This is the section of BushParty.com's readers share their memories of days and nights spent partying in the bush. Got one of your own? Don't be shy. Submit your own story by emailing Bushparty. Ok, it was sort of a bush-party. A bunch of us went camping for our grade12 grad at Harrison Lake. It was down a forest service road - nice and out of the way. Eventually over 50 people were there, in various campsites. Over the course of a long-weekend, some crazy things happened: - A car had a huge nail/spike driven through it's front hood. - numerous car windows were smashed - a guy in army fatigues was teaching his little kid how to target shoot with his rifle down by the beach - some guy started throwing shotgun shells into the fire because of the loud bangs it made. He wanted to throw in a mini propane canister before he was stopped. - a girl was kicked / beaten up by a group of guys. Apparently she "mouthed them off" and they "formed a circle" and kicked her. The next morning about 10 cops showed up with dogs and went from campsite to campsite (with the girl) looking for people. 4 guys were handcuffed and taken away. - someone who worked at the YVR airport fueling station brought some jetfuel along, and decided to keep pouring amounts of it onto the fire, creating huge mushroom clouds, and a few second skin burns and singed eyebrows along the way. - someone decided to coat their hand with lighter fluid and light it on fire (claiming he had seen it on tv where the guy didn't get burned). Unfortunately this time the guy got second degree burns and was whimpering all night long. I haven't stayed there since, but have driven by it. It looks like the site has been permanently closed, and someone has plowed the road really well, so noone can drive close to the site anymore. - OL It was my first year as a treeplanter. I was eighteen and hadn't done much drinking in my life. You could say I was a light weight. After a few weeks the management announced that we wouldn't be going into town for the highly anticipated night-off, but that we would instead party-down at the campsite. They did, however, offer to make a booze run. Not knowing my liquors I pieced together what seemed like a pretty macho order - a 40 ouncer of Canadian Club whiskey and a litre of Ginger Ale. I honestly thought 40 oz. was the size of a mickey. When we all got back to camp our booze was waiting for us and shortly after dinner we all stood around a massive campfire listening to AC/DC and Pink Floyd. I was a bit taken aback by the cost of my 40 ouncer (although it came off my final cheque) and was wary of the hard-drinking company I had found myself in. Hoping the bottle would last me the rest of the season, I devised a plan in which I would mix my drinks in my tent and then return to the campfire. This worked out pretty well until the Canadian Club took over. I vaguely remember repeatedly stumbling towards my tent and becoming hopelessly ensnared by the cord-like tentacles of my vintage A-frame tent. Somehow I had managed to completely flatten my tent. I woke up in the morning with my upper half of my body inside of the leveled nylon and my lower half out on the bare ground. It was pouring rain and the tent was pasted to my face. Needless the say, I had a massive hangover. And the bottle? It was practically empty. By the smell of things, I had spilt as much as I had drank. - BE Toronto bush party - end up pukin', then makin' out with Claire the Rack-Attack, then being chased by the cops through the grave yard. 2 am and we are passed out on the TTC at the wrong end of the Bloor line. Such crazy kids. Wow. HM The night of the first bush party I every went to was a nerve wracking one. My family and I had just moved to the small town of (blank) and I wanted to fit in. My ride, a girl whom had taken a liking to me and her girlfriends, showed up in a white firefly, or some other equally small car, at my front door. Darkness crept over the small town and my nerves crept over my back as I squeezed into the big hair, mall perfume, smoke filled Fleet Wood Mac-mobile with four of the toughest, loudest teenage girls in the BC interior. As we cruized past the "cop shop" and into "Back in Black" I was formally welcomed by my Keepers with my first beer of the night and a joint that I was to light for the driver, Xonda. We pulled up behind a slow line of rumbling mustangs and long chevy trucks. Much honking and yelling ensued between our mini "clown" car and these autos of "power". The hair on the back of my neck wasn't used to this kind of stimuli and tried desperately to remove itself from my person. We neared the front of this line and Xoxanne, in the passenger seat, said, "Give me your money." I handed her ten dollars. She said, "What do you want?" I realized that we were beside the beer store and that the whole damn line up had been a drive thru bootleg. This sent the left side of my face into a spasm which I covered for with the word, "Bud." It was abundantly clear and Xoxanne handed the scruffy bootlegger a stack of ratty dollar bills and a shopping list of our wants. He returned with a bulging paper bag five minutes later and asked if we wanted, rubbing his fingers together like he was rolling a smoke. Xoxanne just rolled up the window and screamed/roared with banshee pitch something like, "let's get xissed." As our shrunken chariot buzzed away from civilization and all that it holds dear. We were headed up a gravel road towards a place known as the "water tower". Up and up we drove into a very black wood on the edge of a very dark cliff. AC DC had been replaced by the more contemporary Tom Cochrane and I had just finished the first budweizer of my life. At which time the third joint in a half hour was handed to me. The winding, dusty gravel road got higher, the girls began to tease their hair higher, the sound of Tom Cochrane's voice got higher, and as you may have already guessed, I got much higher. Suddenly the woods and blackness swung open to reveal a dozen sets of peircing head lights, all manner of offensive music, sillouettes of all ages and sizes staggering towards each other and in the middle of this ruddy carnival, the primary center for the last ten thousand years, a fifteen foot fire of scorched flats and stolen rail road ties. We had entered the sphere of the young and the foolish, were welcomed into the Xanadu of Chaos, participated and willingly generated the Bush Party. The rest of this tale is a blur of events. Falling a long ways down the side of the embankment while taking a leak. Dumping out half my beers while no one was looking and still ending up one of the drunkest people there. Sitting on the hood of a very high and very wide truck with "the Boys of (blank)" who shared with me their beloved "snuff" which they told me not to swallow and which I did making me turn green and violently ill (in the bushes). Watching a young teenager fall face first into the last embers of the fire and laying there until others rolled him out with their boots as if he were a gas soaked log. And smoking more xeed than I have eaten brocolli. Perhaps the cops showed up and kindly ushered us kids back down the hill and into the regimented arms of our streets and homes. I don't remember, but I can tell you that that was just the beggining of my stay within the kingdom of the Bush Party.. - LG When I was in high school I drove some friends and friends of friends to a bush party in my van. After we had been there a hour or two my friend's girlfriend told me that her friend had a crush on me. I was a late-blooming virgin and my friends all seemed to be working to try to get me laid. A beer or two later I was approached by the girl who suggested that we go back to my van. She was drunk and it was obviously time for my big moment. Unfortunately, when we got back to my van I dropped the key in the tall weeds of the field I had parked in. It was pitch dark and finding the key was impossible. I searched on my hands and knees for about twenty minutes. Finally the girl went back to the party and got our friends. Everyone got their lighters out and we managed to find the key. By that point everyone decided it was too cold and that the party sucked so we just left. (Footnote: I lost my virginity to the girl about two weeks later in my best friend's brother's bed!). -TS One summer I returned for a visit to the town that I was born in and spent the first six years of my life in. This town is La Ronge, in the northern part of Saskatchewan. Statistically, at least in certain years of its history, the most violent town per capita in Canada, La Ronge has seen its fair share of nastiness, including notoriety as the place in which a 10 year old and an 8 year old lured a 4 year old into the woods and then stabbed him dozens of times, skinned him, and boiled his skin with the intention of consuming it in order to turn invisible or something like that. Anyways, I digress... I went up with my family to visit some friends of the family when I was 17 or so. Their son, my best friend when I was six, took me out to a gravel pit for a party. We went to the North Pit, since Pit Parties were banned at the time, due to something like 6 stabbing deaths among teens in the last couple of months or so, and the North Pit wasn't patrolled as much as the South Pit [or whichever pit], where most of the stabbings accured. So, anyways, there we were in the Gravel Pit of Death, drinks and joints being passed around between everyone talking about their pregnant 15 or 16 year old girlfriends and talking about smoking dope since they were 11 when their brothers gave it to them to try. It was a good time and no stabbing deaths, but the whole thing sort of made me think about what my life would have been like had I stayed in La Ronge as a kid... -RS Read an excerpt from a the BUSH PARTY B-Movie script here...
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