“I once sucked down a whole can of sardines — heads, guts and all, while only taking one breath.”
“Ok,’ I said. ‘You’re a liar.”
My friend Rex removed a can of sardines from his backpack, peeled back the lid, took one deep breath, and proceeded to slurp down the whole can — head, guts, and all.
“That’s just gross,” I muttered as I reached into my wallet to hand him a dollar bill.
We were playing “Liar”. A game where you would boast of some seemingly outlandish feat which only you could perform. If someone called you a liar but you were able to perform the stunt, they owed you a dollar. If you were bluffing and could not perform it, you owed them.
Rex, me, and two other 20-something guys were camping on the Middle Fork of the Nooksack River. It was late fall. We were camping light, and because there was no rain in the forecast, we spent the night under the stars in only our sleeping bags. It was quite possibly one of the coldest nights I have ever tried to sleep through. By morning, my drool was frozen to the side of my cheek. Had it not been for the unbearable need to go to the bathroom, I never would have gotten up until the sun had melted the ice off my sleeping bag. Luckily, with a little creativity and extreme flexibility, I was able to invert 180 degrees without leaving the sleeping bag. I now had my feet exposed and my head at the foot of the bag where my feet had been. There is no mistaking the smell of three-day old socks worn in wet leather boots. Standing upright with a great deal of awkwardness, I stumbled over river rock, up toward the brush now resembling a large walking pack of Blackjack Chewing Gum.
Eventually succumbing to the whining of the three other frozen campers, I started a fire and got the coffee water boiling.
Breakfast finished, we stood in a circle around the fire, shivering and hoping the sun would hurry up when one of the guys started the game of “Liar.”
“One time while playing Mumblety-peg, I put the tip of my jack knife on the end of my nose, flipped it off, sailed it eight feet and stuck it in the ground.”
“Liar!” someone scoffed.
He opened his jack knife, placed the tip on his nose and flipped the knife through the air.
“Ha! You owe us all one dollar and me a new air mattress.” I noted.
My turn. “I once lit my leg on fire with lighter fluid and put it out without burning my pants.”
Apparently, wanting to see me light myself on fire, they all in unison yelled, “Liar!”
“Prepare to see something amazing,’ I said, ‘and get out your dollar bills.”
I reached into my backpack and retrieved a can of lighter fluid used to refill my hand warmer. I then squirted a small amount on my right pant leg. Without a second thought, I waved my leg over the fire. The lighter fluid ignited with a flash. Bending over, I patted it out.
“Pay up boys. I lit my leg on fire.”
The immediate reaction was, “That was nothing! You led us to believe it was a big fire.”
Sensing that I was not going to get my money, I squirted more fluid on my pant leg and waved it over the fire. The flash was impressive enough to have them all jump away from the fire, which was now me.
“Yeow! Cripes!” I bent over and slapped at my pant leg to put out the flames but to no avail, there was too much fuel to burn off and now the flames were burning the skin off my leg.
It is odd how spectators do not seem to know what to do when someone else is in a panic. At least someone could have yelled, “Stop, Drop and Roll!” But they all stood there and watched, so my last line of defense was the river, and I ran toward it at a full gallop, all the while slapping at the flames. Then, just before taking a mighty leap off the bank into the icy river, the flames went out.
Limping back to the group I pulled up my pant leg to find a hairless shin and multiple blisters.
My 20s were the era of learning for me; I was always trying to figure out what I could get away with, and I ended up finding out the hard way. On our trip home from the middle fork my leg throbbed and the truck cab smelled of burnt hair, but even in that bleak hour I found that there was something I could be glad about . . . I was three dollars richer.
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One reply on “Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire”
What I was wondering was… 1) when you did the 180-inversion in your sleeping bag, why your feet are revealed to still have your hiking boots on — because who does that? — and 2) how wet did the inside of your sleeping bag get when you stopped at the forest’s edge and decided to stay inside to avoid the cold as though the bag was a portable insulated outhouse? I do like the appearance of the built-in outhouse roof vent at the top, though. Nice touch.