We call it "Men's Town." 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 the men wearing jeans, flannel shirts and hiking boots were outbound for adventure, and they were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.

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

"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...."

I was hitting the trail today with Dave the GearMan (he personally owns 300 pounds of the lightest camping gear made), Youngstown Scotty (he engraved the "Men's Town" moniker for our annual outings), Hikin' Mike (we've hiked and canoed together for 16 years), and Mike's 18-year-old 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 and Gore-Tex 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 of Men's Town 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 manly things like belch and other things that generally upset the ladies. The GearMan puts it this way: "Sometimes you just have to run to the end of your chain and bark."

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 GearMan cooked all kinds of fancy freeze-dried stuff over a lightweight, high-tech stove while the rest of us scorched cans of Dinty Moore stew on the fire. The GearMan 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. Most Men's Towners had personal camp friends they drug around with them.

Then the good stuff started. We talked around the fire -- trails we had trekked, mountains we had climbed, rivers we had run and characters we had met. We even retold the stories we had heard along the way. Many sagas were epilogued with laughter and Men's Town was firmly established.

The GearMan 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 bike spill 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.

"The live theatre of the mind is much better than the images that can be conjured up on cinemascope...."

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 modern engineers, business managers and media professionals continuing that traditional artform.

On the evening of my return from Men's Town, 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. Like the killings, it was totally senseless.

As the credits finally scrolled across the screen, I sensed that the tales told in Men's Town 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, MountainZone.com Pubster