And why are you here, Precious?"

"I wasn't kidding!" I said. "I'm in the wrong group." Five pairs of unsympathetic eyes fixed on me.

I was stuck. I took a deep breath and said, "I'd wanted to go to the Barbizon School of Modeling camp, but … ."

Nobody laughed.

We were marched to base camp, separated by gender and ordered to strip down to our underwear. A woman ransacked my backpack, tossed me a life jacket and shoved me into the front of a canoe. The seven of us paddled through heavy currents and shallow swamps. Canoeing upstream was hard enough. Portaging was worse. Already saddled with 90-pound packs of food on our backs, we also had to lug 70-pound boats from lake to lake.

A hard rain fell as Noodles and I put up our tent in the darkness. The counselors had warned us that we could talk to each other for only five minutes in the tent. Naturally, we went over the allotted time. We were ordered to sit by the campfire in the rain. Silently. For an hour. We served our sentences and stumbled back to our tent. Then Mumbles mumbled something to Goatee Boy, who laughed hysterically. We were all ordered back to the fire. This time we stood. Another silent hour passed. We were drenched, freezing, exhausted, swollen. The Minnesota mosquitoes swarmed so thickly I could barely see.

The next morning Mumbles threw his first of many mumbly fits. Over dried blueberry granola. "Mumble, mumble," he said. "Mumble, mumble, mumble!" Mumbles wouldn't eat blueberries, and the rule was you had to eat everything. A counselor spooned some into Mumbles' mouth. Mumbles spat them in his face. The rest of us paid the price. The counselors scraped Mumbles' leftovers into our bowls, then poured water over the "treat." We were told to swish the mixture around and drink it. I had to summon all my courage to take a swallow.

The next few weeks were filled with fistfights, slapdowns and screaming matches. On Day 15, in a steady downpour, I went solo. For 72 hours it was just me, the elements and a box of raisins. The rain subsided on Night 16. Nestled within my damp sleeping bag, something scurried over my face. A mouse. It scampered all night, and I never missed Herman, my cat, so much.

On the final evening, we gathered in a circle to talk about our experiences. A bond had formed between us. I wouldn't say we had grown together, but we had persevered together. The next day I called my dad from the airport. "How'd it go?" he asked.

I said, "I survived."

Gogo Lidz hails from Queen Village; she is now a sophomore at Bard College.