Mania in the Mountains (Pt. 1: Hellbound redheads, party of 2!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What was the last job you quit and why?

Estes Park, Colorado
July 2002

When I was 24, I quit my day job and announced to the world that it should look out, "Because I AM GOING TO CAMP!" The concept was a bit ridiculous -- dream newspaper reporting job: OUT! s'mores: IN! -- and my grandfather actually laughed in my face when I told him over breakfast at IHOP. But at least I was not alone. My sister and cousin were already Colorado-bound, and I convinced one of my best friends to join us, too. Quarter-life crisis? Let's do this!

Off we went for a summer adventure as camp counselors in the Rocky Mountains, where the four of us lived in cramped staff dorms, slept on creaky bunkbeds, ate frightening mess-hall slop three times a day, and took home paychecks with absurdly tiny dollar amounts on them -- especially considering I had just quit a cushy newspaper job and was, at 24 years old, a total Danny Glover ("too old for this shit").

But of course, we had the time of our lives. Kindergarteners with tourette's cursing on pony rides! Middle schoolers lost and found in the vicinity of mountain lions! Camp staff driving vans into an icy river and living to tell the tale! Plus the usual hiking hookups and late-night stargazing under the sparkling Colorado sky. It was heaven.

But there was one problem during that stolen summer -- the whole park was ON FIRE. For real. Ash rained from the sky, and calls came over the camp PA -- "a large bear, displaced from his den by the fire, is running through camp along the main road ... please end weenie roast promptly and bring campers into lodge for parachute games."

One July evening, word had spread through the staff quarters that we were to meet in the chapel for an emergency fire evacuation meeting that night. I didn’t want to go because the powers that be had chosen to hold the meeting at the beginning of a church service. (The "C" in YMCA stands for Christian, and they don't let the staff forget it.) My friends and I theorized, only half jokingly, that the fire meeting was all a ruse to brainwash us into attending chapel on a regular basis.

“If I don’t hear the words ‘fire evacuation’ in the first two minutes, I’m outta there,” I told Paul, a fellow redheaded counselor and a barely legal drinker (as opposed to many of my other new bestest friends, who were -- gasp! --still teenagers). “I’m not interested in saving my soul from some kind of eternal fire, just the one that’s creeping over the mountains right this minute!”

When we reached the chapel doors, church volunteers were handing out small black and white fliers for an upcoming service. The sermon topic must have had something to do with our carnal instincts, because the fliers read: “I invented sex. You’re welcome. –God.”

My friends and I tossed this idea around for a while, snickering like campers in the back of the church. “Come on! Did God really invent sex?” one guy asked. "Wasn't Mary supposed to be a virgin and shit?" Just a few months removed from the newsroom, I immediately went into Blasphemous, Fact-Checking Journalist Autopilot Mode: “Did God actually print these fliers? Are those really direct quotes? And who was He doing all this so-called inventing with, anyway?” I was going to hell.

Eventually, the director of the camp stepped to the microphone and greeted the staff. “Who here has never been to this weekly church service before?” he asked, as casually as one can ask a question that might as well be "Who here is Saved?" The mic wasn't very loud, so he cleared his throat and asked again.

“Who here has never been to this weekly church service before?”

Then, as if in a dream, I heard an exuberant, deafening holler of come from the seat next to me, where Paul was sitting. “WHOOOOOOOO!” Paul had responded as if Mick Jagger had just asked, “Who likes alcohol and loose women?” and for several very long seconds Paul's echoing "whoooo!" was the only sound in the entire, cavernous chapel. Everyone turned and stared in our direction, at the two redheads who were clearly going to hell. Specifically, I felt like Paul had just yelled, “Is anyone here trained in the occult? THIS ROW NEEDS AN EXORCISM!”

We clutched our stomachs, cupped our hands over our mouths to stifle the chokes of laughter, and ducked down in our chairs. The night was off to an auspicious start, and believe me, Paul and I were just getting started.

To be continued tomorrow . . .