The s’more the merrier

I believe that a Cub Scout campout is the most fun you could ever have. I say that about a lot of things, but this time I’m fairly certain.

At a Cub Scout campout, you get all the things you could possibly want out of life — adventure, good company, exquisite dining options. It’s relatively cheap too, though I don’t have the exact price. Once you include chiropractor care — or factor in the cost of group therapy after a bear attack — the price tends to escalate.

We were up near Monrovia the other day, which in itself is glamorous enough, and then you make your way up into the surrounding mountains, where Camp Trask happens to be. Camp Trask is a high-security scout camp/prison of the first order. Über-security is always the first thing I look for in five-star lodging.

Of course, the key to a good camping experience is a level campsite, which really doesn’t exist in California. For 20 years, I’ve looked for a level campsite in this state with no luck. The whole place tilts toward the sea at a 20-degree angle or better. So you are left with the decision, “In the course of the evening, do I want the blood to pool in my eye sockets or in my toes?”

Naturally, I always choose my eye sockets.

The next thing we do is put up the tents, a four-hour ordeal to which I’m pretty sure you could sell tickets. A week later, one guy, Joe, is still up there somewhere trying to assemble his six-person tent. Or he’s trying to take it down. Or, he’s opened up a shop that sells kites and nylon sails. With Joe, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Dad?”

“Huh?”

“A duck peed on me,” the little guy reports.

“Congratulations,” I say.

Duck pee is the least of our problems, for the scout master reports that there are black bears in them thar woods. Monrovia itself has a reputation as a popular bear retreat. Every time you turn on the TV news, they are pulling some hapless bear out of a backyard Jacuzzi. But you really never expect to see them in the mountains like this.

Anyway, we heed the warning and immediately slather the kids with marshmallow, which is an old Indian trick for repelling bears, at least that’s what my buddy Eric tells me. Or maybe it was Ted.

The way we do this is by serving s’mores for dessert, cooked to perfection over the tiny propane grill I’ve brought. I’m not sure it’s legal to have a grill like this at Camp Trask. Looking at the rules, pretty much everything here is illegal. They won’t even let you shoot off guns.

By the way, I’m not sure any of the kids has eaten dinner. In fact, judging by the way they attack the s’mores, they have not eaten in weeks. To 6- and 7-year-old boys, a s’more is like good whiskey. It makes them lightheaded and prone to violence.

So around this little grill they gather, some 30 scouts holding flaming marshmallows. I scream that they are not to wave the flaming marshmallows around, or the grill will be immediately turned off. Maybe it is the tone of voice I use — desperate, almost psychotic — but several of them listen.

The chocolate runs out first, then the graham crackers. Fortunately, someone has thought to bring 40,000 marshmallows, which keep the lads busy a while. By the time they go off to bed, they have morphed into candy. They are exceedingly happy and not at all quiet.

By 11 or so, I am ready for bed as well. The prospect of sleeping on the Earth’s outer crust does not appeal to me the way it does the scouts. As I may have mentioned in the past, I have a sturdy back but a very tender schnitzel — the longest muscle in the human body. In my case, it runs from the back of my tongue, wraps twice around the rib cage, down the buttocks and eventually to my trick knee. So I lay down gingerly on my nylon sleeping bag, as if storing away crystal.

In the middle of the night, I hear the bear. I don’t fear bears, or any beast, unless they are very, very hungry, in which case I’ll make an exception.

Here are the things that race through my head as I hear the bear snorting around our camp: It is too soon for death, for I haven’t even cast my all-star ballot yet. I also reflect on the fact that the big bottle of vodka back home in the garage is still half-full. Those are two humongous things to live for right there.

No, I am too young (and thirsty) to die. But there is a bear in our camp. And he’s got home-field advantage.

Next week: confronting the bear.

chris.erskine@latimes.com