STRANGER THAN FICTION: IT NICE TO BE A HAPPY CAMPER, FOR A CHANGE

When Lynn suggested we get our friends and loved ones together for an autumn camping trip, my first instinct was to run like Hades.

The last time we camped together was Independence Day Weekend 1993, when I drove to Columbia so Lynn could strap me into a canoe and sail me down the Meramec River, stopping only to eat nasty, uncooked food on a sandbar and lie on rocks before completing our journey.

She says it wasn't like that. Yeah, right.

There were six of us involved in that fateful weekend -- Lynn, her insignificant other, three people I'd never seen before in my life, and me. Six people, three canoes. They first paired me with Jon the Hypochondriac, who had never been in a canoe before due to his various physical and psychological disorders. He fully expected to die on the trip but could accept that fact. John couldn't get his paddle coordinated, so we kept running into the banks.

My next partner was Lynn, a great paddler. But great amounts of weight coupled with lack of balance on my part caused us to tip in nearly stagnant water, something believed impossible by the group before they experienced Heidi "The Klutz" Nieland.

The last option was paddling with Mr. Insignificant Other, the real canoeing pro. I was on easy street, sailing down the river of life with friends at my side and trail mix in my mouth.

Then we stopped and primitive camped. In a mathematical equation, primitive camping looks like this:

No toilet + no shower = Ugh.

The rest of the group didn't see it that way. It didn't even bother them when I opened my carefully wrapped clothing sack and found my underwear floating in river water. A girl in the group with better garbage bags offered me a pair. She was about 5 feet, 1 inch tall and weighed around 110.

The underwear fit my left foot.

I wasn't a happy camper.

Fool that I am, I let Lynn talk me into this recent camping trip, this time not so primitive. We'd just mosey over to Big Spring and let Mother Nature work her healing powers on us, she said.

We gathered our group. Then Lynn bailed out. Then everyone wanted to go to Trail of Tears instead. Then I threw a fit. Then I gave in.

I told Ben, one of the other campers, that we needed supplies for our trip.

"If you're going to Trail of Tears, just order a *&%$#@ PIZZA!" he said before storming off.

But the group who ended up going was pretty fun. We cooked wieners, toasted marshmallows, sang songs and listened to the battery-powered police scanner -- all the traditional camping activities.

One problem -- I couldn't zip up the blankety-blank sleeping bag I borrowed, and The Other Half wasn't there to share warmth. And, as liberal as I am, I felt a little odd asking my female co-worker if she'd mind "scooching over" toward me.

It was a long, cold night. But next time I'll remember those extra blankets. Sleeping in a baseball cap to trap body heat is no day at the beach.

All in all, this latest camping trip was great. I got closer to some folks I barely knew at all, and we all found out some things about each other.

For example, they discovered it was better for everyone involved if nobody encouraged me to sing campfire songs. I discovered that one of my new friends looks like a cross between Aunt Jemima and Grizzly Adams on camping trips, because he grows a beard and puts a bandana on his head.

Ah, the great outdoors.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.