What I learned in my survival class: I will not survive a night alone in the woods. Nor do I care to.

It's not that I want to die, just that I don't want to know how to build a shelter in the woods using the supposed "tools" nature gives me, or experience sleeping on pine boughs - particularly as part of a course for which I paid money. And I especially do not want to carry the 40-pound day pack required to stave off a woodsy death.

On a whim about six weeks ago, I signed up for Wilderness Survival School through the Colorado Mountain Club I joined in late April. I joined the club to hike, but one uneventful night, perused their class offerings as well.

The problem was, there had been too many uneventful nights. My social life had withered somewhat in the last few months. I'd come to depend too much on Roger for it, and this was unwise on multiple levels. My Denver trio of single friends juggled schedules even more hectic than mine; a biweekly Happy Hour seemed a small miracle. Complicating matters, the alcohol-focused gatherings of the singles groups in which I'd dabbled had lost their appeal.

I needed something different, challenging perhaps, and I needed it soon. I skimmed the description of the survival class. This was a Tuesday night. The first class began the following evening. I signed up.

The first three weeks, a series of lectures in the comfort of the club's auditorium, were not too bad. We learned about the stages of hypothermia, complete with gory pictures of people who fell victim to it. We watched survival scenarios and self-tested on which of the meager tools were most important in each case. Note: Matches and a pocketknife trump rum and muscle relaxers. We were lectured on nutrition: Gatorade? no! Water? Yes. And received a lengthy sermon from an alpine rescue leader, who said, in summary: Don't be stupid.

But as the lecture series neared an end, I began to feel uncomfortable. The main event was a Saturday overnight in the mountains west of Denver.

We were to bring our day packs with our 10 Essentials. Some of these were easy. Sunglasses, sunscreen, food, toilet paper, matches and water. But 2 QUARTS of water? This seemed excessive - and heavy - to me. A rain parka and rain pants, extra layers of clothing, a pocketknife, a headlamp and first aid supplies. Other recommended items included a pad - no more than 3/4-inch thick - cords, a safety blanket (a supposed miracle item that looks like glorified tin foil), signaling mirror, map and compass, small axe, those tablets that make that wild and crazy natural water into a safe source of hydration. And the rest I forget. I think a chain saw and a tire swing maybe as well.

What's important to understand is that I am a minimalist. When Robby was a baby, I took off with a diaper and a bottle stuffed into the tiny purses I've long favored. A frequent winter mountain driver, I carry in the trunk of my car a quart of oil. Period. I feel truly prepared for a hike if I remember to bring the fanny pack, in which I can fit a small bottle of water, my car keys and the cell phone. I hike in Teva sandals, no socks.

I can see why I should expand my essentials list to include a smattering of the items listed above. But only the light things. Hiking is supposed to be fun. A beefy backpack defeats the purpose.

But I would go, I thought. I could borrow the remaining 10 Essentials and more from my neighbor, a frequent winter hunter. I would prove to myself that I could do this.

That seemed like a fine idea until the night before the trip -- last night -- when I considered further what the experience would be like. I would be cold. My back and neck would hurt. An insomniac under the best of circumstances, I anticipated absolutely no sleep. The single plus was that the class was full of men with a smattering of manly women. But without hair product, cosmetics and sleep, I could simply not stay cute for 24 hours. The final nail in the coffin: We were to meet at 9 a.m. Saturday morning and return the next day. My weekend, along with my back, brain and looks, would be shot.

I left a message for the instructor that I could not go. Work, I explained. Sudden, unexpected. I had to work Sunday morning, and there was simply no way I could get back, shower and make it. I was not surprised when he called back. "What if you just come up for the day? You'll still learn a lot. It'll be fun. Everyone that takes this class says it's fun."

I caved. This morning, I was at the appointed Park & Ride, gathered in the parking lot with a bunch of men wearing navy, black and khaki, bulging backpacks with labels I did not recognize laying at their feet.

I was wearing a cotton T-shirt - a faux pas for sure. Water-sucking cotton is the bane of all outdoors people, I had learned. But I had chosen this particular T-shirt specifically because it had a touch of spandex, which made it cling slightly, and this was important when hanging out in the woods with a bunch of men. Besides, it was gray. A respectable, outdoorsy color if ever there was one. And my pants - $60 wind- and wrinkle-proof REI-brand, as well as my $100 Keens hybrid sandal/hiking boots - were more than respectable. Never mind that I'd purchased both specifically for travel through Italy. These were serious outdoor clothes. I moved my well-prepared feet such that they blocked my backpack, with its American Tourister label, from view.

I'd counted on a solitary drive during which I could listen to the conclusion of the romantic Nicholas Sparks' book on CD I'd been following. But at the last moment, Ed, the leader for the after-work hikes in which I'd participated, asked to carpool. Quickly, I threw Nicholas Sparks under the seat. I was only mildly annoyed about this. More so, I realized that the other men likely believed Ed and I were together. This was a misconception I did not want.

Ed was the only mountain club member with which I had any familiarity. He was a nice man with an unusual appearance. Everything about him struck me as angular. He was beyond six-feet tall and skinny, with a long, narrow, pale face and a mouth that rarely turned upward into a smile. But I knew the subjects he liked: hiking, hiking equipment, the girlfriend I had met and finances, so I knew talk wouldn't be too much of a problem. It went like this: I asked the questions. He answered. It was not so much a conversation as it was me queing Ed to talk. But he seemed happily unaware.

Early on in our drive, he commented this his girlfriend was "probably short term." Kate was Thai, here on a work visa and due to go back to Thailand soon. She didn't speak English well, he said, and it was difficult for them to watch movies or do other normal couple things together. She also was not much of a hiker. She tired easily and was, worst of all, ill equipped.

I offered little comment, except to remind him that she was adorable.

Somewhere along the drive, it occurred to me that Ed was scoping me out as a possible replacement. I shoved the thought aside as irrelevant.

At the campsite, we were instructed to sit in a semi-circle for yet another lecture, this one from a 60-something survival expert, retired from Special Forces. Even if he had not told us his background, his military style was evident. Nick divided us into two groups for question and answer. If one person in the groups answered a question wrong, the entire group would stand until another member answered a question correctly.

I had not studied the handouts. I slumped down in the back row.

"What are the three P's?" he belted out, singling out a woman from the first group.

I could think of not a single one. I could not even recall discussing it.

"Planning ... preparation," she said. "And ..."

He waited. Then made a loud honking noise and commanded, "Everybody in this group - stand!" They rose. The woman glanced around apologetically.

His gaze shifted to our group. His pointing finger circled in the air, then came down, extended arrow straight. At me.

"Jane, stand up!"

I directed a whispered "shit" to the ground and stood.

"What are three devices you can use for signaling?"

"A mirror," I said with confidence. Mirror signaling was our next exercise; I felt proud of myself for remembering. "Um ... fire."

"Yes!" he said. "That's two!"

All eyes turned toward me as I thought, silently, while Nick's internal clock ticked. I remembered the survival videos, the idiot hunter who'd fired frantic shots into the air and fled, in a hypothermic fit of insanity, from snowmobiles that could have shuttled him to warmth and safety.

"A gun?" I offered it not as an answer, but a question. While ours was not exactly the Sierra Club, a gun surely was not an acceptable mountain club response.

"Yes! A gun!" He rattled off several other possible answers and I sank back to the ground with relief.

For the next three hours, we listened to Nick's booming voice, practiced mirror signaling and studied the shelters our expert leaders had made as examples. They consisted of tarps, strung creatively between trees, over fallen trunks, behind bushes and rocks.

The construction appeared simple, but armed with even my limited knowledge, I knew it was not. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had chosen not to stay.

Finally, Nick dismissed the class members to start work on their shelters. This was my cue to leave. Unfortunately, there had been no time for socializing all day; the next few hours were prime time for getting to know my fellow survivalists. But the tradeoff - struggling ignorantly through construction under the oversight of a military commander - just was not worth it.

I thanked the instructors and made for my car, relieved again at the thought of my audio book.

"Wait!" I heard Ed say. "I'm not feeling all that well. I think I'll go, too."

Ed threw his massive backpack, hiking poles, pad and parka into the trunk. The small space left was precisely enough for the American Tourister.

We headed down the washboard, gravel road toward civilization. I thought about what the instructor had said, that everyone agreed the class was "fun". For me, not a single moment of it had been fun and I could see that the night would simply have been torture. But at least I had come. I had taken in enough knowledge that perhaps, in an emergency situation, I could tap into my memory bank and salvage most of my fingers and toes. Class was over, and that was enough.

I queried Ed about the Wilderness Trekking School, a more basic class considered semi-essential for CMC members. Without certification in the class, members could not go on the more difficult C and D rated hikes. The class consisted of five field trips over the course of a few months, Ed said, focusing on desert, mountain and snow hiking and survival. "You get to learn how to roll down a snow bank with a pick axe," he said. "It's sort of fun." There was that word again: Fun.

I nodded. A lifetime of A and B hikes, hopefully with people who did not find SPF-rated clothing a mandate for sunny adventures in the great outdoors, sounded splendiferous.

But there was still the matter of Ed himself, who mentioned again how poorly equipped his girlfriend seemed to be for hikes.

I could no longer stay silent. "Until I bought these shoes, I hiked in Tevas," I said.

"Tevas? If you showed up for one of my hikes in Tevas, I'd tell you you couldn't go," he said, his tone a mix of shock and disgust.

"Really? Well, on nice summer days, I probably still will hike in them. It just keeps my feet cool."

The rest of the drive passed in near silence. I was daydreaming of my bed and my sleeping pills. And Ed revealed his thoughts as soon as we drove back into cell phone range. "Kate?" he queried into his phone. "What are you doing tonight?"