Summer’s warmth still lingered even after the sun had disappeared behind the Cedar Mountains. Between the desert air and our dwindling campfire, there was no need yet to leave the comfort of my tree-stump seat to fetch a jacket. The guys and I sat around the fire ring fixated by the glowing embers, savoring the last few moments of the evening before turning in. Below us in the valley, the orange flashes of other campfires began to disappear one by one.

“Our spot,” as we referred to our usual campsite, was nestled in the hills overlooking Horseshoe Springs in Skull Valley. Separated from the more heavily used areas below by a steep climb and a sparse, but near-impenetrable juniper forest, our spot was accessible only by foot or four-wheel drive. That summer night was routine by all standards. At the time, most of us were still single, and hiking/camping trips for us were almost weekly occurrences. Each of us kept an Army surplus rucksack filled with equal parts gear and candy in our trunks, ready for spur-of-the-moment adventures.

Often our destination wasn’t decided until we were already headed west in somebody’s jeep. The rugged western slopes of the Stansbury Mountains were our favorite spot for manly activities like jumping our mountain bikes, having rock throwing contests, and roasting meat over fire. When it was time to call it a night, our modus operandi — no matter the season — was spreading out a large tarp and sleeping under the stars. We’d talk and laugh until voices faded one by one like the instruments would in a backward performance of Ravel’s Bolero.

Richard and Chan were usually the first to fall asleep with Tyler close behind. John and I would stay up for at least another hour examining life’s great mysteries. If we were lucky, we could get Richard to talk in his sleep. I was always the last to nod off, and this night was no different. But while the night itself was unremarkable, one extraodinary thing did happen to me: I slept comfortably, without interruption, straight until morning.

Most people keep mental lists of some kind — best television shows, favorite ice cream flavors, dream vacations. I keep a mental list of good nights of sleep. Strange, I know. But sleep for me was hard to come by, even back then. And a good night’s sleep while camping is always a rare and memorable occasion.

Sometimes it’s the terrain. The perfect bed simply does not occur in the wild. This can be mitigated somewhat by padding. But as much as I’d love one of those high-priced self-inflating pads, I can never justify the expense. In fact, I’ve been sleeping on the same quarter-inch thick pad for over two decades. Lest you conclude that my sleeping pad is the primary cause of my wilderness insomnia, however, consider that I have the same problem on air mattresses and even my uber-padded motor home bed.

If there was a set of Murphy’s laws for sleeping outdoors, the first would state that “the attempt to slumber triggers a physiological sharpening of the ‘uncomfortability’ sensory receptors.” The little rock that seemed negligible when I first lay down will grow into an enormous boulder as the night wears on. The slight depression in the ground beneath my left shoulder will gradually feel like a massive crater. And that Gatorade I had by the fire an hour earlier? Yeah, that’ll come back to haunt me too. But only after I have already overcome the boulders and craters and am finally comfortable enough to nod off.

That’s Murphy’s second law of outdoor sleeping. This is especially unpleasant on winter camps where the lengthy settling-in process involves aligning multiple blankets and strategically placing hand warmer packets throughout the sleeping bag. But regardless of season, nature’s call while overnighting in the outdoors is, without exception, two things: inevitable and cruel.

Plus, as hot as the desert is during the day, it can become Arctic-like once the sun goes down. And no matter how many layers I’m wearing, some limb or extremity is guaranteed to get cold and stay cold for the duration of the night. This is Murphy’s third law, and it’s becoming increasingly applicable the older I get.

As a pitiless twist, these laws sometimes kick in just after I fall asleep, which means I spend the next few hours tossing and turning in a torturous mental purgatory — not asleep enough to get any actual rest, but not awake enough to realize what’s wrong. Even if, by some miracle, I overcome these obstacles, other things can still stifle bona fide slumber.

Take snoring, for example. Depending on the type and volume, some snoring can be sufferable. It’s what I call “vivid snoring” that can’t be ignored. That’s the snoring that is so articulated that each exhalation actually sears a detailed anatomical map of the perpetrator’s nasal passages visually into the victim’s brain. Horribly, after a recent desert camp, the guys politely confirmed what my wife has been trying to tell me for years now: I am an occasional vivid snorer. Which means I have a new entry on my list of sleep obstacles. Under “somebody else snoring” is now “me snoring.”

Murphy’s final law of outdoor sleeping only makes the first three harder to manage. It states, “If a person is comfortable, hours seem like minutes. If he is uncomfortable, the reverse applies.” On extremely cold camps I’ve sometimes found myself checking my watch multiple times per minute. I haven’t decided whether it’s better to know or to wonder.

Given my extreme vulnerability to these unwritten laws, the fact that I slept so soundly that night continues to baffle me. Part of me hopes to recapture that utopian slumber each time I roll out my sleeping bag, but my practical side tells me it’s only a pipe dream. It’s a good thing that, for me, the sleep part of camping only defines the trip when it actually occurs.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.