Somewhere in the Israeli Negev Desert, it’s 2 a.m. and I am cocooned in a damp quick-dry towel, desperately trying to fall asleep in my jeep, despite the howling sound of animals nearby.

I feel like howling, too. I’m at my wit’s end after listening to my teammate snore like a freight train for hours, in the confines of our tent. I’m shivering. My stomach is in knots as if it’s my first day of junior high school. The other women on the trip are already bonding and having fun, little cliques are starting to surface. I feel left out despite my overly friendly and probably overdone efforts.

Most of all, I don’t think I can make it through Desert Queen, a weeklong women’s jeep expedition in the Israeli desert. I manage to get cell reception and call my hubby crying, hoping he will magically helicopter me out of this mess I’ve gotten myself into. I finally calm down when my 17-year-old daughter gets on the phone and assures me that I will indeed survive.