My Seven Summers as a Boy Scout
I find myself lining up for another tedious flag ceremony as my back slouches under the heat of the sun. With my now over six-foot-tall stance, I observe the younger and seemingly miniature tenderfeet anxiously scurrying into lines. Was I actually that little? The crowd settles down and the Norman Rockwell painting comes to life; the bugle sounds and we all salute. It’s a sea of khaki with the scent of pine and puberty.
As the colors are being taken down for the evening, I glance around at the other troops. They’re all so strange. Each troop has its idiosyncrasy. For example, that troop is the one that never stops talking, the troop next to our line always has homesick kids, and our troop is the normal one (not likely). Something seems different though. I’m noticing things that haven’t been present previously. Such as earbuds hanging from the sides of twelve-year-old noggins, phones indenting pants pockets, and I recall the opening campfire — where a counselor got on stage and utilized a selfie stick…
I know I’m living in a time where technology is influencing every aspect of life and that the Boy Scouts of America is definitely a positively evolving organization on political, safety, and educational fronts; there are now movie-making, geocaching, and robotics merit badges. It occurs to me that I don’t want to be a part of the final generation of kids to truly go camping and experience a taste of what it’s like outdoors without technological novelties.
1
Six years ago, in 2009, I entered my first summer camp, clad with a camouflage colored cast below the knee and crutches in the cradles of my armpits. My dad came along, probably because he wanted to camp more than I did, but mostly by my mom’s request to make sure I didn’t die or anything.
Every morning we woke up to “Chicken Fat” playing on the loudspeaker, the ranger’s personal favorite. So we were surprised when they played “Beat It”, followed by a multitude of Michael Jackson hits throughout the day. We didn’t know it yet, but it was June 25, 2009, and the king of pop had died earlier that day.
At dinner that night, after matter-of-factly being informed of the celebrity death, I glided outside doors of the mess hall into a light rain; I was greeted with was an image that will forever be embossed in my memory: The camp ranger, a reverend, was standing alone; his cowboy hat held over his chest with one hand, his mouth agape, and his eyes aimed upward with the fear of the lord. My vision followed to see a funnel cloud swirling directly overhead.
We called this storm the “wrath of Michael Jackson” and it was terrifying to watch; it ripped the flag off the pole and toppled trees. As we observed from the mess hall and were halfheartedly lead by counselors to the appropriate tune of “Singin’ in the Rain”, there was one question on everyone’s minds: did I shut the tent flaps? The answer was a resounding no.
2
For my second year, we went to a camp called Ransburg in Indiana. Which was exciting, due to it not being in Ohio. Here, my friend Cameron and I became close with a counselor named Logan who really liked our troop t-shirts. What’s important to know is our troop number: 007. Every scouter adorned with a 360° brimmed safari hat referred to us as “The James Bond troop”, and we had shirts that said “License to Camp” on the backside. For Boy Scouts, this is some top-notch coolness. As a fair deal I proposed an exchange of my (dirty… shhh!) troop shirt for one of Logan’s staff shirts. He accepted. So my twelve-year-old self thought it’d be a great idea to wear my new textile the very next day. I was wrong, very wrong. And as you can imagine, I was accused by some very angry staff members of “impersonating an officer”.
Later in the week, Logan visited our campsite late at night to talk to Cameron and I (which was surprising considering I unintentionally ratted him out during the shirt fiasco). He asked if we wanted to come pray with him. We said yes, despite our lack of interest in religion, and followed him to the focal point of camp: the Firecrafter Circle.
Cameron and I were not considerably religious, and we figured the invitation to pray meant a casual gathering of friends and a little heart to heart. Once again, I was wrong. We sat in pitch-black silence as we all prayed silently to ourselves.
After an hour of staring at the ground, we hadn’t even said a word and were dismissed with a relieving amen, never to speak of this night again.
3
The purpose of Boy Scout summer camp is generally to earn merit badges. You sign up for classes in advance and go to a specific area during that time slot. By the end of the week, you will have earned as many as you signed up for.
At Chief Logan, the system was open — meaning a scout could jump from area to area earning badges as quickly or slowly as he wanted. Trey, another scout, along with Cameron and I took full advantage of this system. We’d go up to each area and ask, “What badge can we complete in two days?” It got to the point where we ran from shelter to shelter in a race to get as many as possible. We finished our final badge, orienteering, in about thirty minutes. All in all, we earned thirteen badges apiece that week. The average scout only earns about five.
4
When I was fourteen we went to Woodland Trails, where Cameron and I spent most of our time working with horses. The ranch was on the outside of camp, so it was a hike from our site. While embarking on our first journey to the barn, we had no clue what to expect. I mean, yeah, we’ve all ridden ponies. But horses? Their heads are huge. And when it came to measuring their height, I wasn’t sure how tall a hand was…
His name was Ferguson and I thought he was just about the most awesome animal in the world. When you stare a horse in the eye it can be kind of intimidating. It’s probably the largest animal most people ever touch. But when I got on the saddle, I remember feeling more comfortable than when standing next to him. There was something about knowing that the animal and I were working together that was very worthwhile. It’s a joy that many humans are becoming more and more out of touch with, now that we’re used to riding in cars to see zoo displays.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you could find us shoveling hay and horse biscuits, and falling asleep around the campfire while eating apple pie filling out of the can.
The true headline of the week, however, was the heroic set of actions by our assistant scoutmaster, Dick Busick. Mr. Busick was (and still is) seventy-something years old and an engineering professor at Ohio State. This vocation is only a result of his “failed attempt at retirement”. He was a Boy Scout many a fortnight ago and bikes just about everywhere. He’s a very witty and interesting man. With an obsession for hospital corners.
During our week at camp, the dining hall director had a mental break down and existential crisis, so he just quit in the middle of the week. I don’t know anyone else in the world who would quit their job on Wednesday, but this dude did. So Dick, being Dick, rushes over to the dining hall upon hearing of this dilemma. We were familiar with him running off to fix things, so we weren’t worried.
When we arrived at the dining hall less than an hour later we spotted his familiar face in the rear of the building, holding a broom. He was vigorously sweeping. And he was sweating. And he was shirtless. And hairy. And very sweaty. And he was now the interim dining hall director.
That’s exactly the type of guy he is. He just does whatever needs to get completed and I’ve really appreciated him for this throughout my time in scouting. For several days, we boys found ourselves helping him in the dining hall. We served and swept and did extra work, which is not something scouts usually have to do at a facilitated camp.
What I learned was this: the food staff puts up with a lot of shit for a lot of weeks. Never take your food for granted.
5
In 2013 we went to a high adventure camp in the Boundary Waters on the border of Minnesota and Canada. The location was called Northern Tier and the adventure was a fifty-mile canoe trip through the most nature we had ever experienced. This was not to earn merit badges. This was legit outdoors stuff.
Upon arriving, it was truly intimidating. Cameron was the youth leader of our expedition and thank God he was. When we were choosing our route at the base camp, which was completely up to our discretion, I just froze. I had no idea what was happening or what we were actually embarking on.
We got on the water and landed at our first campsite Monday night. From a physical standpoint, we went from canoeing zero miles a day to ten miles a day. So we were hurting. I talked to Josh, a friend of mine, and we both agreed that the trip was absolute torture so far.
There were three dads and five boys, along with one interpreter (a guide) on the trip. The adults, along with Cameron, had no trouble adjusting to the wilderness, but for the other boys and I, it took until about Wednesday to start having fun. And when we did finally open up to what was happening, we didn’t want it to end.
Lakes, in general, are not all connected. Traveling from one lake to another is called a portage. Someone carries the canoe, someone carries the gear pack, and someone carries the food pack from each canoe over the portion of land in between the lakes. Some portage hikes are only fifty feet long, and some are half a mile. Some are previously forged paths, and some, as Robert Frost would say, are less traveled by. The terrain of the land is unpredictable until you are actually on it; the only tool available to decide your route is contour lines on the map. All too often we found ourselves taking that road less traveled by — and that made all the difference.
Those half-mile portages were killer with up to eighty pounds on our backs. And thank God I was not a canoe carrier. I stuck with the packs and traveled behind Josh who, in order to distract himself from the pain, would sing to himself. The only problem with distracting yourself from the pain is that you also get distracted from the trail. So I was constantly picking him back up after he slipped on rocks and toppled over, still singing away.
The greatest feeling was ripping off my life jacket after a particularly difficult portage. I fell in the water and when I emerged asked, “Is this the part when I become a man?” I was promptly eaten alive by mosquitoes.
6
After traveling to Minnesota it’s quite easy to be a little disheartened by an average camp. And what I had learned by this point is that essentially, all reservations are the same. They all have a waterfront or pool and a climbing tower and a trading post and a “heart attack” hill. Yes, some reservations have more money (and steeper hills), but none of that really matters. What makes a camp particularly poignant is the people by your side. And the great stories that arise from their company.
It was Friday night at Camp Wyandot. We were sitting around our final campfire before we would have to head home in the morning. A scout named Zach was casually breaking sticks by utilizing the not-so-recommended method of slamming them up against a tree. It was dark and we were about to get in our tents when we heard a crack and a thump. We all looked around at each other considering the possibilities for the origin of the noise. Bear attack? Fallen branch? Collapsed tent? Oh hey, Zach is laying on the ground over there.
Ty, our senior patrol leader (the youth leader), casually asked, “Zach, you okay?”
No response.
A few seconds passed. “Zach? Hellooooooo?”
Ty didn’t spring up, but he casually walked over to where Zach was. “Um, guys. Zach isn’t moving.”
We all crowded around, and by this time my dad crawled out from his tent. You think we would’ve reacted a little faster on the first aid front, for Boy Scouts that is. But we were fairly lethargic and it took about a minute for the juices to get flowing. Holy crap, he’s passed out!
My dad exclaimed, “Someone get the first aid kit! Jacob and Ty, sprint and go get the first-aid man!”
The first aid hut was almost half a mile from our campsite. We were about halfway there when Ty stopped for a breather, looked up, and gave me the “just run dude” hand wave. For a track runner, I guarantee that was the fastest I had ever gone.
When I arrived at the first aid building I saw that, contrary to popular belief, it was not a 24/7 ER. Ty had caught up and we read the sign that directed us to the man’s cabin. We knocked on the door.
About thirty seconds later an old man opened the door wearing just his skivvies.
“What?”, he grumbled.
Frantically, we pieced the problem together. “Yeah our friend just like, I don’t know poked his eye out!? We need help right now sir. He’s passed out!”
He groaned with no sense of urgency at all and closed the door.
After waiting for what felt like an eternity, he emerged again wearing flannel pajamas and holding the key to a golf cart that was parked next to his cabin. The man motioned for us to follow him into the vehicle.
He turned the key at about the speed any senior citizen would and the cart sputtered to life. Ty and I looked at each other, both in agreement on the fact that we had no faith in this man. And somewhere between looking at Ty and feeling the skin on my face being pushed back, our silver surfer companion put the pedal to the plastic floor and I thought we were in an ambulance speeding down the I-95. He took the turns faster than the straightaways.
When we got back to camp Zach was conscious and had some bandages on his face. The first aid man examined Zach and told my Dad to take him to the hospital, so he drove both of them back to the parking lot.
None of us were really certain as to what had happened at the time. Ty relayed some of the news to Josh (you remember him), who wrote the details down on this very concerning note which I still hold on to.
So where are these characters today?
When it was all said and done Zach’s eye was not poked out, nor was he close to death. He received a few stitches for the cut below his eye. He is alive and doing well. Although he is very accident-prone.
Ty has since improved his cardio skills and Josh took a handwriting class.
And of course, the first-aid man. He still works at Camp Wyandot and deals with stupid teenagers hurting themselves in more creative ways each summer.
7
Jacob and I waded knee-deep in Lake Monroe at Camp Ransburg, in Bloomington, Indiana. We looked across the blue water towards the opposite shore; it was mostly covered with trees except for a few docks.
“The Indians were here, dude. Like, they just looked out and elk came and drank beside them,” I said in a dumbfounded voice.
“This is all there was back then… This lake is older than Jesus…” the other Jacob added with a thoughtful tone.
It was truly a moment of pure amazement for us. I don’t remember feeling closer to nature anywhere else except the Boundary Waters. But here we were in the Hoosier Nation. We wanted the facts on this lake. How old was it really?
We felt closer to nature, but much to our dismay we discovered that the lake was dug out in the year of our lord 1965. And for as deep as our pristine moment was, the water was only 59 feet at its lowest point.
Nonetheless, we still enjoyed our visits to Fossil Beach. No matter its origin, the stars still shone brightly in the night sky above the sand…
“Too” —
that’s the cue for putting down our salutes. We stand in silence for a few seconds after the flags are lowered, and the normal murmurs of chatter spread contagiously from person to person. Once again, I put my head on a swivel and observe my surroundings. I see some kids removing their earbuds, and some older boys smiling for once. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday night, and it’s almost time to go home, or, like me, they are realizing that this is their final flag ceremony as a Boy Scout. It’s time to take it all in.
We crowd into the mess hall, dense with an overpopulation of campers, and squeeze between rows of people to make it to our table. I take a seat and sit in silence, I begin to reminisce upon the most everlasting of my Boy Scout memories.
The noisy mess hall takes me back to the day Michael Jackson died. The reverend’s fearful face flashes in my mind, and the stormy imagery of that day follows.
I think about the two now graduated scouts, who earned thirteen merit badges with me at Chief Logan.
As we prepare to eat dinner, I smile at the thought of Mr. Busick sweeping that mess hall floor. I recall riding the horses with Cameron at the ranch, and I know that saddling up at camp again this year was something I had wanted to ever since.
I glance over at Josh, who may or may not be singing to himself just as he did on the trail at Northern Tier.
Ty is a few seats away, and I commemorate the clutch-awesomeness of our midnight run to find help for Zach — who by the way is doing just fine one table over.
I take a long appreciative look at the younger scouts, who are in the midst of their version of the journey that is soon ending for me. I hope they will always remember to take their earbuds out and view camp as a unique entity, separate from their daily lives.
Finally, I look up from my plate and there sits my father; the man who has been at every camp, not just for me, but for all the boys. Turns out he did manage to keep me alive.
I have been writing down these stories since Monday, knowing that I want to find a way to tie them all together. So after dinner, I take a stroll to the focal point of the camp and the same place I sat when I was twelve years old: the Firecrafter Circle.
This time around, I’m seventeen and on the verge of becoming an Eagle Scout. These have been my youth years. And as I reflect on the end of this era in my life, I now know that these passages are just some of the stories I will tell forever. My adolescence contains many scouting adventures, and it is something that I am very proud of.
I’ll always remember the splashing of water on my legs and the way my thighs burned when walking up “heart attack hill”; the Wednesday phone calls with my mom, cookie care packages from family members, and the footsteps of my father hiking.
Unlike the stone structure that I am sitting upon, we are not here forever. But I have seen each camp, and each camp has seen a piece of me. And for that, I am eternally grateful to be a Boy Scout.
