For those of you who don't know, the LDS church has a yearly tradition where fathers and their sons go camping overnight to commemorate the restoration of the priesthood. It usually involves scorched pancakes and runny eggs for breakfast and all the other typical camping shenanigans.
For several years, I've gloried in the fact that I don't have any sons and am therefore exempt from attending.
It's not that I hate camping. I actually enjoy it.
But there is nothing fun about cowering by yourself in your tent while a bunch of 8 year olds run around shooting stuff with BB guns and the rest of the camp applies war paint to their faces to prove their masculinity in a rousing game of capture the flag.
In moments like that, I can't help seeing "Lord of the Flies" references.
Well, this year, our bishop (the local leader of our congregation), decided to be funny and put me in charge of breakfast.
As a result, I had no choice but to fill the back of my truck to bursting with pancake mix, syrup, eggs and juice and trek up the canyon.
While it wasn't the most painful experience of my life, I will say that it was just a little awkward to be all by myself and still have the biggest tent of the whole group. It's the only one we own, and we got it so we could camp as a family with enough room for whatever we would need.
I kept joking that I should have brought a flatscreen, a Wii and a generator.
... maybe next year.