Right now I'm lying to a friend about not being able to go on a camping trip with him and a few others friends in Maine. It's not that I don't want to go, I love camping now, it's that I don't want to go with him. He acts so official, so professional, about the whole thing, with lists of equipment and descriptions of the site. I'm sure he's been camping more times than me. I'm sure he's got equipment I don't have. But he hasn't been camping like I have. He hasn't eaten ramen off the ground after brushing off the dirt, to Megan's (amused) disgust. He hasn't heard the clink, clink, thunk, thunk, of a very disappointing story. He hasn't lain awake all night with sleet drumming its fingers on his tarp, thinking that every time a stray drop hits his hammock it's instead a gremlin waiting below, plucking the string to make him sweat with terror. He hasn't taken down a makeshift tent with hands made useless by the cold. He hasn't made a parkour course out of a fallen tree. He hasn't whittled a sword, and in the process made his knife useless and dull on the first day. And he certainly hasn't written like I've written while completely isolated from civilization. So, I'm sorry, Trevor. I enjoy your company, most of the time, but camping is something we'll never be able to appreciate on the same level. It's something important to me, something that holds memories you won't ever be able to understand.