A true story by Dustin Tanner
I was absolutely thrilled to be finally going on this trip. I had looked forward to the outing all year. It was an opportunity to go camping with my father and spend time with other boys and their fathers. I had fond memories of previous years playing softball, fishing, gathering around the fire, and sharing good laughs. This year was sure to be just as good and leave me with more fond memories.
Excitement grew in my heart as we finally left the paved road. It was a transition from civilization to the desert wilderness that signified drawing closer to the destination. I tried to imagine the kinds of fun I would have as the truck rumbled across sections of washboard road. My mind wandered to my Red Ryder BB gun, which was safely stashed in the back of the truck. I contemplated whether I would have to use it to protect myself from any rattlesnakes.
Some way down the road my father stopped rather abruptly and reached for his camera. “What is it dad?” I asked. Dad replied, “It’s a rattlesnake. I want to get a picture of it coiled up and ready to strike.” Even in the mind of the 10-year-old boy this seemed like a bad idea. I urged my father to be extremely careful, and opted to stay in the truck. I could see dad throwing rocks and doing whatever else he could to agitate the sunning snake into curling into a striking position. His efforts, however, were to no avail. The snake remained stretched out in the road. Dad, with camera in hand, ducked down out of sight temporarily. He came back into sight brushing dust off of his clothes. He then picked up a large rock and thrust it downward. It did not take much of an imagination to realize that dad killed the rattlesnake. I thought to myself, “Good riddance. That’s one less snake to worry about.” Dad then crouched down briefly and came back up with something small in his hand. He climbed back into the truck and showed the rattle from the snake. He explained he was going to make it into a tie tack. I did not know whether I should be disgusted, worried, or impressed. The one thing I did know was that I was excited to get to the campout, and was glad that this delay was finally over.
My imagination filled with images of the old West as the name of our destination crossed my mind- Lookout Point. Lookout Point had been a station on the old Pony Express trail in Utah’s West desert. I imagined a weary horseback rider frantically stepping from his tired horse to a new horse with fresh legs. In my mind I could hear the whoops of the local Indians as they pursued the horseman. Excitement bubbled up in my heart as I imagined the possibility of finding a real arrowhead. I wanted so badly to resist asking the inevitable question, “Are we there yet?” I knew I could not resist much longer. It was like an itch that needed to be scratched. I managed to put it out of my mind for a while, choosing to think more about the wonders I might find.
As the truck came over the top of a hill and made its way through a long bend in the road, there were hills covered in sagebrush, juniper, cedar, and patches of scrub oak. Dad did not need to tell me where we were. I had already spotted the camp full of familiar people. Some were busy setting up tents, others were standing side by side talking, looking off into the distance at some unknown point, avoiding eye contact like people often do. Some of the boys were already wandering off having fun with each other. I wondered how long it would take to set up the pop-up trailer. I knew I shouldn’t be wandering off until camp was set up, but wanted to go explore.
Naturally I managed to disappear from dad’s side as soon as the opportunity arose. I scurried off looking for my friends, which was not hard to do. Just follow the noise of boys shouting and having fun. All of the boys seemed to converge at the same time on what would become the central gathering spot for the camp. In a semi-democratic manner, we decided that we should start a fire for the camp. We all went about gathering wood like a swarm of ants gathering food. In an impressively short period of time there was a nice fire crackling in the center of the ring of already dirty boys. With the first vital task complete, there was an obvious need to move on to the next activity. One of the boys in the group happily blurted out, “Hey! Let’s jump the fire!” The vote was almost unanimous. There were a few boys that either had too much sense or were too scared, or perhaps both.
I did not hesitate. I was amongst the first to brave the flames. I had a sense of death defying excitement. There was a scurry of boys running about, charging the fire, and leaping over the flames, the extent of their enjoyment only confined by the limits of their young imaginations. Then something happened that would alter my experience and memories forever. It set in motion what would become some of the most vivid memories and experiences I would ever have at one of these campouts. A familiar voice broke over the noise of the crowd. It was dad calling me back to the pop-up. He wanted me to put on some mosquito repellant. I had been so consumed in what I was doing that I had not noticed just how bad the mosquitoes were. I had numerous welts forming from the bug bites. Mosquito repellant was an excellent idea. I proceeded to dowse myself in repellant until it was running and dripping from my skin. If some was good, more was better.
I returned to the fire as quickly as I could. The mood had changed substantially. In the course of jumping the fire the group had been adding wood to make the fire bigger, thus raising the challenge and excitement levels. In the brief period it had taken me to put on bug spray the fire had grown to be taller than most of the boys. In my mind it was easily seven feet high. In reality it was probably about five to six feet. The rest of the boys stood around silently, staring at the dancing flames. None of them were jumping anymore. I felt such disappointment at the scene. I had left when it felt like the fun was just getting started.
“Let’s jump it!” I exclaimed with all the sincere enthusiasm any boy can muster. My shout was met with a prolonged silence. “Fine, if you won’t, I will!” I internally scoffed at the others for being chicken as I dashed toward the fire. I probably had it in my head that jumping that fire would make me a legend, which it did, just not the way I expected. I closed my eyes as I leapt into the flames. I saw the flames gather around me as my eyes drew closed. There was a strange whoosh sound as I came to a solid landing on my feet on the other side of the fire.
I felt triumph, which soon turned into bewilderment. Rather than being cheered on, the boys were all staring at me, some of them with their mouths gaping open. That was the first clue something was wrong. Then there was an odd but unmistakable smell. It was burnt hair. It was my burnt hair! In the brief second that it took me to pass through the flames, a significant portion of my hair had singed off. The sequence of bad ideas leading up to this moment might have had similar results under any circumstances, but the addition of half a can of mosquito repellant, which happens to be highly flammable- it even says so on the can, sealed my fate.
As I reached up and felt my hair I could tell that my new hairstyle was not very even. How it felt in my hand actually conjured an image of the haircut Mickey Dolenz (from the Monkeys) sported. I could tell, based on the looks on the other boy’s faces, that I was not so fortunate. In the delicate, sensitive, and tactful manner that children have, the mocking began. I suppose I cannot blame them. In retrospect it was pretty funny. To my 10-year-old mind it was painful though. I do not like being the center of attention, especially when it involves humiliation.
My memory of specific events fades out at this point in my story. I know there was a flurry of activity around me. I am sure there were some fathers that were upset with their sons’ lack of frontal lobe. I, however, was their sacrificial lamb. The attention was on me, thus taking some of the heat off of them. I also became the moral of the story. “You see John, that’s why you should never play with fire!”
The lingering bits of the remainder of my experience are all focused on the humiliation. The only protection I had was my mid 80’s San Diego Padres hat from Little League. The hat could not possibly be big enough to conceal my shame. I specifically remember feeling frustrated and trapped because my hat did not offer me enough protection. There were still visual reminders that allowed others the chance to figuratively stoke the coals that made my face and ears burn with embarrassment. My hat was still better than nothing. I felt like I could not wait to go home and get a haircut.
There are a few things that I kept from this experience. I came home with my memories. Unfortunately everybody else went home with memories too. Even as recently as a couple of years ago, more than 20 years after the fact, I ran into someone that chuckled as they reminded me about that time I jumped the fire. I also learned a few obvious but valuable lessons about fire safety, flammable liquids, and natural consequences. The one tangible object that I have kept from my career as a fire-jumper is the San Diego Padres hat. It’s old and too small for me, but I have never brought myself to let it go. It means something to me.
