King of the Wild Frontier
According to the "Adventure Travel Report", one third of American adults have gone camping in the past five years. I am not one of those Americans; in fact, I am part of the six percent of American adults who, according to the same source, has "no interest in camping whatsoever."

Blessed with a comfortable home and the joys of indoor plumbing, I am hard-pressed to grasp the benefits of sleeping outdoors under a nylon covering. Perhaps it is my up bringing? In Brooklyn, New York "camping" consists of tossing an old mattress on the fire escape and counting the gunshots until you fall asleep. In the borough of Manhattan camping is not an elective activity and is often know by another name; homelessness.

Born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, my son and wife enjoy the outdoor living and relish the rugged challenge of the pioneer days. Each year they seek to convert me to the simpler life, free of ESPN and The History Channel, and filled with fresh air and woodland creatures. For a person who considers a Motel 6 without the availability of complimentary shampoo "roughing it", this foray into the forest is just too large of a leap.
Does that me any less of a man? Probably, but so does losing an arm in a bear attack, right?

Several years ago I proposed a compromise to my intrepid family members, offering to sleep under the stars in our very own spacious back yard in Roanoke City. We would indeed be camping although the venue would be a mere forty paces from my beloved recliner. Begrudgingly they agreed to my plan hoping this baby-step might lead to a more remote camping location in the future. A tent was pitched, food was prepared on an open flame, and, following a cozy evening by our outdoor fireplace, we bedded down in the wilds of Windsor Avenue.

With four goofy hound dogs joining us in the tent, accommodations were a bit tight until everyone found a place to lay their head down for the night. Sleeping three abreast, a debate ensued between Janet, Will and I as to who was to sleep in the middle of our make-shift bed. Knowing that extreme discomfort and the close proximately of my forty-eight inch HD television would soon force me to abandon the tent once the other two were asleep; I gallantly volunteered to serve as the bologna in this tepee torpedo sandwich.

Amazingly, I was able to fall asleep quickly within the cramped confines, only to awaken (ironically) to answer the call of nature. Due to the snugness of the sleeping arrangement I had turned over on my stomach and had fallen asleep on both of my arms, which were completely numb and useless. I began to roll around the tent desperately trying to get myself in a sitting position, to no avail. As Janet, Will and the dogs slumbered; I inched towards the front of the tent on my stomach and attempted to open the zipper flap with my teeth. My thrashing had awakened Belle, our youngest Bassett Hound, who took the opportunity to slather me with kisses as I tried to free myself. Eventually, I was able to get on my knees and pull the zipper up with my teeth despite Belle's sloppy encouragement.

Toppling into the yard I knew that I had to get to my feet in a hurry for nature's call was now becoming a frantic scream for urgency. Somehow, by the grace of the camping gods, I was able to rise to my feet, yet the progress of my impending pants disaster was becoming more and more difficult to impede. Stumbling towards a nearby tree my limp arms dangling by my side, I turned around and attempted to remove my pants by rubbing myself against the tree in much the same way as a bear scratches its back. If the "America's Funniest Home Videos" crew were on site they would have written me a check for $10,000 right there on the spot! Following some vigorous and determined scraping, my somewhat frayed trousers settled around my ankles, the dam burst and the flood waters arrived in torrents. I wondered if Daniel Boone had ever faced such biological adversities when blazing through the Cumberland Gap. Regaining the blood flow to my arms, I returned to the softness of our den couch and watched Sportscenter, shaken but dry.

As you might imagine, there is little to no chance of my return to the great outdoors in the foreseeable future. For now, I am happy to be in the minority, joining my fellow six percent anti-campers in the quiet comfort of our own homes.