“Don’t get any closer,” my dad warned me as I peered over a rock. Underneath, the ground seemed like it was giving away. The trees at the very bottom of this huge crack in the world seemed so far away from me, as if they had to be viewed under a microscope.

A few rocks tumbled down the steep slope, unstopped by the few small grasses growing on the sheer surface. Jagged cliffs jutted out at random angles and lumps of rock and dirt were thrust out in strange places.

Watching the rocks click and clack against each other before finally rolling over a small bump and flying into nothingness, I reminded myself that here at the Grand Canyon National Park, it wasn’t a place to mess around at. With an accident, I could fall more easily than those rocks.

I unzipped my camera bag, taking out my camera. The vivid sunset in the distance silhouetted the layers and layers of rock, each cascading below the other. Lifting my head, I looked up at the clouds, each one a fire red color, and the utterly flat horizon beyond it.

This morning, I had hiked the South Kaibab Trail, a trail on the eastern portion of the South Rim. It was a trail that many had recommended us to hike, and so, on the crisp Tuesday morning of our trip, we descended into the Grand Canyon.

–

It was seven in the morning, and from our lodge, the sun was hanging over the trees, as if it had just woke up as well. After a quick breakfast, we set off. Outside, the air was cool, barely sixty degrees. I threw on a jacket, savoring the chilly feeling that would quickly change to heat.

As we descended down a steep winding path, I looked beyond the line of trees growing on the edge and towards the other side of the canyon. My dad said that he would one day take me on a hike to the very bottom of the canyon. I looked into this deep trench. It seemed so far away.

Thankfully, we were not going to hike to the other side. Instead, we would be descending down past Ooh Ahh Point (the name prompting me to carry a camera) all the way down to Skeleton Point (the name prompting me to carry loads of water).

Signs along the beginning of this trail warned me that proper hydration was extremely important. “Many strong and healthy people have died. Please stay hydrated,” the sign warned me in six different languages.

Behind the sign, green trees still grew, but looking beyond the small cliff, it thinned out and soon only small bushes and grasses were growing.

The heat was getting more and more excruciating, and I put my hand over my eyes as I looked up towards the sky, the sun a piercing and stunning white.

“Keep your eye on the ground,” my dad warned me once again. He was walking behind me, and always caring for my safety, had decided to hold onto my hand. I looked down, and then realized that indeed, the ground had changed.

Suddenly the path changed from clean dirt with wooden struts to large gaps in the path. I looked down, confused at why it was different. It seemed like the path was being taken apart, but why?

Bricks were being laid down, one by one, by three people kneeling by the path. There was a young girl and two men, all in their college age. The men were chatting, both wearing overalls and a hard hat, as they moved the rocks piled on the side of the road.

But the girl was dripping in sweat, wearing working gloves, and carrying a rock down into the path. As she put it down, she grabbed a sifter and started sifting sand out into cracks.

They were all working hard, but I was shocked at this girl, in her eighteens, working here, on an extremely hot day, to help a trail in the Grand Canyon. Behind the glasses, you could see someone who was hard at work.

All three people were dripping in sweat and working hard, and as they saw us, they moved aside so we could pass.

“Wow,” my dad commented to the girl as we walked by, “you really love nature, don’t you?”

The girl smiled, “yes, of course, this is what I’ve wanted to do my life. Every single person that walks by on a trail I’ve built, you know, it gives me this great feeling.”

My dad chatted with her for fifteen minutes. It turned out she was a volunteer (although paid minimum wage for food), lived in small cabins in the park, and went to school in the University of Flagstaff, Arizona, nearby the Grand Canyon.

And fifteen minutes later, I walked forward, my mouth pursed as I thought about these people: the type of person that would work in record temperatures in the sunlight, for virtually no money, just for the park. Removing the rock particles individually from the crack, she slowly but surely worked. Suddenly, I felt bad for kicking rocks into the cracks in the path.

What the world needs is more of these people, I thought, taking one last look. The Grand Canyon was beautiful, with its huge visuals and stunning size, but with these people, these volunteers, the canyon became alive with people, with motion, and with life.

After thirty minutes of walking, the scenery opened up and the rock moved aside, giving us a beautiful view of the west part of the canyon. The rock was in layers and layers, distorted by the heat. I drank water periodically, making sure not to be dehydrated.

Chatting with my dad, we hiked into the canyon, and five miles and over three hours after we had started, we finally arrived at Skeleton Point.

–

Skeleton Point arrived in an abrupt and awkward fashion. One moment I was starring at my feet, and the next, I was lifting my head, looking at the great canyons, now even closer to me, and below me, Phantom Ranch and the Colorado River, at the very bottom of the canyon, so deep into the canyon, and so tiny from where I was.

I had finally arrived at Skeleton Point, I thought to myself. I sat down on a large rock with some other hikers and admired the view. Together, we shared some trail mix and crackers, chatting about the Grand Canyon.

If I listened closely, I was quite positive that I could hear the rush of the water far below me. If I looked close enough, I was sure I could see the strength of the river rushing over the rapids. I was certain that the river was there, beckoning me in.

I’ll come back, I thought as we began our climb up. I’ll come back.

The water lapped at my feet. It was an amazing place to be: the sun was about to set, just hanging over the hills in the distance. A cool breeze blew past, a great ending to a very hot day.

Once I dove into the water, the outside world disappeared. It was just me and the waters of Lake Powell, Utah. Swimming around, I felt the crisp cold but not freezing water swish around my body. It was a splendid feeling, as if the weights and stresses of the world had vanished.

A motorboat drove past in the distance, casting a wake that disturbed the calm waters. The wake slowly peeled apart, spreading into the ends of the lake. When the wake had passed and the water calmed again, the reflection of the sun was once again revealed.

I dipped my head under the surface of the water, closing my eyes. The water drenched my hair, and as I stood up straight again, it started dripping in long thin lines down to the water. I lifted my head so it would dribble into my mouth.

“All right,” I said to my dad as I swallowed the water, so clean and pollution-free. “The water isn’t very cold,” I said, beckoning him in.

My dad slowly stepped into the water. He lathered the water over his body, and then dove in. Standing beside me, we watched as the vivid sunset reflected in the water.

A cool breeze rushed over the surface, and it rippled the surface as if someone had distorted a mirror. The almost-perfect reflections of the mountains broke into thousands of pieces.

As I swam around in our own corner of this large and stunning lake, I was reminded of what had happened in the afternoon: my quest to jet-ski on Lake Powell.

–

We had arrived at noon into the Page, Arizona area where Lake Powell was located, and I had explained to my dad as many times as I could that I wanted to go jet-skiing on Lake Powell. My dad and his classmate (traveling with us) had agreed exasperatingly.

I was certain that on this day, I was going to have a bundle of fun. I pictured myself riding around on the waves, jumping the wakes of other boats, and turning a corner at forty five miles per hour.

“Life is goooood,” I thought to myself with a grin as I waltzed into the rental office of the Lake Powell Marina where jet-skis could be rented.

On our way to the marina, we had called them and asked them if there were any jet-skis available for rent. They had told us that they had only one more jet-ski left. Perfect, I thought to myself, how lucky were we?

Very unlucky, as it turned out.

I opened the door for my dad to come in. Inside, a large curved window displayed a wide and expansive view of Lake Powell. The marina, only a small square on the large lake, was dotted with hundreds of boats.

We stood in line and waited for the next employee to be available. I flipped through a few photography books showing pictures of Lake Powell.

“And there you are, sir,” I heard an employee say to a customer in front of us. My heart jumped. “Your jet-ski for the half day, rented until 4 PM, all right?” I heard him say again.

Wait a minute, I thought, your JET-SKI?!?

“Um, Dad?” I said, poking my dad, but as I looked at him, he was already eyeing that customer. He too had overheard the conversation. My dad ran over to the customer.

“Did you just rent a jet-ski?” my dad asked him.

“Of course I did,” said the man in a Russian accent. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. “The very last one, I might add. I was very lucky to snag it up. Very lucky indeed!”

The man had a huge smile on his face, apparently very happy he had just “snagged” what we were going to rent.

“Oh, no!” my dad said, trying to peel his face into a kind smile but failing. “We were going to rent that one.”

“Were you really?” the Russian man said, looking at my dad. “I’m really quite terribly sorry, but you know, first come, first serve, right?” He chuckled.

I sighed and walked away, sitting down on a chair near the large window, watching the view. Boats, only tiny dots, drove around the lake. A few jet-skis engaged in tight turns, but I wasn’t going to be on one of them.

Behind me, my dad and the man bargained.

“No no no,” the Russian man said, “I cannot possibly allow you to use two hours of my four hour period. I know you are willing to split the pay, but I, my friend” (he patted my dad on the shoulder) “am the one who is signing the waiver, am I not? Plus, I originally wanted two jet-skis for my wife and my kids to play as well. We already need to switch off. You taking my jet-ski would just make it worse.”

He chuckled again, but I didn’t think it was quite so funny this time. All I was thinking about was the document he was clutching in his sweaty hand: the document that would let him onto the docks and give him the jet-ski.

–

“Oh,” my dad said, stirring the noodles, “Don’t worry. The lady said to check back at two o’clock, because that’s when half-day customers come back. Maybe we’ll get to rent it for two hours or so.”

I was sitting at a picnic table, sulking. My dad was now pouring soy sauce into the pot with noodles. He was making a delicious lunch of noodles, a salad, and soup, but I had lost my appetite.

“Cheer up,” my dad’s classmate said, “There’s always going to be something to do. Don’t worry! Besides, they said that they would call us if they had any jet-skis. I’m sure the phone would ring any moment now!” He rubbed me on my head. I wasn’t so sure.

From the place we had our little picnic, Lake Powell could be seen, large and expansive. The water was blue, like a large sapphire, and the dark red rocks around intensified this blue color.

It was scorching hot outside that stepping into the sunlight was like entering five saunas at once. We had found a small pavilion and as I sat there, I watched as boats drove around. I saw a small dinghy being pulled by a speedboat.

But there was more to this lake than just what people had created: the jet-skis, the boats, and all the other things I wanted to play. It’s true that Lake Powell was formed when Glen Canyon Dam was built, flooding the valley. But there was more than that. Regardless of what it seemed like, it was still nature’s work. Without nature, the valley would still just be… a valley.

Watching the water surface ripple, I thought to myself, maybe it will turn out all right. Maybe.

–

I walked into the rental office for the second time in one day. After waiting an excruciating hour where I had watched the phone and having absolutely nothing happen, we decided to check back one last time.

The line had two people already standing in it, and the three employees were hard at work, servicing customers.

An employee, one we had met earlier in the afternoon during our first visit, smiled at us. “We have jet-skis!” she said to my dad, smiling.

Then why didn’t you call us? I thought angrily.

The person in front of us stepped up to a counter. My heart jumped to my throat again.

“I’d like a speedboat.” My heart settled back into my chest, relieved.

One down, one to go.

“I’d like a speedboat.” The man in front of us said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir! We’re all out of speedboats,” the employee said apologetically.

“What? The person in front of me just rented a speedboat?” the man said through his huge beard.

“Yes, sir, that was the last one.”

The man sighed.

I knew how he felt.

“All right then, can I have a jet-ski?” he asked.

“Surely, sir.” The employee answered. My heart almost ripped in half as it began thumping furiously. My dad was also eyeing the man.

I could only watch as the employee passed over the documentation and forms. The man signed them all, then walked away to the marina dock.

“Next, please.”

My dad ran up to the lady and blurted out what I had been thinking. “Was that the last jet-ski?”

“Of course” (my eyes widened) “not!”

“W-what?” I asked.

“Of course not!” she repeated, “That was not the last jet-ski. The one you’re renting is the last one!”

–

If there was anything thrilling on our trip, it would be jet-skiing on Lake Powell. True, it lacked the grandeur of Grand Canyon, it might have lacked the view from Angel’s Landing, or the canyons of Antelope Canyon or the Narrows, but all is forgiven.

I thought that looking at the lake from the marina office would be beautiful, but looking at it while riding the waves on a jet-ski at fifty miles per hour? Now that’s fun.

My dad, who had some prior experience as his friend had invited him to ride on his jet-ski in Galveston (the seaside city near Houston), told me we were going to try something new. Of course, we were already trying something new.

The waters in Galveston were of a murky and brown color, as if someone had decided that Galveston shouldn’t deserve the same respect as Cancun. As a result, jet-skiing in Galveston only has oil refineries and docks as scenery.

Here, the red rock, so contrasting with the blue of the water, made the speed of a jet-ski feel even more fun. We went around large pillars standing in the water, huge and awing. The sheer size made people seem small.

“Did you hear me?” my dad repeated, “We’re going to try something fun!”

We hit fifty miles per hour on the speedometer. I started grabbing onto my dad tightly.

“I’m going to make a tight U-turn to the left now!” he yelled over the howling wind, threatening to rip away my hands grabbing onto my dad’s body.

“Dooooon’t do it!” I could only yell as my dad suddenly turned the handlebars. I felt my cheeks and whole body ripple as I was pulled towards the right, my whole body threatening to fly apart.

Amazingly, I was still alive after the turn. More than that, but I loved it! We made turns for several times in a row at fifty miles an hour. I felt like I was flying. I felt like I was lighter than air. Each time, I grabbed onto my dad tightly, yelling in enjoyment.

A few men from a nearby speedboat watched us and smiled as my dad executed another turn, almost creating a whirlpool. Normally, I would be angry at these strangers smiling at me, but today, I could only yell at them…

“You have GOT to try this!”

Covering both sides of the canyon were enormous waves, each washed into the Navajo sandstone by the forces of the Virgin River. I pulled my hand along the side of the wall, feeling the incredible power of nature.

This is a trail directly inside a slot canyon, a thin gorge into an otherwise flat plain. The trail winds through the narrow canyon and sometimes requires you to cross through the river itself.

In some places the canyon is only 20 feet and in some cases, the height of the sides? Two thousand feet. It’s a favorite place for photographers, but this time I wasn’t just looking at the pretty pictures other people took.

This time, I was standing inside of the canyon itself, in sheer awe of the immense slot canyon. I was eying the walls, the nooks, and the water with admiration.

At eight in the morning, we rented special gear from an outfitter in-town: special shoes that would stand up to the rocky bottom, socks that would give warmth, and a stick.

At nine thirty in the morning, we were standing in the river. To arrive at the river, we had to first take the shuttle to the Temple of Sinawava, then walk one mile on the Riverside trail before finally arriving at the riverside.

A couple sitting on a bench watched as we, as well as others, got into the water, and then chuckled (to my annoyance) when I gave a spasm as I stepped into the chilly water.

The first thing I noticed when I got in the water was that it was exceedingly cold. The water felt like icicles wrapping around my legs, and I gave several spasms as I stepped into deeper parts of the river.

Trees grew on both sides, and sometimes a waterfall would appear, cascading from places higher up into the Virgin River. The past few days, I had been hiking to the tops of mountains, but now, I was in a canyon. Looking up was a whole new experience.

The walls were filled with ripples and crevices, the work of millions of years of geological change.

The walls were filled with ripples and sometimes an occasional crevice would be formed. I would run my hand along these. Zion sits on the edge of the Colorado Plateau, an area covering several states. It has been slowly pushed up from sea level to almost ten thousand feet, all in one piece.

During this uplift, the Narrows were carved, as the Virgin River running through the park carved a several thousand feet canyon, forming what is now Zion National Park: a refuge that has fostered human growth for almost eight thousand years.

As I walked the trail, it would sometimes descend into the river, sometimes climb over rocks at the side of the canyon. I found raspberries on the side, which my dad explained were not only safe but extremely organic.

Opening my mouth, I chewed carefully, savoring the taste. When I had swallowed almost the entire handful, I sucked on the remains stuck in my braces until every succulent morsel was in my stomach.

Sometimes the water would get deeper than my chest, and I would feel like I was freezing over. I started doubting global warming. But then I’d look up, see the majestic walls without end and smile, taking a step right into a deep spot. Repeat.

In places, the wall curved over us, hanging above us. It seemed like we were in a cavern, listening to the sounds of the river rushing by. Birds chirped. The water rushed around us, trying to pull us backwards as we hiked upstream.

In some places the water would be incredibly rapid. I would hold my stick in front of me, my legs spread apart so I formed a triangle. The triangle, my dad explained, is the most stable position to be in when the water is rapid. Slowly lifting my feet, the water threatening to throw me backwards, I crossed the river.

Moving upstream, I realized that the forces of the river really were strong, and although the river appeared to be the size of the creek outside my house, it was much stronger. My feet shook when I stood in the rapids, and my whole body trembled.

With forces like this, I learned to appreciate nature. When I finally arrived back at our hotel, I sat down on the bed shaking my head. It truly was an amazing world, and one that deserved a very large amount of protection, of enjoyment, and of love.

(video above) Over on the official video page, you can view it in high definition.

It would be a very hard time convincing her. At ski resorts, she generally spent most of her time on one part of a mountain. Parts she skied in generally took me around five minutes to complete.

But this year, it was going to be different. I wanted her to actually ski a blue trail.

In the sport of skiing, as well as all the other mountain sports, ski trails are labeled based on difficulty. The colors represent difficulty, from green circle, to blue square, to black diamond, to double-diamond, to extreme terrain.

I had the ability to ski a hard blue / easy black trail. That wasn’t to say my mom had the same ability. She skied easy green trails. That was it.

This year, it would be different. Or so I hoped.

One day, while my mom was skiing particularly well, I decided that it was maybe time for her to try something new.

So I decided I would maybe surprise my mom. Give her a challenge.

So in that fashion, I told my mom to follow me, and I led her up a new lift. Up here, she started shivering. It must be colder up here.

Soon, my dad followed, gently ushering my mom forward, and I went in the front, leading the way.

I turned off onto the blue trail, and began skiing downwards, eventually stopping at a point.

It was more steeper here, and that was even more outlined by the fact that the sun was slowly setting downwards, shining through the trees. They glowed, and like me, they invited my mom in.

But she stopped on the top.

“This is a blue trail!” she shrieked, pointing at the sign. “You know I don’t do blue trails!”

“You will do blue trails. Come on, Mom, just this one. It’s really easy,” I said, calling at her.

My dad beckoned her forward.

Finally, I could almost feel her wincing.

She pushed forward.

Shortly afterwards, my mom reached the bottom of the trail. She highlighted this trail as the “hardest one I will go on”, stating she would never do that again. She made it, though, and I still secretly think that she actually loved that run.

This article is part of a series on my 2008 winter trip to Colorado. They are tagged with the “2008winter” tag.

She didn’t say it out loud, though, possibly because of a eager saleswomen standing right next to my dad. She was holding a clipboard and had a pen stuck behind her ear.

“What?” my mom finally asked.

“They said they would upgrade us to a SUV for only 100 dollars!” my dad smiled at my mom.

“Every day?”

“No, total!”

My mom stuttered for a moment, then said, “Your decision.” I didn’t know what it meant (and that was the whole point: zero percent liability), but my dad must have perceived it as a yes because he turned around and grinned at the salesperson. “Go ahead.”

Twenty minutes later, my mom was sitting in the front seat with my dad. We had just walked out of the rental car company near the Denver International Airport.

It was now three hours since our airplane had landed. We were planning on spending a day in Denver, and driving into Copper Mountain, our ski resort, tonight.

My dad turned to my mom. “So how do you like this car, eh?”

She wasn’t talking.

“One hundred dollars…” she puffed. “You could have bought so much stuff with one hundred dollars.”

“Well, why didn’t you speak up when I asked you whether you liked it or not?”

“Well, I assumed you’d be reasonable.” my mom huffed back.

“I am being reasonable; I’m saving our lives.”

“How might burning cash be saving lives?” snorted Mom.

“If there’s a blizzard on the road, then an SUV will definitely save our lives!”

The argument continued, and I sat in the back glumly, listening to them argue.

—-

Thirty minutes later, my parents had finished arguing. We were parked near Denver’s supposed famous 16th Street Mall, a pedestrian-only street with lots of cafes.

As it turned out, they were all cafes, and I soon found myself inside a pizza store after asking my parents for some food.

I had picked a personal pan pizza, but it came with a drink. Normally I don’t like drinks to come with the lunch since they are expensive and my dad had packed plenty of water anyway.

“Can we just have the pizza, not the drink?” I asked the lady.

“Sure,” she said, pressing a bunch of buttons. It came out to $5.29. The number seemed familiar.

“Wait, how much is it with the drink?” I asked the lady again.

“Sure,” she said (again), pressing a bunch of buttons (again). It came out to $5.39.

“So there is only a ten cent difference between having the drink and not having the drink?” I asked, unbelievingly.

“Hmm? Seems so,” the cashier said, pointing at the crumb-covered screen.

“Okay then, I’ll have the drink.” I told the lady.

“And for you?” asked the cashier, pointing a plump finger at my dad.

“Er, the same thing, but without the drink.”

Later, my mom joked that my dad saved way too much on the little things instead of the big things. She said it should be the other way around. However, the decision to upgrade to a SUV was a good one; that night there was strong winds on the mountain highway.

This article is part of the 2008 Colorado winter trip for skiing. They are all tagged with “2008winter” for convenience.

The lifts had not opened yet. The sun was out. The mountains were pure white. It was a great day to ski.

Our airplane had touched down at Denver International Airport nearly a day ago. We had played around in Denver.

Around six in the afternoon yesterday, we had to pick up our skis. We had rented them at a ski rental office, and it was there that we picked them up.

Now, however, it was time to get on the mountain. It was time to run around. It was time… to ski.

—-

One and a half hours of messing around later, my entire family (Dad, Mom, and me) were finally at the bottom of the mountain. We grabbed our skis and headed toward the lift.

Right next to the bottom of the lift, my dad tightened and buckled up my boots. He did the same thing for my mom, and then finally himself.

We were set up. It was time to ski.

I clamped my boots into my skis.

My dad clamped his boots into his skis.

Now it was my mother’s turn.

“Eh, I think I have a problem.”

My dad trundled over to my mom. “I think we already had this discussion before, but sometimes the snow gets in your boot and it gets hard to lock in—”

He stopped in the middle of telling my mother off, because the thing was, my mother was completely right.

Her ski bindings were three inches longer than her foot.

It stunned us for a while, and then one of us murmured, “How was it possible?”

Everything was set wrong. Every single setting on the binding was not coordinated with her. Something had gone seriously bad.

Then my dad tried it on.

It fit him perfectly.

Apparently the workers at our rental company had adjusted the skis to my dad’s sizes. Another thirty minutes passed before my mom got to the rental company on-mountain. They adjusted it for her, but it was still an annoyance.

—-

This article is a part of a series of articles on my 2008 winter trip to Colorado. They are all tagged with “2008winter” for easy reading.

This year’s guest speaker, I found out, was some people called the Skit Guys: Tommy Woodard and Eddie James.

They were supposed to be really funny, and we were about to find out. When we first arrived at camp, Tommy hadn’t arrived yet, so it was just Eddie. He decided to kick off the beginning of camp with a game of Simon Says.

We all stood up.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Simon. Simon says put your hand on top of your head.”

We all put our hands on top of our head.

“OH NO!” he cried suddenly, “Simon’s not Simon, because someone stole his identity! You’re all out! OUT, I say, OUT!”

He watched our stupefied faces. Then his mouth spread into a wide grin, and he began to laugh. We all knew by now he was just joking.

“Oo-okay, j-just kidding,” he sputtered through laughter.

“Start over."

We all put our hands down. Immediately he pounced on us. "Simon didn’t say to start over!"

"You’re right," I muttered, "because Simon’s been kidnapped, and his identity has been stolen."

"Okay, seriously this time, Simon says put your hand on your head."

We all did so. "Okay, Simon says put it down. Simon says put it up. Simon says put it down. Put it up."

Everyone who had raised their hands for the final "put it up" were all out.

And so the game continued. I easily got out, but it was fun enough watching everyone else.

When there was only two people left, he called them up to the front, so we could all see. Then he said, "Simon says stand on one foot, and raise your hands above your head."

They all did so.

He motioned taking out his Bible. "Okay, everyone, we’re going to do our sermon now. Everyone—"

He stopped to look at the two people standing in front, eyeing him like he was mental.

Again, he broke into laughter. The game continued, until there was only one person left.

He won a DVD. We all won an hour of comedy.

After taking a brief nap, I climbed out of my top-bunk in my cabin (the top bunks were always a favorite among people, because of how fun they were) and stepped out of the cool air-conditioned room.

Outside, the sun blazed down. It was amazing how hot it was, and the contrast between the heat and the cool of the cabin was simply astounding. But no matter: I walked away from my cabin. I was going to the great hall.

The camp was designed a bit like a military camp, but with much less stringent rules. It had a dining hall, where all meals were ate, a great hall, where talks (I was at a church camp) and performances were done.

I stepped into the great hall and chatted for a bit with the other people, and watched as other people played games like Risk and Monopoly.

That night, while eating dinner, one of the leaders walked over to me and asked me if I slept in Ben’s cabin. Ben slept across from me (on the lower bunk), so I said yes, wondering what they were getting at.

There was a quick whisper to another person, and they ran over to where Ben was chatting with his friends. They abruptly stopped talking and looked at me like I was a criminal. I became annoyed.

Ben walked over and sat down next to me. He eyed me like I had done something wrong. “Hi,” I said nervously.

He put his elbow on the table and put his hand on his cheek, and raised his eyebrows. His hand slightly lifted his square glasses, making him look all for the world like an FBI interrogator. It was amazing how he could make himself look like he questioned people all his life. But he was eleven.

“Did you pour shampoo in my shoes?”

“What?” the question seemed so absurd. Why would I want to pour shampoo in his shoes? But somehow, deep inside of me, I did something I regretted. I laughed. I laughed because of how he looked, his cheek pressed in, and chewing on a bubble gum while eyeing me. I laughed because it seemed so random.

But it was the wrong thing to do.

continued.

There were many attractions on the camp, including a swimming pool, archery, canoeing, blob jumping, horseback riding, dodgeball, and many other activities. Of all of these attractions, horseback riding was the most popular and required money as well as a form.

My father had turned in that form a little late (just before I boarded the bus to the camp), and had handed me $25.

When I had arrived at the camp, however, they would not accept my money because I did not have a form. This was absurd because my dad had turned it in. None-the-less, they didn’t let my go horseback riding.

I did argue a bit, but they repeatedly told me that there was nothing they could do without a form that I knew they had.

So that afternoon, when everyone else was horseback riding, I took a bath.

When everyone else was swimming in the heat, I went to the restroom, and also took a long nap in my bed.

And when everyone else trudged in and asked me where I was, I replied, “Here.”

As it turned out, one person had fallen off the horse and sprained an ankle so some other people didn’t want to ride a horse anymore. It was glad to know that at least there was no chance of getting hurt.

I did get some strange looks…