I began attending bible camp during the summer at the earliest age possible, 8, and started working there at 13. My memories of camp at an early age are fuzzy at best and completely missing at worst. I’ve never been able to pay very much attention to my surroundings; often I was completely absorbed in doodling, flicking pieces of paper into the smelly kid’s hair or reading Song of Songs* and wondering what it was like to touch a boob. A girl boob.

Pictured: Girl boob, flourishing in its natural habitat.

All I recall from my first year is that I couldn’t remember my camp counselor’s face or name and often wound up in the wrong groups for activities, I vaguely remember getting hit in the face with a pillow and breaking my glasses, and I every so faintly recollect having a friend, “His name was Matt…or Mark…or something with an M,” I explained to my mom. She never could understand why I wanted to go back every year.

My third year at camp I got lost during a nature hike on a sheep farm.

I was severely out of shape at that age due to a vicious rooster my older brother kept that would attack me if I stepped outside. The days of my early youth were spent imprisoned in our home, staring longingly out the window at the sun-soaked planes of Nebraska while that vile creature strutted about freely, raping chickens and crowing victoriously.

That was tangential, but I think it’s important for you to know I was terrorized at a young age by cocks; it sort of sets the stage for the rest of my life.

Thus established, I was incredibly out of shape, and by midweek during my third year my leg muscles were soaked in lactic acid; every step was agony. I was not thrilled when they announced we were going to hike. “On a sheep farm,” the activities director said, grinning broadly and looking at us expectantly as if he had just announced the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were coming and they were bringing each of us our own personal Terminator. Our reaction was less than enthusiastic.

"Cowabunga, dude! We brought you pizza, our friendship, and robot! The robot beats up bullies with lasers."

The sheep farm was in a small grouping of bluffs, a rare change from the typical flatness that defines Nebraska. Our hike consisted of wandering through the bluffs, throwing pine cones at sheep and being told several times to “stick to the buddy system.” The “buddy” portion of my buddy system was my best friend at the time, Derek. He was a preacher’s son who somehow managed to out-dork even me. I think it was because he regularly used the phrase “Neato Frito” and said Crumb instead of Crap. Derek was; however, quite athletic and it didn’t take long for him to get sick of my hobbling pace, so towards the end of the hike, after all the other campers had already passed us, he told me he couldn’t stand going so slow and he jogged ahead. The counselors that were supposed to stay at the back of the line and shepherd campers forward also ran ahead of me, presumably to make sure the rest of the campers, now a good half-mile ahead of me, were behaving.

"Think we should go back an check on the gimpy one?" "Nah, the bears will look after him."

I was alone.

I continued staggering forward on the dusty, sheep-driven path. My legs ached, and I had made the mistake of bringing orange soda to drink instead of water. About a mile after the counselors had left me, I reached a point in which the path diverged, and unfortunately, much like the Robert Frost poem, I took the road less travelled by.

I realized my mistake after I walked another mile on the wrong path and ended up in a deep valley filled with sheep. Alright, I thought, so I’ll just climb up and out of the valley and hope the buses are there. I took a swig of my orange soda, girded my loins and I climbed the hell out of those bluffs. As I climbed, I imagined what waited at the top of that valley. I envisioned Derek, sobbing deeply, telling the activities director of his failures as a buddy, I could already see the counselors panicking and wishing they had been patient enough to trail behind that poor little boy with the achy legs, I imagined girl boobs, and what it would be like to touch them. I pressed on, emboldened by the prospect of one day touching a girl boob.

All great men, deep down, are driven by this desire.

Filled with the energy and determination which can only be supplied by crystal meth or boobs, I crested the hill, ready to fly into the arms of the nearest female counselor and blow a raspberry at Derek. Unfortunately, I reached the top just in time to see the final bus driving away.

They had fucking left me.

Still imbued with an unholy burst of energy, I ran after the bus as fast as my stubby 10-year-old legs could carry me. The bus driver, the consistently avuncular camp director Rick, spotted me just before turning onto the highway. The bus stopped suddenly and reversed, beeping comfortingly, as if to tell me I was safe as long as I wasn’t standing behind it. As the bus rolled to a stop next to me, a counselor jumped out of the side door yelling “Why didn’t you stay with your buddy!?” I simply shook my head, exhausted, and dragged my broken, dehydrated body onto a seat next to the smelly kid. I looked back at Derek, who was sitting next to a lithe, red-headed boy. “Why didn’t you tell them I was missing?” I asked.

Derek shrugged, “I didn’t really notice, I was hanging out with Lane.” He gestured to the ginger kid next to him.

Hey, Lane? Eat a dick, Lane.

I didn’t care; I got my revenge years later by touching girl boob before him, and when I got home later that week, I hit the rooster with a five gallon bucket, effectively asserting my dominance. By god, I was a man.

* Better known as Song of Solomon by those not raised Baptist. It is a book of poetry in The Bible concerning King Solomon boning his new wife, later this is used to paint an analogy about how much God loves Israel.