🐍 Snakes, Soaked Wood & River Baths: Just Another Day in the Wilderness

Let me tell you about my latest “relaxing” camping trip—because apparently, Mother Nature heard I wanted peace and said,

“Cute. Here’s a snake.”

We’d barely settled in when my granddaughter decided to go full nature sprite, catching minnows barefoot in the river like she was starring in a documentary called “Adorable and Oblivious.” All was right with the world… until a whole water moccasin slithered out from under the rock she was standing on. Cue the scream, the panic, the splash—and me aging approximately three years in under thirty seconds.

Meanwhile, my grandson was in full fisherman mode—casting, catching, and proudly showing off every little fish like he’d just reeled in a record-breaker. I cheered, took photos, and tried not to think about what else might be swimming nearby with teeth.

Later, we all made our way down to the boat ramp for bath time. Yes, bath time. That river pulled triple duty—minnow pond, fishin’ hole, and outdoor tub. The kids thought bathing in the wild was absolutely hilarious. There were bubbles. There was shrieking. Someone may have almost floated away. Honestly, it was one of the best parts of the trip.

Then, in classic “camping-with-a-side-of-chaos” fashion, we made a quick trip to town to grab some supplies and drop my grandchildren off (I’m alone at this point). Seems simple enough… until that short errand bumped my snake encounter total to seven. SEVEN. I don’t know what kind of reptile reunion was happening out there, but they were slithering like they paid rent. I’m not saying I’m a snake-wrangler now, but my résumé is getting suspiciously wild.

Back at camp, it was time to hunt down firewood. I hadn’t picked any up on the way in (because my car was packed tighter than a can of biscuits), so I unloaded, turned right around, and headed back out. And of course—that’s when the sky opened up and dumped a whole storm on me. My dry spot? Gone. My pants? Soaked. My firewood? Might as well have been driftwood.

But did I quit? Please. I stomped through the rain like a soggy, determined forest gremlin and hauled those wet logs back like a woman on a mission. Wet wood may be stubborn, but I am stubborn-er. Eventually, through sheer willpower (and maybe some muttering), I got a fire going. I’m basically a damp fire wizard now. Steam-powered and slightly feral.

THEN I channeled my inner wilderness chef. Pork roast. Foil-pack veggies—squash, potatoes, peppers, onions. Cooked right over that stubborn, steaming fire. I smelled like smoke and victory. Rustic cuisine, courtesy of pure grit and slightly damp determination.

And just when I thought I’d finally earned a sit-down and a s’more, a group of teenagers rolled up and tried to light a fire next to my site. Keyword: tried. They were struggling. Like, “sacrificing a marshmallow to the fire gods” struggling. So of course, I stepped in. Taught ‘em a thing or two. And just like that, I became the campground’s unofficial Fire Mom.

So was it peaceful? Eh, depends on your definition.

There were snakes.

There was soaked wood.

There was me—muddy, tired, smelling like hickory smoke and mild regret.

But there were also giggling grandkids, wild river baths, fish tales, and a fire that finally burned bright.

And that? That’s the good stuff.

For more stories of fire, family, and the occasional rogue reptile, visit mgsjourneys.net.

Just… maybe wear boots. You never know what’s under that next rock.