I’ve recently returned from our youth leadership camp, CampFIRE.  Thirty-six incoming high school freshmen from Sheridan and Johnson counties kept Julie, I, and the YMCA camp counselors active and on our toes. It’s a 5-day, 4-night camp up at Camp Roberts above Buffalo, and I am not exaggerating when I estimate that 65-90% of the campers are not there of their own, enthusiastic free will. No, the majority were strongly coerced (also known as ordered) by their parents to attend.  I mean, “leadership camp” doesn’t sound very fun, especially when there is no cell service, and you don’t know who else will be there. These are all the prerequisites of a potentially terrible time for a teenager. Fortunately, in a matter of hours, these same reluctant campers are fully immersed in all the fun and team-building activities that make up CampFIRE.

I love the whole week, but the payoff really comes on the last day, when we interview the campers.  We asked them what we could improve, their favorite parts of the camp, and what they learned about themselves over the week.  So many kids have said over the years that they didn’t see themselves as a leader, but now they do.  They talk about how much they learned, how much fun they had, how sorry they are to go, and that, maybe, their parents may have been right.  They really are glad they came.

I learned something very important about myself at camp this year too.  Something I perhaps should have known before but has now become abundantly clear.  I am not fourteen years old.  No, no, I am not.  Nor can I move like a fourteen-year-old.  Just because I take a weights class at the YMCA, walk miles with my dogs, and hike whenever possible, I am not as spry as I was at fourteen.

I was playing Duck, Duck, Goose with a few campers one morning, mid-week.  I thought everyone knew this game from nursery school, but for those of you who haven’t played, it’s pretty straightforward.  Imagine musical chairs without chairs.  Everyone sits on the ground in a circle.  One person is chosen, and walks around patting everyone’s head, one at a time, saying “duck, duck, duck” as they pat and then, without warning, pats someone’s head yelling, “goose!” and that person jumps up and tries to tag them before they make it back to their open spot.

There’s quite a bit of strategy – you’re listening for a change in tone, readying your limbs to jump up and chase if you’re tagged, stuff like that. I can tell you; it wasn’t my first duck, duck, goose.  I’d already been tagged and chased one camper unsuccessfully. I would not be foiled again by these inexperienced youngsters. When I was tagged, I immediately hopped up to pursue.  Unfortunately, my brain’s reaction and the corresponding response of my 54-year-old legs did not work as planned. In my attempt to spring up, I must have twisted wrong, and the next thing I know, I was staggering, crying out in pain, and grabbing the back of my right leg.  Always the drama queen, I was pretty sure I’d broken it.  I’ve never broken anything, so who knew?

My Project Coordinator, Julie, was also an athletic trainer in college and diagnosed it as potentially a pulled hamstring.  All I knew was that walking was slow and painful, and sitting was worse.  Horizontal with an ice pack was ideal but not terribly practical given that it was the middle of the week with 36 active campers. The empathy I received from family members came in the form of bad waterfowl puns and jokes.

I made it to Friday and headed for a PT assessment.  I’d hurt my sciatic nerve.  This is not as nearly sexy as a pulled hamstring.  Hamstring says active, athletic, and outdoorsy.  Sciatic nerve says old, weak, and out of shape. I’m benched from dog walking and hiking for six weeks; a lifetime for Bob, Lloyd, and me.  But obviously, it could have been a lot worse.  The blow to my ego and sense of agelessness will take far longer than six weeks to recover from, though.  On the upside, how many people can claim getting hurt at Duck, Duck, Goose was work-related?