Prior to our venture into the wilds of Arkansas’ Ozarks over spring break, we had two fundamental expectations. One, that we would hike thirty miles through the beautiful Ozarkian wilderness, and two, that our trip would be the stuff “Girls Gone Wild” videos were made of. Sadly, neither of these expectations came to fruition.

The vans set off from the Olin-Rice parking lot, the four seniors in one van, and the nine freshmen in the other. Though there was some occasional van intermingling, the vans mostly stayed segregated throughout the trip. There was also occasional racing, as senior John “Thunder” Ellis couldn’t stifle his competitive fire and pulled ahead of the freshmen, making obscene gestures at anyone foolish enough to get in his way.

Crossing the border of Missouri into Arkansas saw a distinct change in atmosphere. Signs advertising “drive-thru” liquors and beef jerky that “tastes like homemade,” as well as propane tanks painted to look like ten-foot long beer cans challenged our Yankee sensibilities.

Our first stop in The Natural State was at a supermarket in Fayetteville. As we walked into the store, our excitement peaked at the chance to hear real Southern accents. Apparently, it was obvious that we were Yankees, so people in the store (customers included) employed the characteristic “Southern Hospitality.”

At a general store, Curtis “the dumb but well-meaning Yankee” Gilbert, poured himself a cup of coffee, but was having trouble finding a lid. He asked one of the women who worked there, “Which lid goes with the medium coffee?” Obviously amused at his characteristic Yankee lack of sense, she replied condescendingly (yet lovingly), “uh …the ones in the middle.”

We had six miles to hike that day. Our arrival in Arkansas coincided with the onset of Ozarkian spring. There were tiny indigo flowers along the trail. Buds were starting to appear on the trees. Our campsite was a picturesque spot on a beach next to a river. It looked like it would be a fantastic trip.

Then, late that night, it started pouring. Crooked fingers of lightning nearly lit the sky afire, and the thunder crackled like shots from a cannon. Despite our best efforts, most of our stuff was soaked. The senior tent (the tents were as segregated as the vans were), despite being brand new and North Face brand, leaked. We’re not talking your run-of-the-mill, water-slowly-seeping-in-the-bottom-of-the-tent leaking. We’re talking the ceiling. If you put up your hand, you could feel water spraying in through the fly and the top of the tent. We were wet.

Nevertheless, we began the hiking the next day in decent spirits, confident that the storm would clear up. The next three hours were spent hiking up and down steep hills through intermittent thunderstorms. Most of us did not have good gear. We were wet. Not just wet, W.E.T. And cold. Hannah “Dixie Cannon” Clark thought she was all slick in her $5 yellow plastic rainsuit, until the pants ripped and fell off. And our “trail” had conveniently turned into a little stream. At first, we tried to avoid getting our feet wet by walking on the sides of the trail. After a while, however, we didn’t bother. We were just happy if the water seeping through our shoes and socks was lukewarm instead of freezing cold.

At our lunch stop, the morale was impossibly low. We stood in the rain, cowering beneath our ponchos, eating summer sausage straight out of the packaging. Summer sausage is great sliced on crackers with cheese, but for some reason it’s just not the same taking bites out of a 16-ounce cylinder of processed meat. Especially when your hands are freezing and shriveled, as if you’ve spent the last three hours in a cold bath.

At first, we were all too macho to admit that we didn’t want to continue hiking in the rain, only to set up our tents and spend the next 15 hours cold, wet, and miserable huddling inside them. But eventually, our misery got the better of our egos, and we voted to turn around. We hiked seven cold, wet miles back to the vans-that’s how badly we wanted to turn back. Even though we were still cold and wet, and Dixie Cannon started to worry that she would never again regain feeling in her lower arms, morale was considerably higher now that we had an appealing destination. The collective feeling of euphoria as we hiked the last slippery slope down into the parking lot cannot be adequately described in words; you’d have to experience it to understand.

Before we could leave, of course, our van got stuck in the mud. Freezing, sopping, and miserable-yet euphoric-we pushed the van out, all the while being poured on even further.

We spent the happy, warm night in nearby Clarksville at the Economy Inn. We got two rooms for $35 each ($7 per person), and after unloading our stuff we set out to get a hot meal. We didn’t have to go any further than Waffle House, a southern fixture only approached in ubiquity by the confederate flag, NASCAR and guns. The food, served by Krystal with a “K,” was terrific. Aaron “Semper Fi” Meyers had hash browns covered and diced (that means with cheese and tomatoes, for all you Yankees), and a succulent pecan waffle.

“Sometimes quitters do win,” Curtis said.

Back at the hotel, the seniors responsibly hung all their wet things up to dry, watched the Weather Channel and went bed around 10. The first-years partied and hung out until 3 a.m.

The next morning was spent at the laundromat drying all of our wet clothes. Across the street was Dodge’s Chicken. We had been jonesing for some authentic southern fried chicken, so Semper Fi went with Chris “Nitro” McNerney to Dodge’s. Inside they had biscuits and chicken, as well as “mojos.” The Mac Weekly has offered a $50 reward to anyone who can tell us what the hell a mojo is. We know it’s deep fried, but that’s pretty much it. At Dodge’s, Semper Fi and Nitro each got a breast of chicken and strawberry soda. It was a distinctly southern meal, and it was delicious.

After we dried the clothes, we went to White Rock Mountain to car camp. The scenery was quite beautiful, and the weather was notably better, and best of all, all our stuff was dry in the vans. Semper Fi’s hiking boots, which he had borrowed from esteemed MCSG president Nick “Sticky Fingaz” Berning, hadn’t dried by the time we had reached this campsite, so he decided to put them near the campfire to dry. While he was away, the boots caught on fire, and this fire had to be doused with orange Tang. Sticky Fingaz was not amused.

After two nights at White Rock Mountain, warm, dry and refreshed from our one night of “roughing it,” we left to return to Minnesota. On the way back be picked up some bumper stickers. Nitro got one that said “100% Ass- Kicking Redneck Bitch” and Peter “Stank Money” Bartz-Gallagher copped “If you don’t like my flag, you can kiss my rebel ass.” The decal “I don’t dial 911,” (pictured left) was another prime souvenir.

After returning, we’ve reverted back to our normal roles as mild-mannered students. All of us enjoyed the trip, though it would have benefited from some sexy sorority sweethearts getting wet and wild.