Vacations From Hell: At Least They're Memorable
Just between us, don’t you hate it when friends or coworkers post photos on Facebook of awesome journeys to exotic destinations – or if they’re really old-school, send postcards depicting glorious sunsets, sparkling lakes, snow-capped mountains or deserted beaches, in which they sign off with the vapidly insincere postscript: “Wish you were here!”
Yeah, right! They don’t wish you were there; they’re thrilled you’re stuck back at home while they gloat about having the time of their lives.
Wouldn’t you secretly long to start conversations upon their return with any of the following remarks:
“Gee, that’s an awfully bad sunburn. Got it the first day? Oooh, what a shame…”
“Giardia! Huh. Well, good luck keeping food down for at least a month…”
“Airline lost your luggage on the flight over! Don’t tell me you failed to put insect repellent, head netting and lightweight hiking gear in your carry-on bag!”
OK, I’m not actually that mean-spirited, but the point is we tend to remember the thoroughly wretched outings more acutely than the resplendent ones, and because there’s a little schandenfreude in all of us such make for much more entertaining stories.
During decades of wandering hither and yon I’ve enjoyed countless transcendent experiences on land and at sea, yet the ones that tend to stand out are those that involved a bit of trauma, or at least some drama.
I should qualify that comment: I’m not talking about excursions that led to serious injury, provoked physical altercations among disputing participants, or resulted in either criminal prosecution or civil litigation.
I’m referring to trips that for one reason or another started out badly and then got progressively worse.
I’ll give you an example.
Back during my college days, a buddy and I thought it would be a great idea to take our girlfriends on a weeklong canoe trip to a remote chain of lakes a few hundred miles north of Montreal. Did we even once consider that neither of the young women had ever paddled a canoe, slept in a tent or showed the slightest interest in the outdoors? Of course not.
First of all, there was that long, long drive, during which some jerks on an overpass dropped what appeared to be a boulder while I was at the wheel at 2 in the morning. Luckily, the object turned out to be a water balloon that burst harmlessly upon striking the windshield, but it still nearly caused me to careen off the road.
We should have realized the incident was like the witches’ scene in the first act of “Macbeth.” Go back while you still have a chance! But no, we forged ahead, shaken but undeterred.
Our arrival at the canoe outfitters coincided with the start one of Canada’s most blistering heat waves, which had followed one of the rainiest periods in that nation’s history. This meteorological phenomenon resulted in an insect hatch of biblical proportions – a virtual Pandora’s box of stinging bugs ravenous for mammalian blood.
We hastily loaded the canoes with gear, swatting frantically at clouds of mosquitoes, black flies and wasps, and paddled furiously away from shore, thinking the middle of the lake would provide refuge.
Wrong. Squadrons of winged creatures followed us like harpies. Escape was futile.
The sun blasted down. A few tears were shed.
There was only one solution: Swim.
We all leaped into the murky water and thrashed around for a few minutes before dragging ourselves back into the canoes. That’s when I noticed assorted wriggling creatures on my arms and legs.
Aaaaagh! Leeches!
Remember that scene in “African Queen” when Bogie drags his boat through the reeds and then starts clawing madly at all the leeches latched on to his body? This was a hundred times worse.
It also was the final straw for our Canadian sojourn, which had lasted about 45 minutes. I think it also may have precipitated an end to the relationship with that particular woman.
In the years following that ill-fated expedition I’ve endured any number of other misfortunes and hardships while pursuing outdoor recreation – getting lost in the mountains and having to sleep without a tent in a thunderstorm; spending days stuck in a tent at 19,000 feet in the Andes while a nonstop blizzard raged; getting chased by a grizzly bear in Alaska and by a shark at midnight while rowing across Long Island Sound – but there was nothing redeeming about that Canadian excursion.
Wait, I take that back. By comparison, every subsequent adventure-turned-ordeal, no matter how horrible, now seems joyous by comparison.
And if I ever have the rotten luck to suffer through another miserable outing, I’ll know exactly what to do.
I’ll send postcards to friends that will read as follows:
“Been here a whole week and have yet to see the sun, which is just as well since after twisting my ankle on the trek to the campsite haven’t been able to do too much hiking.
“About a dozen members of a college fraternity have pitched their tents right next to us, and they appear to have packed in nothing but kegs of beer, fireworks and a sound system with giant speakers mounted on the bed of a pickup truck.
“The park ranger has pretty much ignored all my complaints, and the only thing he’s done is warn everybody about daily aerial spraying to control the spread of the Zika virus, which doesn’t seem to be doing much good considering that the mosquitoes are the size of hummingbirds.
“Oh, I almost forgot to mention that there’s an intense manhunt on for several escapees from a nearby state prison who are said to be armed and dangerous, so everywhere you turn there are troopers with high-powered rifles and hunting dogs.
“The tent leaks, the outhouses don’t look as if they’ve been cleaned for months, and I seem to have forgotten to pack my mess kit, which means I’ve had to eat all my meals, including oatmeal and couscous, with my fingers.
“Anyway, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.”
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