While scrubbing hardened marsh-mallow off my children's faces that night (don't get me started on how overrated s'mores are), I concluded that, next to the sustained, grueling servitude of the camping trip, the adventure race had been a walk in the park.
After breakfast on the final morning of the trip it was decided that the children would do the dishes. It was a Gong Show. While arguing over which one of them would man the spigot, they created a fair-sized wetland for migrating waterfowl but cleaned no dishes. Banishing them, I took over.
While performing this chore, my thoughts drifted to Team King Oscar's last hours on the Androscoggin River six nights earlier. The final leg of our race had been a nocturnal, hypothermia-inducing 24-mile paddle. True, it was warm at this campsite, but at least in Maine there was a damn finish line.