February 10-16: Winter Camping

I’m hopelessly late in writing this blog entry, but there’s a good reason. No, I didn’t get a job. I went on an Indian Princess campout.

Friday, February 10

Each Indian Princess season has three tent-post events: the fall, winter and spring campouts. (I’m pretty sure I pontificated on Indian Princess in an earlier blog entry, but it’s all hazy to me now.) Though I’ve spent most of my life in Chicago, I despise the cold and, thus, try to avoid the winter campout, the highlight of which typically involves standing atop a sledding hill for several hours as a subzero wind shears the skin off my face. This time, however, I have no choice but to buck up. It’s Liv’s final year of Indian Princess, and she doesn’t want to miss out on anything, not even the prospect of frostbite.

Initially, I sensed that maybe we’d catch a break. This winter has been uncharacteristically warm—just last week, the thermometer spiked into the 50s. But our luck runs out on this gloomy Friday, as an unsettling combination of cold, wind and snow gathers. I should have known there would be no breaks to be caught.

Saturday, February 11

Despite the blustery weather, I forge bravely ahead. I have errands to run before we depart, not the least of which is a trip to the butcher. Normally I bring two pounds of marinated skirt steak to the campouts—it’s a big hit with both the dads and the daughters. The last campout, however, took place soon after I had been laid off, and since I was freaked out about the future of my family in general and money in particular, I ditched the skirt steak and instead brought Cheetos and bottled water. Well, I’m done freaking out—I’m done with putting my life on hold. In an act of utter defiance, I sidle up to the counter at the butcher shop and order two magnificent pounds of skirt steak.

My Camry filled with sleeping bags, cold-weather clothes and skirt steak, Liv and I head to the campsite, which is located in the great state of Wisconsin, somewhere past Milwaukee. As we near our destination, I traverse a harrowing series of snow-covered back roads. I see a hole-in-the-wall gas station and stop to buy a cup of coffee.

Pointing at Liv, I say to the husky cashier, “We’re on our way to a campout.”

“Sounds fun,” she says.

“There’s a lot of snow up here.”

“Yeah, we got it all last night,” the cashier says with a grizzled smile. “You two lucked out.”

Yes, we’re so very lucky. Once there, I see a smattering of dads and daughters from some of the other tribes pretending to feel lucky as they wobble around the winter wonderland on snowshoes. Most of the members of my tribe play it smarter than that: They’re hunkered down in the common area of our cabin, playing games and munching on snacks.

Of course, this being Liv’s last year of Indian Princess, she wants to experience the whole ball of wax. We put our coats, gloves and hats back on and explore the grounds, which doesn’t take long since—praise the Lord—this particular camp doesn’t have a sledding hill. We wind up at a makeshift archery range inside the lodge and fire some arrows. We play some foosball and then fire more arrows. We play some ping-pong and then fire more arrows. We play more foosball and fire more arrows. 

Liv still isn't done experiencing the whole ball of wax, so we put our coats, gloves and hats back on and explore the grounds again. Our teeth chattering, we finally go back to the cabin to await the main event: grilling. This is the highlight of every campout—it’s something our tribe has elevated to an art form. Long after the other tribes have retired for the night, we're still heaving succulent slabs of meat onto the grill.

This campout is no different—thanks to our cook, John “Captain Jack” Connolly, who endures the biting cold in the name of feeding everyone. Liv is particularly gung-ho about the grilling festivities, this being her last year of Indian Princess and all. She gobbles down generous amounts of skirt steak, venison and pork, though she draws the line at the elk. I don’t. Nor do I draw it at the mushrooms stuffed with hunks of sausage, the strip steak slathered with blue cheese, the Italian sausage, the jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese and wrapped with bacon, or the countless other delicacies.

Sunday, February 12

At about 1:30 a.m., I stagger to my bunk and bob in and out of consciousness for about five hours before one of the dads wakes everyone with a bullhorn.

Liv and I groggily pack up the Camry and head back home. But this being Liv’s last year of Indian Princess and all, she insists on stopping at the Mars Cheese Castle near the Illinois border to pick up a pound or so of string cheese. Call it breakfast.

Upon our arrival home, Cassie says, “You heard about Whitney Houston, right?”

“Heard what?”

“That she died?”

“Nope. I had no idea.”

I retreat to my bed and spend most of the rest of the day bobbing in and out of consciousness.

Monday, February 13

I’m still not quite right. I do my best to roll through my freelance work, but I’m impeded by a nasty headache.

My lunchtime workout at the Y isn’t all that great either. I feel like weights are strapped to my ankles, though really I’m being dragged down by the elk, venison, beef, pork, sausage and other odds and ends that are still lodged in my colon.

Thursday, February 16

I’m back to normal now, and I’m finally pounding out my reflections on Liv’s last year of Indian Princess. Yes, this blog entry is long overdue, but I make no apologies for that. I’m just happy to be upright.

January 29-February 5, 2012: A Field Trip

Friday, February 3

Ferris Bueller, everyone’s favorite sage/truant, said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

I heed these words, though not by design and not by taking a day off. My circumstances are somewhat different:

Following a vigorous lunchtime workout at the Y, I return to my dining room table so that I can plow through an afternoon of freelance work and nail an end-of-day deadline. I fire up my MacBook Pro laptop, click on Safari, and…nothing. My Internet is down. This is not good. What will become of the work I must plow through and the deadline I must nail?

Luckily I’m a trained journalist, and I know how to think on my feet. I remember that the Caribou Coffee in my downtown has wireless and plenty of tables. Without further ado, I pack up my “office” (my MacBook Pro, some Post-it notes, a pen and The Chicago Manual of Style), say goodbye to Fluffy and the gang, and race out the door.

To my surprise, Caribou Coffee is hopping. I plop my bag on the only free table and go to the cash register, where I place an order for a large black coffee with a delightfully perky barista. I then mutter something to her about my Internet being down at home.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she says with a reassuring smile.

After returning to my table and unpacking my office, I take a look around. A knitting club is convened at the largest table. Fueled by years of practice—and perhaps several cups of coffee, too—these women wave their knitting needles the way the heroes in an Alexandre Dumas novel wield their swords. Over in a lounge chair, a silver-haired gent—a retiree, no doubt—is engrossed in a book. The rest of the shop is occupied by mirror images of me: middle-aged men with their laptops. I wonder what dire turns of events brought them to this place and whether they’re here everyday. At any rate, they are typing on their laptops with a sense of purpose, which I find to be both heartening and motivating.

I take a few gulps of coffee and start plowing through my freelance work. My coffee cup is soon empty, and after refilling it, I take another look around. The knitters have departed, replaced by some moms and their kids. The kids are loud and obnoxious in a Chuck E. Cheese’s kind of way, and I long for the grace of the knitters. A glance at my fellow middle-aged drifters sets my mind straight. I take a few gulps of coffee and plow through more freelance work.

Before long, my coffee cup is empty. I visit the delightfully perky barista yet again and order another refill. Two college students have settled into the table next to mine. They discuss their classes with a youthful optimism that rubs off on me. I take a few gulps of coffee and plow through more freelance work.

Before long, my coffee cup is empty, which necessitates another refill. The college students have cleared out, and a robust-looking couple clad in North Face gear has claimed their space. Thanks to some eavesdropping, I learn that the North Face duo is out for a long walk and is taking a break.

I take a few gulps of coffee, plow through the remainder of my freelance work, and nail my deadline. As I leave Caribou Coffee, I have a bounce in my step—and not just because I’m jacked up on caffeine. It occurs to me that I’ve been hermetically sealed in my dining room for the past five months. All the while, life has been moving fast on the outside. Sure, this is just a coffee shop—it’s certainly not Ferris Bueller’s whirlwind trip around Chicago—but I’ve still enjoyed taking a look.