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The Whale
We rolled into the group camping area about 6:30 p.m. on Friday and busily set up our campsites. I supervised the dozen younger Scouts in pitching their tents and getting a fire going, while the older boys set up their own camp 100 yards down the trail. It was a beautiful night, and once things were organized we sprawled around a campfire, ate cookies, sang songs, told stories and marveled at the arrival of a group from Ohio. With deer hunters, you get the standard type that uses a rifle, and the more ambitious guy that uses a bow. You get people who feel an automatic weapon is called for, and I know at least one fellow who thinks that the State should have a knife season. Our troop is sort of like the bow hunters; we cook over fires, at least part of the time, and spread out so as to integrate ourselves into the forest environment. Our neighbors belonged more to the automatic weapon school of thought. They didn't arrive until after dark, but then immediately set about building a temporary village in the forest. First, and much to my dismay, a generator was fired up and strong electric lights, set on poles, were turned on. These cast weird shadows for hundreds of yards through the woods, and led us, around our simple campfire, to have an interesting discussion about the nature of camping. The mysterious strangers were good neighbors in many respects --- weren't noisy too late into the night, respected our piece of the woods, and even supplied us with some excess pastry when they departed on Sunday. Still, with their large number of adults, their large cooking tent and their strategy of bringing civilization to the wilderness, it was plain to see that they were having an altogether different experience than we were. I suppose that both ways work, and perhaps, their lights attracted bugs that would otherwise have been stalking me in the darkness. Saturday morning I learned the importance of bringing along a spatula if one hopes to eat bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast. We ended up eating Pop-Tarts instead --- yeah, we really rough it when we go camping. The adventures of our troop were many and varied that day. I followed 20 minutes behind the younger boys as they went on a 5 mile hike that wended its way through the fresh spring foliage to Seneca Point and then brought them back to our campsite via a long and twisty route. For navigation they used maps that they themselves had drawn, and this led to many a discussion as to which way to go. By 3:30 p.m. they had arrived back at camp, totally exhausted. By 3:40 p.m. they were racing about playing football. At 52, my batteries don't recharge nearly as quickly as that.
The last group of boys just sat around camp and did nothing all day. They had planned to build a lean-to and dam a small rill that ran close to camp, but somehow this didn't happen. Instead, they got into mischief eating food that wasn't theirs, putting dishwater in another boy's canteen and being very un-Scout-like in other ways. It seemed for a while that afternoon that the fun was over for me, as one misadventure after another was brought to my attention and had to be dealt with. I may not have handled the situation in the best possible way, but I did learn something from the experience. Busy is best with boys. Along about 9 p.m., a thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rain hit our campsite. This did a lot to revive my spirits. There is nothing quite like sitting out a storm in a tent. Many of the younger Scouts now know that the words "water proof" on their tents should actually read "mostly water proof if it doesn't rain really, really hard and if it's not too windy, and if you close the doors and windows." So, we pulled out of there on Sunday, and split up and went our separate ways until next time. Each of us had a different experience. Some overcame fatigue and homesickness, some discovered the joys of camping, and some walked further than they ever thought they could. Some got in trouble and may have learned from the experience, or not. Some, I hope, saw the woods the way I see the woods --- an amusement where the price of admission is blood, and the reward is a new way of looking at your everyday world.
For
instance, I sat down to tend a scratch up near Seneca Point on
Saturday. A four-year old and his family hiked by. Suddenly, the
little boy whipped round and stared in wonder at one of the huge,
weathered, gray rocks that litter the hilltop here. "Look! Look!" he
cried. "Look at the whale!" Now, I see whales everywhere I look, and
I smile. |
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I've
got mysterious tiny ones, little bigger than pinheads, that only
itch if I scratch them. I've got many of the standard mosquito size
that I long ago learned to ignore. It's the monsters though that are
bothering me tonight. These are the size of a dollar pancake and are
I think caused by deer fly bites. They are itchy and new to me. All
of these swellings on my hide, as well as various scratches and
minor burns, are my souvenirs of an interesting weekend spent in
Our
older boys split into two groups. One bunch went on a 10-mile hike
and evidently had a great time doing it. Most of them arrived back
at camp wet from fording steams, but all seemed pleased with the
adventure, especially when they realized that they had done the 10
miles in the time it took me to do five.