3

The crew was a long time in catching me, and so I dropped my pack and settled against a comfy looking tree. After five minutes or so, the small creatures in the vicinity came out to resume their simple lives. A Western Tanager explored the Ponderosa Pines. A Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel appeared from nowhere and started rooting around for his lunch no more than a couple of yards from my extended feet. These small mammals look like slightly inflated chipmunks and are everywhere at Philmont Scout Ranch, where they are referred to as "mini bears."

I kept expecting the noise of my crew's approach from the right, but when I did hear humans it came from the left, and sounded strangely like "hut, hut, hut." Then I saw them coming, 12 supermen in a row. A lank, muscular 30-year old led the crew of what looked like superbly trained football players. Another young and athletic adult followed and they were moving fast. I called out, "What day?" --- my question to all the crews we passed. They didn't answer, but just kept chugging along, looking neither left nor right, on their mission to reach the next camp before noon. A couple of our guys would have been glad to be part of this bunch, but to me they seemed to have the wrong idea. An adult leading? Come on! Why the speed? Isn't it better to stop and smell the roses? Maniacs!

As the army patrol passed out of sight, here came my guys from the other direction. I fell in behind and walked along up toward Thunder Ridge. The views were grand and the walking was easy, but no one was talking. Then along came five guys from the other direction, again moving fast and looking strong. "What day? Where are you bound?"

"Day 7. Sawmill."

"Where's the rest of your crew?" I asked.

"Oh, they're back there somewhere," one of them chuckled.

And they were too. A couple of minutes later three more boys passed by. One of them was limping badly and another seemed near tears. Shortly after that a man and a woman passed by looking bleak and determined. They each had an aluminum walking stick that they dug in with a clink at every step.

Finally, a full ten minutes after the five boys had passed us, came a lone, dispirited looking man who used two walking sticks to help himself along the more-or-less level path.

"Are you following those guys ahead, or are you leading a crew behind you?" I asked.

"The guys in front," he said bitterly.

"So don't you find those walking sticks a bother? Aren't they noisy and don't they get in your way?"

"These sticks are all that keep me going," he muttered. "Don't knock it until you have tried it!" And he shuffled along his lonely way.

Wow, I thought. What was that mess all about. A good crew stays together. A good crew tends to the problems of its members. This bunch wasn't a crew at all, and their philosophy was plain to see --- to hell with the sick and wounded, full speed ahead. Idiots!

Our group proceeded on its grumpy way. Some boys were not talking to others and there was more muttering than happy chatter, but hey, we were at least still marching together.