We Broke the Law in New York State

The summer I turned 17, my friends and I decided to go on a camping trip. We had just graduated from high school, and so, in our minds, we had the experience of a thousand lifetimes. This would be the first time any of us had been camping (or even out of the province) without some kind of adult supervision.

That night, which happened to be a Monday, I came home and told my mother of our idea: we were to head to Lake George, New York, for three nights of camping in the woods where no one could confiscate any elicit materials we might have in our possession. She wasn’t pleased, but as long as I would clean my room, vacuum the house, and not stay out past 10 PM for the next two evenings, she would allow me my adventure.

Obviously, because I was a teenager, I broke that last promise the very next night. We spent the day planning in our friend’s basement. There were three of us, including myself, Basement Friend, and Third Friend. After we had mapped the bus route and found our ideal campground, we headed to another friend’s backyard where there were hot dogs and drinks of the adult kind to be had.

I had purchased a bottle of wine from the local dépanneur because that seemed like a reasonable amount of alcohol for one person, to me. I was slightly taller-than-average height and lean but on the skinny side, and I had eaten at least two slices of pizza that day, so I was good to go.

At 2 AM, while I slouched over the toilet bowl with my mother rubbing my back and glaring at me disapprovingly, I learned a valuable lesson. At 2:45 AM I had completely forgotten the lesson as I lay in bed and wished for the room to stop spinning. The next morning, I remembered the lesson again. I promised my mother I would be more responsible, referencing the first-hand experience of consequences I had recently acquired. She agreed that perhaps the time spent gasping and gagging over porcelain coupled with the massive hangover I was now experiencing were probably punishment enough.

We all met up in Basement Friend’s basement that evening and went to bed (relatively) early. We were up at 4 AM the next morning, groggy but excited. We packed up the car and Basement Friend’s father drove us to the bus terminal. It was there that we had to come to terms with the sheer amount of baggage we were bringing with us: an oversized tent (I was the only one of us whose family owned one, and it was large enough to comfortably fit eight people inside), an oversized gazebo, a separate bag with the poles for the gazebo and the tent, three backpacks, and three large duffle bags. Fuck it; you only live once, right? (Nobody was abbreviating it yet.)

The bus trip passed fairly quickly. We kept ourselves busy reading and playing games. We pulled into the campground more excited than ever. We hauled our heavy gear off of the bus, bid the driver farewell, and began the home stretch toward the entrance booth. We made eye contact with the employee at the desk. We beamed at him. He beamed back.

“Hey guys! How’s it going?”

“Great,” said Basement Friend, “we’re here to rent a campground for the next three nights!”

We hadn’t booked a ground yet, but we had called ahead to make sure there was space available, and had been told that it was often a cheaper option to book on arrival.

“No problem,” said the desk guy happily. “I’ll just need to see one of your IDs, which one of you is 18?”

And instantly our smiles faded. We hadn’t even thought to check, but of course it was illegal in the state of New York to rent a campground to someone under the age of 18.

Just when it seemed that all hope was lost, and that we would have to walk an hour to the closest town with all of our stuff and rent a hotel room that would probably be too expensive for us, Basement Friend piped up.

“I’m 18!”

Third Friend and I zipped our heads around so quickly they may have spun off if they weren’t so well attached.

“Actually, I’m 20.”

And there, in Basement Friend’s wallet, sat the provincial ID belonging to one of our friends’ older brothers, the Holy Grail for the post-high school adolescent. The picture was faded, sure, but the card was perfectly legal, all the dates checked out.

“Perfect,” smirked the desk guy, who knew exactly what we were pulling but was totally about to allow three brash kids a little bit of mischief. “I’ll just need your signature on a couple of these documents, and we’ll be good to go.”

Basement Friend signed, and we were directed to the campground we had just obtained through forgery and impersonation of another individual. The tent was easy enough to set up; it only took us an hour and a half of yelling and insulting each other’s intelligence to figure it out. How many dudes does it take to screw in a lightbulb, am I right?

Now it was time to buy beer, because a little vomiting wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying my youth. On the way to the campground supply store, we discussed various ways we could convince them to allow us to purchase our alcohol. Convincing a happy-go-lucky camp instructor that one of us was old enough to rent a campground was one thing; convincing local employees that we were all 21 years of age would be a whole other ball game.

We took our time in the store, stocking up on soups and trying not to look like we were about to attempt our second felony of the day. Finally, I tentatively approached the cash with a typical melange of camping groceries. I had a pot, some matches, a barbecue lighter, two cans of soup, a bag of chips, a bag of beef jerky, and a 24 case of Budweiser.

“Having a good week?” Asked the smiling cashier. She was cute and my face probably turned red.

“Yeah, we just came in not too long ago, now we’re just picking up some last minute things.”

“That’s fun. I hope you enjoy your stay. Mind if I see some ID for the beer?”

I’m not sure what possessed me, but I handed her my Québec Medicare card. My real one, with my actual birth date on it. She looked at it, confused.

“What country is this from?” I laughed.

“It’s from Canada. It’s all in French.”

“Oh. I can’t find the birth date. When were you born?”

“July 22, 1986.”

“Ok, I believe you. You have an honest face.”

Over the course of the next three nights we gambled, we smoked cigars and we drank what we could. We lost a little bit of what made us kids; we no longer needed the guiding hand of an adult, we now guided ourselves. We had stumbled our way headfirst into an amazing experience, and deep down somewhere we realized that this was basically what being an adult was. We’re all just excited kids traveling to the next destination, bound to make mistakes and hopefully able to think quickly enough to remedy them.