5

We found an open space a step or two back in the woods, and made a pack line, just like we had seen the old hands do back at Base Camp; each pack with its waterproof pack-cover to keep the water off if it happened to rain. We had already removed all food and other "smellables" to our bear bags and now ran these up onto a bear-bag cable at the campsite, so the bears would, hopefully, leave the packs alone. Each of us had two or three empty canteens, and carrying these, we took a compass bearing and hit the downward trail for the mine.

You could tell just by looking at the map that the trail down would be a good one, and it did not disappoint. Whereas the "Trail of Doom" that morning had shown as a straight uphill line on the map, this one snaked about in most engaging fashion. The walk to Cyphers was a wonder. With the forty-pound packs off our backs, camp shoes instead of hiking boots on our feet, and with the back-and-forth, back-and-forth, but always downhill of the route, we flew along at a terrific rate.  23 minutes later we arrived at Cyphers Mine Camp. The scouts were still a little standoffish with each other, but everyone was exhilarated by the run down and wanted to talk about it, so things were looking up a bit.

Nate grabbed the "life" and went off to arrange for a tour of the mine with the people in charge. He came back in five minutes and told us that, yes, we could have a tour, but would have to wait until 3:30 to get it. That would put us a little behind schedule for getting on the road for Red Hills, but everyone agreed that it was worth it. Water was much more of a problem. With a beautiful mountain stream flowing right through the camp, Cyphers, nonetheless had no water! This meant that thirsty crews had to purify the stream water to meet their needs. We had filter pumps to do this, but they were back at the packs. We also had iodine tablets that we hesitated to use because of the taste they gave to the water, but again these were up on top of the mountain. That left boiling as the only means of killing the giradia cysts, bacteria, cryptosporidia and viruses that may inhabit the raw mountain water --- the hitch being that there was a ban on fires due to the current drought conditions. Oh yeah, and our pots were… you guessed it… at the top of the hill. So, this was a real problem. The other crews in the area did not have extra chemicals or water to share, and so we settled on the idea of filling one canteen each with stream water and carrying these back to the top where iodine would be added. This meant a dry afternoon and a dryer climb back up, but at least there would be relief up on Thunder Ridge.

I was disappointed at our lack of planning, but was just as guilty as anyone in not  allowing for the unexpected. To myself I muttered that I would just drink the water from the stream and take my chances --- I had, after all, done that all of my youth and never had a problem. Still, I felt myself bound by the rules that Philmont had laid down, and so hesitated to do this myself or advise it to others until water became a real problem. Then, I would have to choose between the real and imminent dangers of dehydration as opposed to the small chance of swallowing some beastie that could give me stomach problems or worse.

We could have sat there and pointing fingers over the water situation for the next two hours, but instead (was it luck or was the kid thinking) Nate suggested that we spend our time killing each other. That proved a big success.

It's a game called Mafia that Brian had taught us during training. One guy acts as "God" and the rest are "villagers".  God asks the villagers to close their eyes and "sleep".  He then secretly taps one of the villagers on the head to tell him that he is the Mafia. God then tells the villagers to awake and the action starts with an animated discussion of who might be the Mafia. Once a likely candidate is settled upon, the villagers vote to kill him. If that guy turns out to have indeed been the Mafia, the villagers win the round. If the villagers are wrong, the dead guy is out for the round and God tells the villagers to sleep. The Mafia guy then points to the one among them who seems closest to guessing who he is. God then awakens the villagers and tells a sad and funny story about the demise of one of their number, and that guy is out for the round, too. The villagers think about who has died, peer into each other's faces, argue a lot, and then decide who is to die next.

Yeah, I know it's a politically incorrect game. It's got God, the Mafia and mass pretend killing in it, but it's a lot of fun to play and provides a release for pent up anger. Arguing and shouting about suspects is the order of the day, and any resentments that build up are quickly released when the identity of the true culprit becomes known.  "SEE, I told you I wasn't the Mafia!"

The game started slow and evil, but later on we rejoiced in it as we slaughtered one another, and the stupid, slow-moving, altitude-drunk flies that were everywhere. By the end, we had released our frustrations and were talking again, and I was feeling a little more optimistic about the days ahead.