Runaway

When I was a little boy, probably around 9 or 10 I decided that I would run away. I don't think that it was provoked by anything or any anger towards my parents or my family. I think that I had just finished reading the book, My side of the Mountain and decided that I would try running away to see if I could make it on my own. There was something appealing about running away, making a hut and surviving just to see if I could. I knew that doing this would take some planning so I thought about where I would go and what I would bring. I packed my little red backpack that had my name on it. (A backpack that at one time held a 72 hour kit that our family put together for a family home evening or something.) I packed a canteen, a shirt (I think it was my favorite color country wrestling shirt, (I wonder if I still have that?)), A pair of rustler jeans, some undies, matches, socks, a pocket knife and a canteen. I decided that I didn't need any food, I would just have to get used to killing what I ate. So I grabbed my bag, and headed out. It was about 2:30 PM. I headed down the street and made a left up the street to a place that the neighborhood kids called "The Fields". I knew the spot that I would go. My spot had a large population of prairie dogs, and I had gotten close to them a few times and knew with some skill I could kill them and survive. When I arrived at the calculated location, I decided that I would first have to kill dinner. I was hungry already and I knew that I could whip up a survival shelter in a matter of about an hour. So I found a long stick and took out my pocket knife and sharpened carefully the end to make a spear. This only took about 25 minutes because I was quite skillful with the knife. After a few practice throws I felt that I was ready for the hunt.
Upon arrival to the prairie dog town I was greeted with the usual prairie dog chirps. After closely scanning the area, I found a mound with a large dog. A large tasty prairie dog. A large tasty prairie dog that was going to get a sharp stick thrown through its insides, skinned, gutted, cooked and wolfed down into my empty stomach.
I slowly crept up to the mound and the dog disappeared. That was OK, I was familiar with prairie dogs and knew that If I sat still eventually the dog would come up. So I stood still with my arm cocked back, the dog hole in range of my spear of death. I was waiting. Saliva leaked from the side of my mouth. (Not because I was hungry, I kind of slobbered a lot when I was a kid). I waited, and I waited. I waited for what I felt was an eternity, but in reality was probably 20 minutes. All of a sudden I saw fur, just about a quarter of an inch of prairie dog head. I knew he was breathing his last breath. Eyes, nose, mouth, body. He was mine. I threw that spear with the speed of Nolan Ryan. As it left the tip of my fingers, I felt overcome with excitement, until a brief millisecond later I realized that I had missed. All that waiting and I missed that damn prairie dog. I walked over to my spear, inspected it and threw it to the ground. I decided that I would have to plan a little better if I was going to survive on my own. So I grabbed my backpack and headed for home. I arrived home around 4:00 PM. I don't think anyone noticed that I moved out. So I grabbed a bowl of cereal and turned on the TV. I decided to run away another day.

I thought it was kind of funny, here I am 20 years later, I have found that I have run away again, not for any particular reason, maybe to see if I could do it. Just a different field this time, and am still hunting those damn prairie dogs. I am having the time of my life. It just took about 20 years of planning.
On a side note, it didn't hurt to get a hot wife to come along for company. She's kind of my consultant.