James Fitzgerald
It is July 07 and our group is the last one to get into the campsite. We jump out of the cab, grab our packs and make our way over to our new sleeping quarters. As I approach my tent, Cam and Mike do the same. We’re all exhausted from pulling bull thistle from the desert soil for the last eight hours but I still have enough energy to crack a joke about Ho Ho’s, a code name for the delicious Hostess cupcake treat.

Our physical exhaustion doesn’t crush our spirits, for we still have many things to discuss and laugh about before pulling the old sleeping bag zippers. The whole group, after donning their personals in their tents, gathered in the kitchen and talked about school, classes, bad teachers, chill teachers, where we lived, sports, and totally stupid things like your favorite Jell-O or who is cooler Teddy Roosevelt or Paris Hilton. As we chit chatted and hung out, one of the girls remarked on the brilliant red sky. It seemed everyone pulled his or her exhausted self up just to take an obligatory look, but I sat fast and guarded my $3.99 Wal-Mart chair. No way was I going to lose that, plus I could see from where I sat anyway.

Dinner was then served and we all wolfed that down in about six minutes and the talking continued. While J Baum was explaining electro-magnetic fields and the prospecting chances in the area, Aziza was braiding my hair and Mike and Cam with their eyelids at half-mast watched. Then the inevitable, the first person peeled off to his tent. That started the rush, the brushing of the teeth and the donning of the headphones. But we use Mike’s because they are loud enough for all of us to hear in our tent. Then it’s “Let’s hit it guys….”

Just as I am drifting off in my Arizona kingdom I hear Cam who is rustling about and who then says, “Happy Birthday Dude.”

“Thanks Bud.”

“No problemo….”

And drift into my first layer of slumber, now as a seventeen year old.

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