Level 42 - A Biscuit and Me Saga
- Dawna Johnson
- Apr 22
- 13 min read
Every year, like clockwork (or a quest marker blinking on my life map), I embark on a solo birthday adventure. Just me, my trusty hammock, and my noble steed, aka Rubix the Rubicon (a slightly dusty but battle-hardened Jeep). While most folks are blowing out candles and pretending to enjoy sheet cake, I’m out dodging mosquitoes and searching for Wi-Fi in the wilderness.
Why? Because I hate celebrating my birthday. It doesn’t feel like a "Hooray, you're alive!" kind of moment—more like, "Congrats, you're one year closer to becoming a skeleton!" And I’m not about that grim milestone life.
So instead of aging like a fine cheese left out in the sun, I level up. Just like in my favorite RPGs, I’ve spent the past year grinding for XP (that is experience points for all you boomers), upgrading my charisma stats (still needs work), collecting rare skills, and unlocking slightly better judgment—emphasis on slightly.
Sure, some call it "getting older and wiser." But I prefer: “+1 to Wisdom, +2 to Patience, and access to the Advanced Toolkit of Adulting.” Now that's a birthday worth celebrating—preferably from a hammock under the stars, not under a pile of wrapping paper and existential dread.
This year, the legendary Biscuit the Adventure Pup decided solo trips were a thing of the past. I guess when you’ve got four paws, a nose for trail snacks, and zero tolerance for being left behind, you make your own rules. So, was it still a solo trip? Technically no. Spiritually? Maybe. Practically?
Let’s just say Biscuit demanded shotgun privileges—and by “shotgun,” I mean his royal pup seat, securely strapped into the passenger side like a furry little co-pilot. He took his role very seriously, throwing side-eye glances at every wrong turn and occasionally growling at the GPS like it owed him money. This wasn’t just a ride—it was his expedition, and I was merely the chauffeur.
Naturally, Mother Nature heard we were planning a relaxing escape and decided to RSVP with "rain... lots of it." But hope springs eternal, especially when there’s an adventure at stake.
The morning we were set to roll out, I had a sudden change of heart (and perhaps a moment of wisdom disguised as practicality). I ditched the minimalist hammock setup and hitched up the adventure trailer. Sure, I say it was because Biscuit needed more shelter—because he’s a noble pup who deserves only the best—but let’s be real: I had visions of sipping coffee from the rooftop tent, gazing over a misty lake like some sort of Instagram explorer but without the good hair.
So with the trailer in tow, paws on deck, and just enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse, we rolled out of the driveway like heroes in the opening scene of an epic quest. Destination: Ocean Pond. Mood: cautiously optimistic. Vibes: immaculate.
And just like any great expedition, there’s always that one thing you forget. Biscuit and I were cruising down the road, windows down, sunbeams lighting up the cab, and belting out every classic road trip anthem like we were the opening act for a 90’s reunion tour. Life was good!
Singing and enjoying the day many thoughts were racing through my brain, including the mental checklist of gear that I packed. Picturing in my minds eye where everything was so that unpacking and camp set up would be fairly effortless. Then mid-chorus, somewhere between a high note and a questionable harmony, it hit me. The dreaded “OH NO” moment, something was left behind. I gently moved off the road and onto the shoulder, heart racing, and stared ahead while my brain played a highlight reel of all the things I packed. Picturing each item being toted from the living room staging area to the Jeep and where it was placed in the Jeep. I rewound the reel one more time and summoned every last ADHD brain cell I had, channeling their chaotic energy into willing the missing item into existence in the back of the Jeep. I visualized it. I manifested it. I prayed to the camping gods. I even got out and checked the trailer, hoping I had put it there and forgot. Nope.
This wasn’t just any forgotten item. This wasn’t like, “Oh no, I forgot my third flashlight” or “Oops, no marshmallows.” No. This was the our camp kitchen—the sacred vessel that carried our food, our coffee, our ability to eat things that weren’t cold ramen out of a mug.
I turned to Biscuit. He looked at me like, “You had one job.” What a judgemental little furball.
“Well, buddy,” I said, “we’ve got two choices: turn back and waste precious adventuring daylight, or push forward and figure it out when our stomachs start growling.” Biscuit, of course, was smugly fine with either—he had packed his own food in his pup-pack like a responsible explorer.
Show-off.
As for me? I could live off cold ramen, but I’d really been dreaming of a birthday steak over the fire—Biscuit’s idea, obviously, and I’m sure not entirely unmotivated by the hope of a few bites.
Turning back? Not even a remote possibility. So, I whipped out my phone, did a quick Google search with fingers crossed, and boom—salvation in the form of a Publix, a Winn-Dixie, and even a Tractor Supply nearby. No detour too great when adventure (and hunger) is on the line.
With a sigh of relief, I cranked the music back up, hit the road with renewed purpose, and before long, we were restocked and rolling out of the Winn-Dixie parking lot like heroes returning from a supply run. The vibes were back, the crisis averted, and the adventure? Still very much on.
We rolled into Ocean Pond with the kind of excitement only a mildly stressed-out adult and her overconfident adventure pup could muster. The trailer squeaking and creaking as it followed us around the twisting campground road. We had finally arrived and the lake was beautiful. It was just there waiting for us, shimmering like some majestic, mosquito-filled reward for not turning around earlier when I forgot literally everything important.
The campsite was perfect, as a first come first served campground, you kinda gamble with what sites will be available. and other than the suspicious squirrels watching us from their perch in the trees, it was absolutely perfect. A picutre worthy window to the lake framed by cypress trees. Biscuit jumped out of the Jeep like he was running for office, tail wagging, nose to the ground, instantly peeing on the welcome post like it owed him money.
Camp setup began, as all great quests do, with a public display of mildly humiliating incompetence. I rolled into the campground like I knew what I was doing, then proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes showing the rest of camp guests I was only slightly better than a sleep-deprived goblin at backing up a trailer. Four attempts. Two oddly placed trees. One audience of unimpressed squirrels and a crow that I’m pretty sure cackled at me, all while Biscuit did little more than patrol the perimeter like a seasoned park ranger with a badge made of kibble.
Eventually, through sheer willpower, I got the adventure trailer perfectly straight (as long as you you looked at it with your head tilted and your knee bent), and level-ish. Victory!
But alas, the universe was not done with its trials.
As I began unpacking, I discovered that the camp kitchen wasn’t the only soldier left behind in the chaos of departure. The window poles for the tent, essential to keep the window flaps from becoming wild, flailing fabric, were also MIA. Of course. Who really needs structure and function when you can just listen to the soothing sound of tent fabric aggressively whisper-fighting itself in the wind all night?
Just as I was admiring our rooftop tent view and imagining the steak I still planned to char into birthday perfection, they arrived. The Uninvited. A parade of fellow campers who, with the grace of folks who’d clearly mistaken our site for a town square, just wandered in. No knock. No "howdy." Just full send.
There was an older gentleman who clearly didn’t believe in personal space and rode straight up to us at full speed on his bike, because "surely it is nice to talk to someone other than the dog". Then an older couple who just "loved Biscuit's tent". And I shant forget the shirtless guy in crocs who just wanted to “see the setup.”
Biscuit eyed them all with the stoicism of a monk, though I could see the mild panic behind his perfect poker face. They were all nice enough, and I should be expecting the intrusion to my peace with the unique set up we have (unique, not new, not never seen before), but it was unsettling to me as I was out in nature to get away from people, and here people were in my nature! Ew.
Eventually, they trickled back to their own camps (thank you, social cues), and we hit the trail for some sanity. Biscuit took the lead, nose twitching, ready for adventure.
The trail was beautiful. Pines whispered overhead, the breeze carried hints of cypress and campfire smoke, and we even passed a few fellow adventure pups. Some were well-mannered, exchanging respectful sniffs like polite diplomats. Others, however, clearly missed the memo on trail etiquette—barking wildly at Biscuit for simply existing. Through it all, Biscuit remained cool, collected, the canine embodiment of "unbothered." That is, until disaster struck in the form of… an ant bed. Distracted by a squirrel while stopping to pee.
There he was, mid-pee and mid-squirrel-watch, living his best multitasking life, when he unknowingly parked his fluffy butt right on a writhing landmine of the angry little insects . No warning. No time to react. One second, bliss. The next? A high-speed, tap-dancing blur of fur, yelps, and sheer betrayal. The squirrels laughed. I laughed. Biscuit did not.
He yelped, leapt, spun in a circle, then gave me a look like I had personally created ants just to ruin his day. A flurry of frantic paw shakes later, and we were back on the path—dignity slightly bruised, and a lesson learned.
We found ourselves at the picnic table overlooking Ocean Pond, the water glowing bright blue, the breeze doing that magical thing where it makes you forget all the small disasters of the day. I I poured us both a cup of a cold water, Biscuit stretched out beside me, finally still.
And in that quiet, mosquito-sprinkled moment, I couldn’t help but smile. Yeah, the trip had already gone off-script. Yeah, we’d been invaded, barked at, and bit by ants. But we were here. Together. Leveling up, one misadventure at a time.
As darkness fell, the hunger pains set in, and Biscuit reminded me of the steaks we had picked up and already had marinating with shallots, salt, and pepper—just waiting to be put on the grill and enjoyed by him. He supposed, since it was my birthday, I could have some as well. The problem was that while we did stop and grab a pan, the steaks, and other necessities to make up for leaving our camp kitchen at home, somehow we didn’t pick up firewood. Normally, that’s not an issue since we can usually gather sticks and deadfall from around the campsite. But everything was wet, and even though there was a perfectly good dead tree right at the back of our site that likely had some dry insides ripe for a fire, guess where our saw and axe were? You guessed it: back home, sitting comfortably in the kitchen box.
That’s when a lightbulb lit up in my frazzled brain cavity—I still had a burn log from my last impromptu beach camp. Excellent. Wish I could have said the same for the steaks. Biscuit didn’t mind the overly cooked, dry meat, but I could have gotten more enjoyment out of a cold cup of ramen.
After a disappointing dinner, we cleaned up our mess and made sure all foodstuffs were safely tucked into the Jeep. It wouldn’t keep a bear out, but it would make getting to it annoying enough for most critters to pass on the free food. Turns out, Biscuit was more interested in the steak than his kibble, because he left a full bowl under the table that we missed during our after-dinner cleanup. This meant we had some hungry visitors during the night—a cheeky pair of raccoons.
Now, Biscuit, in all his mighty Shih Tzu glory, is the kind of dog who will bark down a German Shepherd with the confidence of a small, furry general. But introduce a creature his own size? Absolute terror. And these weren’t just any raccoons. These were chonky, battle-hardened, snack-stealing kibble bandits—each one just slightly bigger than Biscuit, and twice as sassy.
They sauntered into camp like they owned the lease, sniffing around the fire pit and side-eyeing the trailer. Biscuit puffed himself up, growled a warning, then promptly retreated behind me when one of them made eye contact. Braveheart, he is not; leaving me to lead the Battle for the Kibble Bowl on my own. Turns out the raccoons were not much braver and scattered as soon as I stepped on the ladder of the tent. Quickly tucking the bowl into the Jeep, I returned to the pup snuggles and assured my adventure companion that he was safe from those chonky critters.
We survived the night without losing our dignity or the kibble, and by morning, we were both a little groggy and very cold. The unexpected chill had us practically racing to the Jeep for warmth and a quick breakfast before setting out on the days adventure.
First stop: Skinny Dip Pond. And no, despite the name, we kept our clothes on. The water shimmered a surreal aqua blue, the kind of glow that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally stepped into a screensaver. It was stunning... until you looked a little closer. Trash everywhere. Beer cans, snack wrappers, random plastic shrapnel—evidence of humans doing what humans do best: showing up and ruining a perfectly good thing. Biscuit looked at the mess, then back at me with deep, philosophical disappointment in his eyes. We both let out matching sighs. One day we’ll evolve, I told him. Probably not today.
Needing to shake off the trash vibes, we hit the forest roads—those glorious, crisscrossing dirt veins that wind through the trees like they were designed by a toddler with a crayon and a sense of adventure.
We dodged potholes, made spontaneous turns, and somehow ended up at Big Shoals State Park. It was the perfect lunch stop. Biscuit inhaled his food like he was preparing for battle. I enjoyed something vaguely resembling a sandwich and felt vaguely like a functioning adult. The park had some great hiking options, but we were ill-prepared. Wrong shoes, no bug spray, and neither of us had the energy to pretend we were athletes. So, back to camp we went to properly chill by the lake.
I had high hopes for a paddleboard session. I mean, what kind of unhinged soul goes to a lake and doesn’t bring a kayak or paddle board? Sadly, the wind was still whipping, so the board stayed strapped in, mocking me.
Instead, we lounged lakeside like old retirees, each of us in our own camp chair watching the squirrels argue and pretending we understood their tiny squirrel politics. We talked (well, I talked, he sniffed things) about whether to stay and brave the rough weather rolling in, or pack it in.
But before the stars came out and the raccoons clocked in for another shift, I made a decision: we’d pack up in the morning, but we weren’t heading home just yet. There was more exploring to do. We would head north to check out John M. Bethea State Forest. Somehow I hadn't visited though it was not far from Ocean Pond where we have camped often.
Morning came and I slowly built up the desire to roll out of the tent. Biscuit emerged from the cozy nest of blankets with the dramatic flair of someone who had just been personally betrayed by the universe. He grumbled something about not being emotionally ready for the cold, then waited begrudginly for me to lower him down from the tent to the ground so that he could answer the call of nature. He made it to the first tree before deciding he could hold it no longer.
We ate a quick breakfast while watching the sky, already threatening us with those heavy, rain-bringing clouds that scream “your gear’s never drying out again.” I’ve ridden out my fair share of storms in a tent—including one particularly memorable night where a tornado danced right through the campground, and with each “level up,” I get a little less inclined to roll the dice on being a lightning rod.
We started packing up as the sprinkles started, making sure to get everything. One last walk around camp to make sure we weren’t leaving behind anything… trash, gear, or rogue kibble. Biscuit supervised. Satisfied, we climbed into the Jeep and headed out for the day's adventure.
We stuck to the forest roads, only making a few U-turns (which are totally just surprise scenic loops if you spin them right). Eventually, we stumbled across an old fire tower nestled within the Osceola National Forest. The nearby hunt camp was clean, the vibes were solid, and there was a dirt-and-rock pile clearly used for vehicular shenanigans. The temptation was real. I eyed the hill. The hill eyed me back.
But then I glanced at the trailer. Poor thing’s been hanging on, but she’s got a few issues I’ve been “meaning to fix” since last season. I could see it now: me halfway up that slope, adrenaline soaring, trailer bouncing wildly, followed by a panicked call to RJ and a lifetime of being reminded about it over beer. I passed. Maturity wins again (ugh).
The tower itself, though? A gem. Rusty. Haunted-looking. With vultures roosting ominously at the top like gothic gargoyles. It was perfect. Biscuit refused to go near it. I snapped some photos and we moved on.
Then came John M. Bethea State Forest—small, unassuming, and absolutely worth the detour. Our first stop was a dispersed camping spot nestled around a pond. And get this: no trash. I repeat—NO. TRASH. Biscuit and I were stunned. You could tell people loved this place, and not in the “Instagram it and forget it” way, but in the care-for-it-like-it’s-yours way. Fire rings marked old campsites like footprints in the dirt, and the whole place felt peaceful. Sacred, even.
We wandered the network of two-rut roads flanked by towering pine trees, the kind that stretch up like green skyscrapers. No other vehicles. No people. Just the wind, the forest, and us. A few roads we didn’t explore. They’re still haunting me. What secrets did they hold? Hidden creeks? Forgotten relics? A raccoon rave? I may never know. But one day... we’re going back.
Eventually, it was time to leave. I stopped at the forest sign, snapped a photo, and made a deal with myself right then and there: I’m going to visit all the state forests—not just in Florida, but across the country. I’ll take a photo at each sign. Biscuit said he’s on board, so long as I let him finish his naps first.
Our way home took us near the headwaters of the Suwannee River, brushing the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, and finally into Suwannee River State Park for a leg-stretching stroll. It was quiet, serene, the perfect pit stop before we reluctantly rolled back into home base.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, Biscuit yawned, stretched, and flopped into his bed with the contented sigh of someone who has seen forests, faced raccoons, avoided catastrophic off-roading, and peed on a good half of north Florida.
Another adventure down. But there are so many more to come!
TRIP DETAILS:
Campground: Ocean Pond Campground is based on the lake Ocean Pond within Osceola National Forest. This is a first come first served campground, no reservations available. Full hook ups, partial hookups and primitive sites are available. Hog Pen campground is a primitive only campground and is located on the north end of the lake. Cost = $12 for primitive sites; $20 for water sites; $30 for sites with electric.
Big Shoals State Park - Small state park with picnic and restroom facilities. Miles of trails along the limestone bluffs of the Suwannee River, including a few of Florida's only Class III rapid. Cost = $5.00 per vehicle.
