This is the story of a very special bird. A bird that doesn’t fly, doesn’t sing, and never eats worms. This is the story of a very special species of bird that flips.

As I may have mentioned in a previous tale, I was a Boy Scout. I know how to tie knots, build a fire, and identify every single kind of tree that grows in south Alabama, and as luck would have it, those are the three skills that no employers in their right minds are looking for. Despite my excessive zombie apocalypse training, unfortunate things can still happen. Things which no one can predict.

One of my fellow Scouters was a guy called Alex Deters. He wasn’t really big, nor really small. He had scruffy blond hair and a tendency to talk really fast in between long pauses. Despite his unkempt appearance, he was a nice guy, led the troop well on many occasions, and was a good friend.

One cold winter, Deeters, as we fondly called him, went with us up to Wisconsin, where our sister troop held an annual winter survival camp. It was a typical Boy Scout ordeal. We learned first aid, primitive fire building, and how to build a survival shelter. That year we only had enough ice for one very sad looking igloo, but that was the next day’s activity, so when we arrived at night we were shelter-less. I remember some of the older boys stepped off to the side to argue about what to do, and while they were conferring, I was placed in charge of the troop. I will neither confirm nor deny that we had an awesome snowball fight in the dark in direct defiance of our adult supervision.

After a long discussion and a huge ball of snow mysteriously flying into a kid’s eye by accident, we decided not to set up individual tents, and instead set up the parachute.

The parachute was exactly that. It was an old, repurposed army surplus skydiving parachute, probably from the Korean War. We set it up set up using tension with a single pole in the center and tie downs every two feet for the entire circumference. During the winter months, we would put a wood burning stove in the center and run the excessively long stove pipe up the center pole and out the hole in the top. This was our favorite set up because it meant we all slept in a circle around the stove and basically had a huge slumber party, though at the time we would never have called it that.

We built a quick fire for the stove that night and all settled down to get some sleep. When we awoke the following morning, we went through our routine of making breakfast and waterproofing our gear just in case the stove melted too much snow. Then we went to class. I’m not sure what we were talking about, but I’m sure it had something to do with knots or first aid or something of that sort. The morning went by really slowly, and I remember I wanted to get to the snow shelters and igloo building. Then Deters happened.

Friends, there are times we all do stupid things. It’s only human to do so. This was one of those times for young Mr. Deters. Around lunch, the fire in the stove was dwindling, so being the good Scout that he was, so being the ever-good scout he was, he decided to add a little more fuel to the fire. The stove was only large enough for about three small logs, but Deters had to put in four with one halfway out the stove door. The fourth log soon caught fire and inevitably fell out, unbeknownst to us.

A short while later, I was having a very nice turkey sandwich and enjoying it thoroughly, when one of the younger guys meekly called out

“Uh… Guys? Is the ground supposed to be on fire?”

We all leaped to our feet to confirm what our young comrade had inquired about. Indeed, the grass under the stove and the area around it was either blackened or still burning. We all bolted over to our own bedrolls to get them clear of the flames. Somebody called for water, and another yelled back to use the snow. Still gripping my sandwich tightly, I began to stomp out the smoldering grass around my area. Unfortunately, while my bedroll was just as far from the stove as the rest, my backpack was in between the stove and my bed and it just happened to be on fire. I moved quickly to try to smother the parts that were ablaze, but the large trash bag that I was using as a pack cover kept burning despite my efforts. I decided to pull it off.

I stood up my pack and in one motion ripped off what was left of the sack while the loose frame tumbled to the ground.

I mentioned earlier that there are times when all people do stupid things. This happened to be one of those times for me as well. I got the bag off and let it go, but a few seconds later my left hand suddenly felt like it was in the process of being incinerated. I’m not sure how or when it happened, but some of the burning plastic from the bag flung back and splattered on my hand, the majority of it landing directly on my middle finger. It seared its way straight through the muscle, and before I could comprehend what had just happened, I found my hand involuntarily plunged into a small pile of snow. I sat there for a couple seconds wondering what had happened. The cold felt really good, but my curiosity outweighed any pain I was experiencing so I pulled it out of the drift to take a look.

My finger was charred black. There were little dark speckles on my other fingers where other drops of melted plastic had fallen on my hand. I remember thinking that it looked badass and then thinking that I was weird for thinking that. And then it occurred to me that I had literally burnt part of my finger off. I secretly thought that was pretty awesome too.

One of the adults quickly came over to help me, as he had seen the entire event unfold. We scraped off the plastic and got me patched up. The adults wanted to send me home, but we were more than a few hours away so it would’ve been a logistical nightmare. I was very grateful for that because whether I had all five fingers or a stump hand, I was intent on building an igloo. I called my parents upon request, and when I explained the situation to my dad he said quote,

“You’ll be fine. Just keep the bandage on it, take some Advil, and we’ll take a look when you get home.” So that’s what I did.

The rest of the weekend was pretty fun! I built my igloo, we spent about three to four hours that night looking at a full night sky, and I got an extra helping of hobo stew and two more turkey sandwiches for dinner. It was a good day.

When I got home a day and a half later, I walked in the door where my mother was there to greet me.

“Where’d you burn yourself?” She asked.

I looked down at my bandaged middle finger, and then back at her… and I promptly flipped her the bird.

-Nickel