Nice and cozy.

Writer Jeff Alt sent us an excerpt from from Chapter 24 of his new book, ‘A Walk for Sunshine.’

[Adds Alt: This is my second night hiking the Appalachian Trail.  I’ve assembled camp in a shelter on top of Blood Mountain, Georgia...]

I turned off my headlamp and burrowed deep into my sleeping bag to keep warm. In spite of the cold, I managed to doze off sometime later, only to be awakened by a heavy object moving across my feet and lower legs. I could hear my heart beating over the sound of an unknown creature moving around on top of my legs. Not knowing what to expect, I cautiously reached out, grabbed my flashlight, and turned it on. A skunk was lying on my sleeping bag! I cautiously nudged it with my foot, and it jumped off the platform, raising its tail. Great. The last thing I needed was a putrid scent on my gear and body, but the skunk didn’t spray me. Instead, it ducked out of sight under the bunk platform, which was about eight inches off the ground.

I took out my candle and lit it. I figured the little critter would leave me alone, being afraid of flames. I was wrong. Twenty minutes later, I felt the weight drop on my feet and legs again, I sat up, and there he was, sprawled out on my sleeping bag again. The candle had given him enough light to precisely place his body between my legs on my bag. I decided that he just wanted to keep warm and that he was going to stay there, so I lay back down. Believe it or not, I actually fell asleep with a skunk on my feet. — Jeff Alt

(3 votes, average: 4.67 out of 5)

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Business meetings ought to be a bit more exciting.

Here’s the last of three tales from Greg Dobbs, an Emmy-winning producer and correspondent for 23 years with ABC, taken from his new book, Life in the Wrong Lane - Why Journalists Go In When Everyone Else Wants Out.

From the chapter I WAS ONLY DRIVING AN AMBULANCE ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT

(On Dobbs’ meeting with an arms dealer in Beirut)

Just as quickly as my contact had appeared out of nowhere, two more guys did the same. But they didn’t sit down at the table. They towered over it.

My tablemate started shaking. Not a single word from our visitors, but he seemed to know who they were and why they were there, and he was shaking, and starting to mutter, and then squeal, “No, not me, no, not me, nooo  …”

It didn’t really seem like a party where I wanted to stay. But it didn’t seem like I could just get up and leave, either.

It felt like they stood there for a minute or so, just staring down at this guy next to me. But there was a message in their eyes: “Come peacefully, or not. Up to you.”

Not.

I don’t think the shaking man at my side actually made some kind of conscious decision to hold his ground. I think he was just too scared to move. So they moved first. These two thugs reached over the table, each grabbing this guy under one arm, and pulled him across. Coffee cups and cream and sugar bowls went flying, but hey, the owner can always buy more.

My contact wasn’t just squealing anymore, he was screaming. “Noo, nooo, pleeeese, noooo, nooooo, noooooo!”

Three things flew through my mind: 1) Live by the sword, die by the sword; 2) Maybe instead of journalism school, I should have gone to law school; 3) I was really glad I never learned the guy’s name.

Now let me tell you what happened with our eyes: mine never met his. The abductors were bad guys, but he was too, and I didn’t want any part of his problem.

And their eyes never met mine. They were about as interested in me as they were in the porcelain now shattered on the floor. Thank goodness!

The other customers, veterans of life in Beirut, never looked up. Well, maybe once, but then they quickly resumed the appearance of non-involvement that had kept them alive so far through all the years of Lebanon’s civil war.

That was the last time I saw the guy who sent me a message to meet him at the Alexander. The last time I even heard about him. His abductors had to drag him, kicking uselessly, all the way to a car. My hearing’s not so hot, but I could hear him screaming ’til they slammed the door on their way out. I don’t suppose he screamed much longer.

That might have been the end of it. But I couldn’t be sure. Some mysterious American arms dealer had just been dragged kicking and screaming from a hotel coffee shop by a couple of mysterious Arab thugs, and I was the other guy at the table. Worse still, he had left the briefcase.

—Greg Dobbs

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Teamwork builds character!

Isn’t delving into deep nature a feast for the soul? Yeah, sure it is! Except when it becomes more like ‘Lord of the Flies’. Here’s a new yarn from Tetsuhiko Endo on that all-American rite of passage, the Outward Bound adventure, and what happens when the counselors think you’ve reached a higher plane and  leave you to your own devices, lost in a giant bog. Enjoy — Ed.

In the summer before my senior year of high school, I went on a canoeing and climbing trip, with Outward Bound, in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area of Minnesota. I was seventeen, and had just spectacularly bombed out of a 10-year junior tennis career with a very public burnout. Suddenly finding myself without the usual summer of traveling to tournaments around the country, trying to smite other stressed out 17 year-olds, it seemed like an opportune time to go on a bit of an adventure.

Before choosing the trip, I had never heard of the Boundary Waters. It is a vast region of wilderness between the border of Minnesota and Ontario that was home to roughly 1,200 interconnected lakes. The pictures were pretty and I had just gotten into rock climbing, so, why not? What I failed to notice about the pictures was that they were all taken from the air. That’s because the Boundary Waters is a far nicer place to look down of from a bush plane than to slog through with a canoe. But more on that later… (more…)

(2 votes, average: 3 out of 5)

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I don’t currently own a pair of Tevas, but everything about this ridiculous spoof of Man Vs. Wild made me want to buy some. Yes, it’s sophomoric, but it’s also dead on.

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Here’s a yarn from the writer Bill Gifford: Eight friends went hot-air ballooning in the Poconos on a perfect spring day. What could possibly go wrong?

      I’ve done plenty of stupid stuff that could have killed me, everything from backcountry skiing after a snowstorm without avalanche gear (or knowledge), to riding a moped on the island of Mykonos after consuming some sort of blue drink, without lights and late at night. Bad ideas, all. But the worst it ever got, the closest I’ve ever come to starring in one of those two-inch stories buried in the back of the New York Times, happened in the Poconos. In the basket of a hot air balloon.

If you’ve ever been ballooning, then you know that there’s basically nothing less extreme—and nothing more peaceful. You ascend silently, borne up by the power of warmed gases, and then you drift along with the wind, in perfect relative stillness, high above the world and its busy little tangle of people and problems. Cars slow to watch, the people inside pointing and going, “Look! A hot-air balloon!” Many people seem to get engaged on balloon rides; perhaps you did, too. This is the story of a balloon ride gone wrong. (more…)

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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In early May 2009 TheAccidentalExtremist.com traveled to the Scottish Highlands to follow the Drambuie Pursuit, a one-of-a-kind, two-day, nine-stage adventure race open to teams of amateur athletes from around the world. Hundreds of weekend warriors applied, but only 13 four-person teams made the cut. Among the racers were dot-com desk jockeys, landscapers, and even an online poker player (but not yours truly, except for the mountain climb stage. I was too busy sampling the fermented Highland wares and gawking at amazing old castles). There were also hard-core adventure racers ready for serious battle. Some of them weren’t exactly prepared for the experience that ensued. But that didn’t stop them from going all out—and having a great time. We did, too. Watch and enjoy!

The Accidental Extremist: Drambuie Pursuit ‘09 from Christian DeBenedetti on Vimeo.

Feel like you’ve got what it takes? Applications are being accepted now. If you win, it’s an all-expenses paid trip to Scotland (and back, unless it kills you, and there are sections that just might) and a chance to rub shoulders with the likes of Seann William Scott, a.k.a. Stiffler, last year’s celebrity contestant.

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It could happen to you.

Dear Readers, we’re delighted to bring you a whopper of a true (!) tale from Minneapolis, MN-based writer FRANK BURES. Originally published in Harper’s, this wild and woolly yarn of juju, dismemberment, and cultural phantasmagoria was selected for the Best American Travel Writing 2009. Frank is an old friend from my Portland days, and, to the best of my knowledge, he has never tried to steal anyone’s penis. On the contrary, this is his story of tracking down the pernicious villains. Warning, you may find yourself thinking about it on the subway, just for starters.

No one is entirely sure when magical penis loss first came to Africa. One early incident was recounted by Dr. Sunday Ilechukwu, a psychiatrist, in a letter some years ago to the Transcultural Psychiatric Review. In 1975, while posted in Kaduna, in the north of Nigeria, Dr. Ilechukwu was sitting in his office when a policeman escorted in two men and asked for a medical assessment. One of the men had accused the other of making his penis disappear. This had caused a major disturbance in the street. As Ilechukwu tells it, the victim stared straight ahead during the examination, after which the doctor pronounced him normal. “Exclaiming,” Ilechukwu wrote, “the patient looked down at his groin for the first time, suggesting that the genitals had just reappeared.”

According to Ilechukwu, an epidemic of penis theft swept Nigeria between 1975 and 1977. Then there seemed to be a lull until 1990, when the stealing resurged. “Men could be seen in the streets of Lagos holding on to their genitalia either openly or discreetly with their hand in their pockets,” Ilechukwu wrote. “Women were also seen holding on to their breasts directly or discreetly, by crossing the hands across the chest. . . . Vigilance and anticipatory aggression were thought to be good prophylaxes. This led to further breakdown of law and order.” In a typical incident, someone would suddenly yell: Thief! My genitals are gone! Then a culprit would be identified, apprehended, and, often, killed. (more…)

(3 votes, average: 4.33 out of 5)

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This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.

Here’s another yarn from the fearless Tetsuhiko Endo, who laughs in the face of reefs and big waves, even when they laugh right back in his face, with bloody results. — Ed.

“How was the sunrise church service?” My mom asked over the phone.

“It was gweat,” I replied through a mouth full of broken teeth and one severely swollen tongue. 

“Were there a lot of people there?”

“A foo people,” I thought quickly.  “Pwobably mo’ than usual because it was Eastuh, but it was jus the wight amount.  We had a gweat time.”

“That’s good.  And, honey: what’s wrong with your voice?”

“Well…” (more…)

(2 votes, average: 4.5 out of 5)

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Underwater, no one can hear you scream.

Here’s a hilarious eyebrow-raiser from a lusty lass who travels far and wide, stopping at nothing in pursuit of thrills and chills on the road. Almost nothing, that is! Let’s just say it’s rated NC-17, and consider yourselves forewarned.— Ed.

I have spent approximately one year of my life in Indonesia. During my travels there, I had many encounters with Indonesian men who wanted to sleep with me. This is the story of one. Perhaps I’ll write about the others later.

I was backpacking with a French girl possessed of a high sex drive, and each place we stopped on our northern route through the island of Sulawesi—to see the dead bodies in the trees, to see mysterious stones, to see giant blue butterflies—it was her habit, her instinct, to quickly identify the most pleasing man in the village or the town or hotel, drink with him, flirt with him, and eventually sleep with him.

This also affected my travel experience, for if you travel with a carte blanche humper, you too are likely to be pegged as one, which meant that after my French companion had chosen her lay of the day, I’d be left to thwart the attentions of his companion, who was invariably less attractive, less interesting, but always hoping to win access to my lightweight-cotton drawstring pants. (more…)

(2 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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Come and be one with Mother Earth!

Here’s the story I read at The Accidental Extremist Launch Party and Reading on May 21. Enjoy — CDB

             In 1996 I was headed for Scotland from London on a bullet train flying through the forest. Wind and leaves whorled around the cars hurtling toward the highlands, but no amount of drizzle could dampen my spirits. I was going to meet a girl I’d never met from my same scholarship program, named Beth, who was studying fiddle music—and I was ready for a break from dreary London.

           When I’d spoken to Beth a few days before she’d asked me: would I mind doing something a bit unusual on day one? There was some party, in some cave, and would I come? That sounded like a perfectly normal thing to do with strangers I’d never met, so I agreed. 

(more…)

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(3 votes, average: 4.67 out of 5)

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