Missing the Bugout

In two days' time, several of my dearest friends will be traipsing off to live like animals and receive instruction on unpleasant facts for four days or so.

My greatest regret is that I'm not going.

I will not be huddled in a tent or under a tarp in the cold spring rain. I will not get clubbed down with pugil sticks. I will not hoff it over muddy ground to a campsite in tick-infested woods.

Instead, I will be existing in relative comfort, perhaps hauling my still-gimpy carcass up a mountain every day, but otherwise living high on the hog.

But I would trade every shower I'll be taking, every night in a warm bed, every well-cooked meal for just an hour on that bugout.

Here, I am merely a freeloading scumbag (a fact my father seldom lets me forget), respected by none and bored at all times.

There, I would be cold, damp, tired, probably hungry... And among friends who respect me as I respect them, whose hardships I gladly share, and whose goals make sense to me. I would be working toward something I believe in. I would, in other words, be happy.

I don't think I can express just how much I wish I were there, hunkered down on damp leaves, rifle in hand, cursing the rain as it runs down my back.

I'll miss the bugout. And all I can do to console myself is think of the future, when, with luck, I'll get to go again.