The year? Late 1983, midway through a typically frigid December.

The scene? Camp Wonderland – a stone’s throw Southwest of Salem, WI. More specifically, on Center Lake at Camp Wonderland.

The time? Late afternoon, under a cloud-ish and rapidly darkening winter sky.

Why was I at Camp Wonderland? Because I was a Boy Scout on a winter camping trip along with some of my buddies – the Miller twins, Tom Lorello, Frankie Albano and Ryan Yocum. The Miller’s were by far the most outdoorsy and woodsy of the group so they were typically well prepared. The scout leaders were along with few of our dads, notably Roger “Big Rog” Miller and my pops, George. We were also 12 at this point – an age at which we hadn’t yet learned that “winter” and “camping trip” were three words that didn’t belong in the same sentence (they still don’t, by the way).  But this wasn’t the normal winter camping trip because Camp Wonderland had a lodge instead of tents. Central heating instead of a pathetic campfire made by frostbite-adjacent pre-teens. Cots with mattresses instead of raggedy-ass sleeping bags on top of an unpadded tarp that provided zero comfort or protection from rocks and branches and frozen dirt. And the crowning glory of Camp Wonderland? They had a concession stand. A CONCESSION STAND!

This was probably the only scout camping trip I actually looked forward to since it wasn’t really “camping” and I could spend my hard earned Aurora Beacon News paper-route money on frozen pizzas, Ding Dongs and enough cans of pop to develop diabetes over the course of 24-36 hours.

For those of you unfamiliar with this scene, most boy scout camping trips are in the middle of the woods and, if memory serves, there was some sort of message or lesson we were supposed to take away while we acclimated ourselves to the outdoors. For the life of me, I can’t remember a single one. Perhaps it was because this was my last year of scouts and my interests had quickly migrated from merit badges and wearing an ugly ass uniform with (complete with a  kerchief)  to Van Halen, soccer and a cute blonde girl at Lincoln Junior High.

Full disclosure, I was never much for the kerchief look.

But this trip was always one my friends and I were excited for on account of the aforementioned amenities and the fact we were introduced to gambling and poker by our dads and some of the older boys on the trip. Before the Fun Dip and frozen vanilla Charleston Chew-fueled shenanigans could begin, we had to tolerate a 4-5 mile winter hike before the fun could begin. Why a winter hike? Maybe it was to identify winter migration patterns of the red breasted titmouse. Or perhaps it was to learn how to use a compass, which, truth be told, I was supposed to have known already. Or, a more likely explanation, because our scout leaders had some had some new hiking boots they wanted to break in and what better way to do that than taking ~8-10 boys out in the 23-degree glory of Southern Wisconsin, right? Right. And if you ever had the good fortune of meeting Big Rog or George, you know they were 4,000% behind this plan – something about fresh air and nature. Whatevs. Insert the hard eye roll of a ready-to-OD-on-sugar 12-year-old here.

Our negotiating skills being what you might expect from a group of short attention span junior high idiots, we retreated to our rooms to layer up – pulling on mismatched hats and gloves and snow-pants (because it was the 80’s, that’s why) and socks entirely too thin for the ensuing boondoggle and headed out the cabin door toward Center Lake. Wandering through the woods. Kicking rocks. Throwing sticks. Bitching about the cold. Wishing Lorello had his trusty cassette deck to entertain us with some AC/DC or J. Geils Band or Billy Squier. Some of us tried running in an effort to end the hike sooner only to be told by our overzealous leaders to slow down and come back to the group and take time to look at the way an oak tree had fallen and how it now provided shelter for a family of possums or some such nonsense.

Wait…Possum? Possums? Possi? Posse? Forgive me – I don’t know the plural of possum, which in retrospect is probably one of the exact scout camping trip lessons I forgot on account of my increasing interest in Van Halen, soccer and the aforementioned cute blonde girl at Lincoln Jr. High. The point here is that we were trying everything in our power to end this hike and kick start our Saturday night chaos of  deep fried concession deliciousness and bluffing a garbage hand of two pair in the hopes of winning a whole $0.75 pot in five card draw.

Fast forward an hour or so and the brain trust of myself and the Miller twins decided we’d had enough of the over the river and through the woods schtick so what better to do than shorten our return trip by walking across the lake. I mean – it was December and it was Wisconsin so the lake had frozen over and we figured what the Hell. Shockingly, none of our rule militant leaders put the kibosh on this plan and how we snuck this past Big Rog and George I still have no idea. But that concession stand was so close we could smell it and we trudged on, or more likely, slid.  All was going just fine as the lights of the lodge got closer and closer. Our spirits were lifted with each step at the thought of going inside to nice warm heat, as opposed to sitting outside a campfire and trying to stay warm in a 0.643 millimeter thick nylon tent. The closer we got, the rowdier we got and while in the throes of rowdiness it’s easy to not pay attention to the little things. In hindsight, ‘staying away from the edges of a frozen lake where the ice might be a little thinner and not withstanding of a 117-pound boy’ probably qualifies as something more than a ‘little thing’.  But was 12-year-old Josh concerned with that?

Nope.

He was not.

Not even a little bit.

And just like that, quicker than I could say, “Remind me again why winter camping trips are necessary?”, I pulled a reverse-Icarus and stepped on a patch of too-thin ice and plunged into Center Lake. And it was 23 degrees. And I was in full winter outdoor gear.

My worst fear was thankfully abated when my feet touched the bottom of the lake and I immediately realized the water was ‘only’ chest deep. I quickly started to push myself up on the ice but given the lack of support, the ice kept breaking. I was equally thankful at this point that Matt Miller was the living, breathing embodiment of the Boy Scout motto ‘Be Prepared!” and reached out to grab my arm and pull me to safety. Frigid winter safety, but safety none the less. By this point the spectacle of Scuba Josh had gotten the attention of the rest of the group which was in varying stages of laughter (my friends), concern (George and Big Rog) and full-throated rage (the scout master – whose name I forget – was screaming about how dangerous this was and possibly how much of a dumbass I was for walking that close to thin ice). We were quickly ordered off the lake and shortly thereafter our Godforsaken hike was over.

Pro tip: walking a mile or so when you’re drenched from the armpits down in ~23 degree weather is not something I recommend.

Silver lining, though. I won $4.75 in poker later that night. Blew half of it on a frozen Totino’s pizza, Ding Dongs, a frozen Charleston Chew and a Coke. Blew the other half on a bitchin’ pocket knife at a truck stop just outside of Antioch when George wasn’t looking.

And, in a hint of foreshadowing and paying it forward, I recently channeled my inner Matt Miller and saved my buddy Duane from falling into Lake Geneva during a 3:17am walk home on the Shore Path after a too-long night at Fat Cat’s.

True story.