I have been camping as long as I can remember. When I was a child, my family would go camping on the North Shore of Lake Superior near Two Harbors, Minnesota. I took my first camping trip without my family when I was 12; it was my first Boy Scout campout. My lasting memories of that trip are that I brought waaaaay too much stuff and that my first Dutch-oven peach cobbler experience tasted great.

Since that trip, I’ve camped numerous times at a multitude of fantastic spots. With rare exception, they were Boy Scout outings, and they were almost always great fun. Two of those events stand out as my favorites: my second trip to the BWCA in 1997 and my trip to Philmont in 1998. If you’ve ever been to either location, you understand why those two are the best of the best.

Since Philmont, I haven’t done much in the way of camping. In fact, excluding the night I spent in a park in Pamplona, Spain, I haven’t done any camping of any kind since Joe’s bachelor party in 2003. Three years. That’s a long time. Too long.

That’s going to change tonight.

At the beginning of the week, I noticed that I had nothing planned for the upcoming weekend. Furthermore, I noted that “Go camping up north again” was on my long-term list of things to do. At that moment, I knew my fate: I would take a couple of vacation days and go camping.

My initial plan was to go backpacking on Isle Royale, which is something I’ve wanted to do for almost a decade. Sadly, it became obvious that I couldn’t pull off such a trip with only a couple days notice. It’s still on my list; I intend to spend a week on the island next summer. (In the off-chance that somebody else wants to go, let me know; otherwise, I’ll do it alone.)

With a firmer grasp of reality, I altered my plans to focus on the North Shore, particularly the Grand Marais area. I plan to stay at state parks and the like; while not as nice as the backcountry, state parks are far more conducive to last-minute trips. While I’m up there, I plan to hike the many trails, watch the numerous waterfalls, and absorb the view of the lake. The number one goal will be relaxation.

This will be the first time I’ve ever gone camping by myself. I can’t wait.

I just got back from Snakes on a Plane. Much to my surprise, it wasn’t too bad. Sure, the premise is ludicrous, but once you get beyond that, it’s fairly decent. I was almost — dare I say it? — impressed by the filmmaker’s attention to detail. Sure, they had the wrong fire trucks at LAX, but they gave reasonable explanations for many of the plot elements.

I wasn’t expecting much from SoaP; I was shocked when it turned out to be more than just the hype. Go see it.

We can no longer bring liquids and gels onto commercial flights. Asinine.

In Britain, passengers can’t bring much more than money and a passport onto commercial flights. Asinine.

Two years ago, I carried a fueled Zippo onto a commercial transatlantic flight. That I could do that legally was also asinine.

Obviously, there needs to be some middle ground. We shouldn’t allow people to carry knives, firearms, or explosives onto planes. On the other hand, we shouldn’t be restricting so many mundane items. Where does it stop?

Britain has banned portable electronic devices because they could be used as detonation devices. The ban covers everything from laptops to cell phones, and it might include wristwatches. But does it include hearing aids? I highly doubt it. If a detonator could be made from a wristwatch, then it could certainly be made from a hearing aid. All of that security; all of those inconvenient restrictions; all circumvented by an “essential medical device.” Should we ban hearing aids? I don’t think so.

We take our shoes off at the airport nowadays so that they can be scanned for explosives. However, enforcement is not consistent. I’ve been allowed to walk through wearing sandals a number of times. Imagine how much plastic explosive could be smuggled aboard if it were formed into the shape of sandals. Even if sandals were scanned, that wouldn’t stop anybody from smuggling things aboard “down there.”

The real threat doesn’t come from passengers passing through normal security checkpoints, worthless as they are. If somebody really wants to get something through that checkpoint, I have no doubt that they would manage it. The real threat comes from the gaping back door. CNN is reporting that “Among those arrested were … a Heathrow Airport employee with an all-area access pass…”

Bloody hell! You’re telling me that we’re jumping though all of these hoops at the front of the airport when at least one of the conspirators had a pass to bypass security?!? Jhuyytjuhhyujr5fujhy … Sorry, just banging my head on my keyboard there. Very frustrating.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that planes were not blown up. I’m glad that the conspiracy was uncovered (although I somehow can’t stop thinking about Operation Northwoods). I would much rather go without my cell phone than die. All I’m trying to say is that our priorities are misplaced.

Instead of causing all kinds of inconvenience at airport security checkpoints, let’s focus on intelligence work. Intelligence work (including an initial tip) led to the shutdown of this plot. We should rely on intelligence work to foil future plots as well — just don’t invade my privacy in the process. If we try to stop everybody at the checkpoint, then the real threats will simply avoid the checkpoint. In the meantime, there will be a lot of thirsty, bored, unproductive people on flights.

In case you’re a Pike alumn and haven’t heard the news, Iota Delta brought home a Smythe this year.

It’s last night. I’m playing poker in the card room at Canterbury, which is significant because I haven’t been there since December 2005. I’m in the four seat, and this other guy is in the two seat. He’s a complete prick.

He has to be right about everything. So maybe the dealer got a detail wrong relating to missed blinds when the player hasn’t yet sat down. Is that really a reason to keep bringing that up during each of the next eight hands? On a couple of occasions, a player mucked his cards at the showdown and the reprobate demanded to see the cards. Once again, that’s technically legal (perhaps to prevent collusion), but it is considered rude.

We play for several hours. The sleazeball wins a small pot and proceeds to stack and count his chips while the next hand is being dealt. All of a sudden, he grunts to the dealer, “You over-raked that pot,” to which the dealer responds, “I… I don’t think I did, but you should have said something before the next hand.” The two-seat retorts, “No, the pot was $32. You raked $4 and it should have been $3.” The dealer asks him how he knows and the guy presents as evidence the chips that he claims represent the prior pot. The dealer once again points out that he should have raised the issue before the next hand. Not satisfied, the guy starts demanding that he get his extra dollar, so the dealer calls for the floor. The floor walks over and the lowlife starts going off about the dealer not knowing what he’s doing and continues his demands for his dollar. The floor, obviously wanting to shut the guy up, tells the dealer to take a dollar from the next pot and give it to the two-seat.

You’d think that would be the end of it, but you’d be wrong.

After the floor walks away, the caitiff, who has the hygiene of a vagabond, starts ripping on the dealer and telling the dealer to “learn how to do his job.” Mind you, this is all at a $2/$4 hold ’em game. Fortunately for the dealer, a shift change comes due. As the dealer is tidying the table for the next dealer, I toss a $1 tip to the dealer and say, “[This is] for having to put up with that,” as I point to the two-seat. The dealer smiles and is obviously amused. On the other hand, the two-seat is pissed.

He looks at me and rumbles, “Was that a rip on me?” to which I cheerfully respond, “And how!” The guy’s rotund face is now beet red. He growls, “When I write my book, I’m going to include a reference to some punk kid with an attitude!” I smile, give him a wink and a thumbs up, and tell him, “You do that.”

The guy is seething, the dealer is happy, and the rest of the table is amused. As play resumes, it becomes apparent that the two-seat is on serious tilt. It seems the incident really got to him. Fantastic! I stay in for the rest of the orbit, gather my chips, and leave. When I stand up, most of the table gives me a hearty goodbye. Not surprisingly, the two seat keeps his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the table.

I normally don’t revel in the misery of others, but that was a notable exception. Oh, it was grand.