We Came, We Saw, We Camped. Then I Got Stabbed.

We headed out into the great outdoors this past weekend, back to Breeze Campground, site of the our previous adventure titled, "How to put up a tent in a downpour". This time we were there with my old Air Force buddy Kris, his wife Sunny and their daughter (Bella) and niece (Selene).

This time the rain didn't come until after the tents were up, so an hour into the trip we were already ahead of the game. Fortunately, I learned the trick of buying a tent large enough to hide a battleship in from Kris and Sunny, so between us we had plenty of room. So Friday night basically consisted of eating chili in a big tent. Kris and I had cooking duty, so naturally I got soaked. It wouldn't be camping if my body temperature was above 70 degrees.

This actually worked really well.

The next day was better weather-wise, if you consider trading rain for 35 m.p.h. winds "better". The good news is the sun was out, so we were able to put together a viable volleyball game that consisted of Sunny, Bella, Macy and a horde of tween girls versus the team of me and, uh, me. Don't worry, I still won.

That evening was steak night, and don't let anybody tell you that there's anything better than an inch-and-a-half-thick ribeye on an open fire and a beer to wash it down. They're lying. You shouldn't trust them and you certainly shouldn't be their friend. They're probably robbing you blind as you read this.

The shirt does not lie: Kris wore this shirt the entire weekend.

Donna's steak was a little underdone for her taste, and mine was a little overdone (medium rare), so we attempted the always-dangerous steak swap. The first maneuver (getting my piece onto Donna's plate) went without a hitch. However, either due to the wind, a defective fork, or perhaps a saboteur, bad things happened during the second transfer. The rare ribeye slipped its mooring and plummeted to earth. Everyone looked on, horrified, as the succulent meat dropped to a sooty, dirty end.

I knew I had to act.

Utilizing the scissor maneuver, I clasped the ribeye between my outstretched hands, temporarily averting doom. Unfortunately, I still had a six-inch buck knife in my left hand. It's a great knife: I use it for cutting the twine off cords of wood, slicing tomatoes, and skinning animals. I also use it to cut steak. Anyway, it went point-first into the fleshy part of my palm, right where my thumb does that bendy thing that classifies it as opposable.

Yeah, blood, pain, more blood, terror, whatever. The upshot is, this made me drop the steak again. This is the point where my ninja-like reflexes really showed themselves. With one hand bleeding like an extra in a Sam Raimi movie and the other hand still holding a knife now glistening with my blood, I executed the off-the-scale-difficulty maneuver of catching the steak between my shins, mere inches above the ground. I imagine bacteria were reaching upward toward a future that was not meant to be. Suck it, germs.

Some manual pressure, neosporin, and a bandaid later I ate that steak, and damn it was good.

This has nothing to do with anything. I just find it funny.

Stuff happened after that: found some neanderthal graves, foiled some terrorists, wrestled a llama. I won't bore you with the details, as they don't involve my shins.