by Jennifer Shell

Created on: November 05, 2008

The chill had gotten into my bones and no blanket, sweater or fuzzy slippers on the planet were going to help; I couldn't warm up. Actually, just thinking about blankets, sweaters and fuzzy slippers seemed to make the cold colder, if that was at all possible. I was wishing for that which I did not, nor could not have. My toes had gone numb; I couldn't feel them inside my boots, which was a strange sensation. My fingers were stuffed into the pits of my arms in an attempt to keep them from freezing and falling off, which helped, some, but I wasn't warm enough to push back the cold entirely.

I struggled to stay awake.

The trees above were bowed heavily under the weight of the snow and ice. At odd intervals, a sharp crack reverberated through the forest as a branch finally succumbed to the strain of the elements.

I focused on the path in front of me; the one which I had followed that led me in the wrong direction. How long have I been out here? I know it's been at least one day and one night. Would anyone be searching for me?

And, oh, what a night it had been.

* * * *

The first time I went camping was in late spring of 1980, with my father. I was 7 years old and was so excited I was nearly jumping out of my shoes. All my gentle father's attempts to calm me down were useless, and he finally gave up trying as he deposited me into the back seat of our green, 1971 Dodge Dart. Seat belts were not really such an issue then and so I bounced around the back of the car like a jack-in-the-box without the box for the 2 hour drive up to the mountains. Dad just turned on the radio and ignored me, hoping that by the time we got to the campground I'd have exhausted myself and would be out of his way as he tried to set up our little tent. Queen's Another One Bites The Dust blared loudly as I fidgeted and chattered for the first few miles. I caught my father watching me in the rear-view mirror; when our eyes met, he smiled his squinty smile, rolled his eyes, and then proceeded to ignore me.

I was not asleep when we got to the mountain campground, as my father had hoped, but rather even more keyed up than I was before we'd left the house. My father did his best to involve me in other things while he struggled with our tent, but again, in vain; I was not to be distracted. He finally made me stand inside the tent to hold it up with my head as he pieced together the rods, strung and tightened the lines, and pounded in the stakes. He told me I was a good helper and I was very proud of myself.

We

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