If I were to name one childhood thing that my parents got for me that I cherish the most, it would be my unforgettable cross-country trip with American Trails West in the summer of ’89. Back before America’s veritable stick was shoved as far up its legally paranoid ass as far as the colonoscope can see, things were simpler and things seemed more free-spirited. There were many fewer rules saying NO to this, and NO to that. See-saws, long metal slides and 16-foot monkey bars could still be found in playgrounds where sterilized human habitrails comprised of ultra-safe slides and bubble climbers, stripped entirely of spirit and made of thick plastic and sadness are now found in their place, and most public eight-foot and deeper swimming pools with diving boards were still in abundance where today the best you’ll get are five-foot pools with warning signs everywhere. Parents didn’t have to sign waivers for every little possibility of injury or illness under the sun as camp counselors and teachers, and people in general, were trusted to use good judgment–even on innocuous day trips to a theme park or zoo.

Before the early 2000s, America and much of pre-9/11 world enjoyed less restrictive experiences without the shadows of lawsuits and prying eyes everywhere. This freedom allowed for the rustic format of our six-week excursion across the continental US via a tour bus, Ryder truck and large tents, roughing it as much as 15-year-olds with zero camping experience could feasibly rough it with just enough guidance from our camp leaders.

They taught us how to pitch tents and collapse them, and they stuck by a handful of daily and nightly routines so that our camping experience could go as smoothly as possible. Aside from a structured itinerary that was planned with incredible efficiency so as to fit in dozens and dozens of places to visit, we were otherwise left to our own devices. We were simply reminded time and again to not be stupid and do stupid things, and they generally trusted that we knew what encompassed stupid. Looking back, camp counselors back then had far less responsibility and pressure, and our group leaders wanted to get past the formalities as quickly as possible and enjoy their trip as much as we did. And, this is exactly how the summer turned out.

If memory serves me correctly, the only strict enforcement of rules was ejecting one boy and girl from the remainder of the trip and sending them back home on the fourth or fifth week as they were caught spending the night together in a hotel room. The counselors made it very clear that the one-night hotel respite from the wooded experience was in no way an invitation for a co-ed experience. Hormones trumped rules, and consequences were paid in full.

I started out meek, a bit anxious that I would be away for so long, and in the first few days, having not really helped pitch the tent for Nevada, our small group, a few kids became frustrated with me. After my initial home-away-from-home shock quickly wore off as it turned to tears and a huge emotional release, everyone started rooting me on, and in that moment I felt surrounded by friends who were simply looking out for me, who refused to allow me to turn inward and withdraw as that was how I tended to be in new social situations. I offered to pitch the tent entirely by myself to make things up to them (or as much as possible with just two hands), and it made Nevada very happy to see me break out of my shell–so much so, in fact, that I soon became the resident bus comedian, regurgitating my favorite routines from Bob Saget and Jerry Seinfeld that I transcribed on our long bus rides onto looseleaf paper from audio clips that I recorded from Comedy Central back at home.

I’m so happy that I saved our Wayfarer 14 itinerary. I hope to one day recreate this experience as much as possible with my kids, given enough time.

These campgrounds that we stayed at bring back the warmest memories. I get that tingly feeling in my belly as I write this, remembering the feeling of the cold desert summer air at sundown, tents pitched with lanterns hanging on all the posts and resting on picnic tables, while Michelle, our resident chef, prepared delicious meals for 40 hyperactive kids. There is nothing more satisfying than a chilly breeze that carries the scent of pine needles in the woods, knowing that we are surrounded by bears hiding, waiting to scavenge for food once everyone is asleep. The storytelling, jokes, constant roasts and pervy and hilarious sayings and songs that we all made up throughout our adventure are what gave this trip its spirit. That, and being surrounded by nature 24×7 are the very glue that has bonded this experience to my heart forever. It is this very experience that draws me to Kerouac’s Beat literature. I am not a Beatnik, of course, but I cannot help but to long for these six weeks once again if, for nothing else, to simply hug all my long lost friends once again. My love for writing and for literature in general were inspired by this special place in my memory. When I feel lonely or depressed or simply stuck, Wayfarer 14 remains my happy place, and I am once again re-centered.

I remember the vegetable chow mein that Michelle cooked for us. The camp tapes that we recorded with memory messages (which, goddamnit it, I cannot find–I’m sure it’s buried somewhere in my parents’ house and it’ll one day resurface). I remember the Jerky Boys clips being played over and over during the entire trip. “Like ya bastard,” and “Girl you know it’s true…NOT.” Farting in our tents at night. Farting in our tents in the morning. The huge food fight.

Going white water rafting and nearly breaking our ass on the rapids. Taking hot showers in the RV campground facilities (which were pretty decent). Eating cereal or pop tarts every morning, or eggs and toast. Taking a late-late night dip into a hot spring pool where some kid slipped and fell and hit his neck (I think he was ok once he got to the hospital). Cracking up listening to Eddie Murphy’s “Delirious” on cassette. Horseback riding. Chinatown in San Francisco where I taught myself how to use chopsticks and bought my small crane bonsai glass diorama.

Hiking through the Badlands of South Dakota in 103-degree heat with canteens, and taking a dip into a hidden lake to cool down.

Grabbing a large pine cone and taking it home with me, only to lose it 20 years later. Petting a fawn!

Visiting Wall Drug, enjoying the “Where the Heck is Wall Drug?” sticker on the front of our bus, Betsy, as well as one on my closet door.

Our driver, Bob, screaming “Hubba hubba, get off my bus!” when we reached our various destinations. The huge campfire at the end of the trip where we sat around writing our memory page for our Wayfarer scrap book, crying all night and reminiscing.

My tent leader colluding with other tent mates and taking dick pics on my Fuji film, only to discover weeks later at a Fotomat with my mother as we got the film developed. We were at Valerie’s house in her kitchen when we looked at the pics again, cracking up over the snakes in the grass.

Our awesome group photos!

And, finally, our wonderful counselors, tour leader and bus driver – I love you guys!!

“The Wayfarer 14 Blues” (by Ken & Mark)

We ride on a big bus.
Driver’s name is Bob, not Gus.
Thank God the kids never fuss.
“Hubba Hubba, get off my bus!”
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

We went from New York to Californ-I-A.
We’ve seen spectacles made from granite, shallot and clay.
We’re seeing something amazing tomorrow, what do you say?
No gift shop? The snack bar’s closed? No way!
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Oh my God – this just in:
We have a new couple – it’s such a sin!
Steve & Joey were sucking face
At such an ungodly pace.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Our director’s name is Jeff.
Kids say stupid things – he’s not deaf.
In his chin he has a cleft.
Girls, doesn’t he remind you of Hugh Hef?

His butt is tight as a rock.
He wears those sandals – no need for socks.
He chews tobacco, so occasionally a loogie he’ll hock.
Hey girls, wouldn’t you love to eat his—
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Trucker’s name is Michelle.
She cooks but she doesn’t do it well.
To the kids, her food she can’t sell.
If she uses the black pot again, she can go to hell!
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

We think bowling is #1:
Oh golly-gee, today I won!
We always have lots of fun,
And like 2000 pounds ain’t a ton.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

A girl named Dina got this job through some ties,
Always flirting with 15-year-old guys.
She doesn’t go further, she’s too wise—
She knows they ain’t the right size.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

A boy named Ken, boys are his biz.
A boy named Ken, here he is!
Certain girls fight to be his,
But he just needs a guitar as his miz.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Jordan loves to do the cots.
In the truck alone, she always fots.
She does the work for all the tots;
If they wanted applesauce, she’d run and get Motts.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

The counselor Lori creates quite a scare:
She’s even worse than a wild bear.
We love the way she wears her hair,
But on her legs she could use some Nair.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

As for me – Mark is my name.
Being Mr. Cleans is my game.
Gavin & Harry do my work but I’m not lame—
I wear surgical gloves so my cuticles don’t stain.
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Now the summer’s over, let’s all call Chip.
How did we ever get stuck with this trip?
Everyone is so uncool – they’re not hip.
We were expecting a vacation—
NOT A NIGHTMARE!
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.

Enough of the jokes, now it’s time to cry.
We really hate to say goodbye!
Oh my, oh my, oh my how the time did fly.
Everyone now – a heavy sigh!
The Wayfarer 14 blues, we love you.