When I was thirteen, I went to a girls camp for a week up in the Uintah Mountains with an acquaintance from my neighborhood. We had young-adult camp counselors, enjoyed fun activities, slept in cabins, ate all together in a big lodge, and learned a lot of funny camp songs. It was great.
For one of the group activities, the counselors blindfolded us. They called it a P.O.W. activity, but I think it must have been some kind of faith or trust walk. I'm not sure exactly what it was supposed to be because I missed out on some of the experience.
After we were blindfolded, we stood in a long line. We had to follow the person in front of us with one hand on their shoulder. My acquaintance, Lisa, walked in front of me in the human chain.
"Absolutely no talking," the counselors told all of us. "You can't laugh either."
I took those instructions very seriously. I was a trusting and obedient young girl. I fully intended to follow every rule. I wasn't going to peek under the blindfold or talk for any reason.
"Don't be afraid. You will be okay, even if unusual things happen to you. It will be a very powerful experience," said our counselor.
We blindly, silently followed in the line around trees and through meadows. The leaders used walking sticks to guide and nudge us along and around bushes.
After a long time of quiet, except for the wind in the trees, buzzing insects, and singing birds, I felt a quick, sharp stab on the side of my right foot. Was this one of the "unusual things" that was supposed to happen that I shouldn't fear? Was a leader trying to teach me a lesson by poking my foot?
Whatever it was, the pain was intensifying, but I was determined not to peek and to stay quiet. My foot was incessantly throbbing. Why were they still hurting me? Was I really supposed to learn something from this?
Even though it was against the rules, I finally peeked under my blindfold and saw a thin white thing stuck through my shoe and into my foot. Was this happening to everyone?
Even though it was against the rules, I whispered to Lisa, "Did you get poked with a stick? It really hurts. Should I say something?"
With no hesitation, Lisa lifted her blindfold. Her eyes went wide when she saw my foot. "Help!" she yelled. I told her to be quiet; I reminded her we weren't supposed to talk, but she must have recognized what happened to me.
Lisa's yell got the attention of the counselors. They pulled me and Lisa out of line to find out what was happening. I'm pretty sure they told Lisa to get back in line, but my counselor immediately took me to the lodge to get help.
A counselor didn't poke me. There was a porcupine quill in the side of my foot. I must have brushed past a hiding or sleeping porcupine.
The camp nurse and camp director were both busy, but another counselor came to the nurse's office to try to help me.
Porcupine quills can be a little difficult to remove because they have barbs on the end, like tiny hooks. You can't easily pull them straight out. To spare me pain, the counselor first cut the quill shorter with scissors. Then, she made a small hole in my white canvas tennis shoe around the quill. After wiggling the quill, it still didn't come out, so they carefully pulled off my shoe to try to get easier access. During that painful process, the quill fell out on its own.
Finally, the camp director came to help. She washed my wound with green antibacterial soap, then put a band-aid on it.
To me, it's almost a sad story because I was so unnecessarily trusting, submissive, and slow to get help. I have since learned to feel more compassion for myself. I have learned that powerful experiences don't have to be painful. There are times rules should be broken. Maybe Lisa should have received a bravery award since she had the courage to ask for the help I needed despite the rules.
I kept the tip of the quill. Six days later, I taped it into my journal (pictured here) and wrote very little about the experience and almost nothing about the camp. Even so, I remember.
"There are times rules should be broken."
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