We call it "Guys Night Out" At exactly noon on Friday, four of us quietly switched off our computers, watched the screens flicker and go black, and headed for the door with no intention of coming back. A few co-workers suspected that our "Friday dress code" of jeans, fleece and hiking boots were hints of adventure to be, and were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.

We grouped at my SUV, tossed our backpacks inside, and slipped out of town. Our destination, the southwest sector of Mohican State Forest in Ohio, is about 40 minutes away.

I was hitting the trail today with Dave the GearHead (he personally owns 300 pounds of the lightest camping gear made), Youngstown Scotty, Hikin' Mike, and Mike's son, Paul the FireKeeper. And missing-in-action this year is Let's Do It Dick, the ex-Navy Seal who could slog through three-feet of snow like a tank on a task. Had work to do, or so he claimed.

We strapped on our nylon homes-away-from-home and walked away from civilization. Each step jettisoned vast stressloads of excessive e-mail, voicemail, faxes, cell phones, pagers and software that will make us smarter.

The rules are simple. No women are allowed. Not that any of our women are fool enough to camp in 25-degree weather — the rule merely lets us do many things too crude to mention here.

We popped our tents in a steep valley carved by a cold stream while hoot owls shrieked obscenities at us. We gathered wood, made a campfire and began to cook our vittles. Dave the GearHead cooked all kinds of fancy freeze-dried stuff over a lightweight, high-tech stove while the rest of us scorched cans of stew on the fire. The GearHead made lots of friends that night. Not only does he have the best eats, he has all the cool toys.

I put a well-dented, discolored aluminum coffee pot into the hot coals. This pot had traveled with me around most of the continent for a quarter of a century. Through the smoke, it had seen a lot of beautiful wilderness on its many journeys on land and across water.

Then the good stuff started to be passed 'round. We talked around the fire light — trails we had trekked, mountains we had climbed, rivers we had run and hearts we had broken. We even retold the "glory stories" we had heard along the way. Many sagas were epilogued with laughter and our bond was firmly established.

The GearHead shared the experiences of his 47-day camping trip up the Alaska and Dalton highways above the Arctic Circle to Prudhoe Bay. Youngstown Scotty replayed a mishap in mountainous Mexico. Hikin' Mike told of his recent whitewater trips. The FireKeeper talked of losing major skin in a nasty mountain bike endo and kept the fire going. Quite often, the speaker stood to re-enact his role or a victim's part of the plot.

Through the smokescreen of the fire I could vividly see my comrades as they faced insurmountable odds and met the most amazing creatures. Grizzly bears, conniving raccoons, "freshwater bull sharks" chasing terrified river rafters, the revenge of a resourceful hotel maid, and the hard-nosed Mexican Police all danced to life above the fire.

As the flames flickered in the midst of our laughter, I knew that this is how life should be. The origins of language occurred around a fire — aborigines made guttural sounds to describe their daily escapades, and much later, verbal histories were passed on to younger generations around the campfires of long ago. And here was a bunch of engineers and media professionals continuing that traditional artform.

On the evening of my return from "the woods", my wife and I rented some videos and invited some friends over. For what seemed like forever, we watched the standard fare of car chase carnage, exploding helicopters and 9mm-bullet-riddled bloodbaths. Each special effect was loosely tied by a weak plot that gradually threaded its way toward a frayed end. It was totally senseless.

As the credits finally scrolled across the screen, I sensed that the tales told far exceeded any multimillion dollar Hollywood celluloid. Why? The live theatre of the mind is much better than the images that can be conjured up on cinemascope. The magic of storytelling should be the main substance of our livelihood.

Would someone please light the fire?

— Nelson Shogren, Livin' the Life for MountainZone.com