Write About a Time You Slept Outside.

10 minutes. Go.

I was 16, a junior in high school. The time when my friends and I sought after parent-free houses and begged older siblings to buy alcohol, anticipating the weekend potential of full-fledge letting go, stupid boys, and back country roads. I had just had a knee surgery; an avid field hockey player, I had torn my meniscus. Crutches and an immobilizer were my new articles of clothing; they kind of went everywhere with me. It was late Fall, the trees were just starting to turn brown, preparing for their descent to the eager winter's ground.

My friends and I headed back the mile-long trail to the "campsite" my friend's older brother had found in the State Forest outside our town. It was the quintessential camping spot: a narrow creek meandered its way around an island of moss, with massive tree trunks that made perfect for sitting in front of a fire until sunrise. It was late, and pitch black. I don't know what possessed me to walk(crutch) a mile back into thick dark woods in the state I was in. The Percocet might have helped a little. And I was young, with friends and there were boys at the end of the trail. With the help of my girlfriends, I made it across the log that acted as a bridge to the campground just as the rain started its intermittent passing. The boys were poking at the hot fire, chugging Milwaukee's Best and passing around a bowl. I sat on the tree trunk most of the night, unable to go far when I needed to pee, but the beer and weed made it less embarassing having to squat so close to my peers.

The rain subsided a few hours while we laughed and drank and blurred our brains, and then came on heavy and fast the way thunderstorms do. Pouring buckets, we ran (I limped) into the one tent our guy friend had set up before our arrival. Our young, wet bodies plastered up against one another, clinging to each other, searching for anything dry. The thunder was booming, cracking so loudly; at every lightning bolt I envisioned a tree falling on top of the tent squashing me, knee brace and all. I was smashed up against the far side, shoved between my girlfriend and the thin nylon tent. Water poured down the side and in through the sheath "window." Why would we have thought to bring a waterproof tarp? Partying was our main objective.

The time between thunder and lightning shortened at every crack, securing the thought in all our minds that we were right in the middle of a treacherous storm, and there was really nothing to do but wait it out. It was the kind of storm that scares you even in the comfort of your secure, dry house. And there we were, a mile from any road, 20 miles from town, surrounded by trees blowing frantically in the storm's rapid winds, hearts racing. There are those moments in nature that turn so quickly, for the worst, to the extreme, without much warning. Suddenly, we were helpless in the weather, its roaring power and incessant destruction ripping through our getaway spot. After about 20 minutes of torrential downpours and thunder that rattled our rib cages, the fear transformed into adrenalin, to a high the weed didn't offer, a high that tested our limits. It was uncomfortable, exciting, thrilling, and dangerous: the story of most teenage years.