Camping

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“Yep, we are going to cauterize…”

I guess, if you live long enough, you have the opportunity to experience many of life’s little annoyances. Most of these come as reminders that our bodies are not immortal and they will eventually break down. It begins slowly as muscles start to ache, gravity exerts its influence and Mother Nature seems to make the winters colder and summers hotter.

Too often I boast that even though my soul carries around a sixty year old body, I have been immune to many of the slow downs, bathroom trips and pill popping of others in my generation. Funny how life has a way of catching up to you and… it is usually at a most inopportune time.

For example…

Tina, Bella our little pup, and I recently spent four days hidden away in the mountains of Pennsylvania. The days were filled with hikes, staying up late, eating too much and sleeping in later than any work day. It was an uneventful long weekend, just as get-a-ways should be,

Except for…

My gushing nose bleed the third day of the trip. At sixty years of age I have never had a nose bleed. Even as a kid being smacked in the nose by balls, elbows and occasionally a few doors that might have jumped out in front of me, I have never had a nose bleed. But this changed when I stood up from the couch with hope of joining Bella in her chase for chipmunks and in the process I dripped a trail of blood a bloodhound with a cold could follow.

The last time I was this bloody was when I fell off the back porch into a rose bush. Then I looked like the looser in a cat fight; now I looked like a prize fighter that forgot to dodge a punch.  Without getting too graphic which I almost need to, the blood was coming in clots as I leaned over the kitchen sink trying not to make a mess all over the floor. Tina was throwing all of her remedies for stopping bleeds and none of them were working.  I tried pressure on the nostril, then pressure on the lower lip with an ice cube pressed against it. None of that worked. I continued to drip blood into the sink like a leaky faucet. I think somewhere along the line a tourniquet around the neck was suggested but I opted out of that idea.

Poor Bella was just wondering when we were going to get back to chasing chipmunks.

It finally came to an end and we chalked it up to weather, dry heat in the cabin or maybe thin blood from a few drinks the night before. All was fine until…

We went for a hike along one of the public roads near the cabin. Bella was having fun checking out all of the new smells along the way. I was afraid she was going to get a blister on her nose from rubbing across the grass and gravel exploring the world. At one point, when I bent over to check on her latest discovery, on comes the crimson. I was turning the grass, road and the few Kleenexes I had stuffed in my pocket redder than the fall colors in the hills.

When the new episode started, we were probably a good mile from the cabin and I was quickly running out of practical things to shove up my nose. The thought even crossed my mind at one point to start using the leaves but that just didn’t seem like a safe route to travel. As I mention, this was a public road which all of a sudden seemed to be the most traveled path in the mountains. It was getting harder to hide the massacre look to my face and hands from passing motorists. I am sure I was the topic of more than one dinner conversation that evening.

What hurt the most though was giving up the cigar that was only half finished, but it was getting harder to juggle blood, Kleenex and cigar. To pitch a cigar, with so much left is like eating half of the best steak you have ever been served, get half way in and then say, “okay, I can eat the rest, but I just don’t want to.”

Anyway, Tina wisely convinced me the cigar was probably not helping my cause and since I couldn’t convince her or Bella to finish it, I had no choice but to snub it out.

The next morning brought another bloody round. Waking up I could feel something wet on my face. My pillow, t-shirt and sheets were red. It looked like a crime scene from movies when they find the deceased in bed and some astute detective says, “Looks like he’s been shot.”

How were we going to explain this to housekeeping? I thought about placing one of those fake hands that hang out the back of car trunks under the sheets and pillow but they probably wouldn’t see the humor in that. We opted for a few extra dollars in the tip and a note of explanation as to what happened. Again, probably good conversation back at housekeeping headquarters.

When we returned home from the cabin in a rare moment of correct action and after much prodding by Tina, I set up an appointment with a doctor to check out the situation. Not what I wanted to do, but every once in a while a bit of common sense works its way in.

A week passed before I could see a doctor. Everyday brought a new bleed, usually first thing in the morning. By day seven, I became a master at stopping the flow and my evolved technique included one of Tina’s cotton balls shoved up my nose as a plug. It never failed, once the cotton was up the nose, Bella gave the signal that she was ready to go outside. If you would have driven past the house during these outside bathroom breaks you would have seen a cute little schnauzer leading a person around with what looked like the beginning of a nice bird’s nest hanging out his nose.

I have no dignity left.

The day of the appointment was the first day I did not have a bleed. Kind of like taking your car to the mechanic and the noise stops. So, my first thought was cancel the appointment, well I wasn’t getting away with that.

The doctor I used was one who many years ago fixed another problem with little hassle and minimal discomfort. The doctor, who I do have great respect for, is not your ordinary modern doc. He is more of a Norman Rockwell doctor with his silver reflector wrapped around his head and a no nonsense bed side manner.

“So you been having nosebleeds.”

“Yep first time in my life.”

“Well let’s take a look.”

The first thing he did was check my ears. I am not a master of human anatomy but I was pretty sure the nose and ears were not that connected to be the source of my discomfort, but he is the doctor.

The next thing he did was flip his reflector down and grab what looked like a pair of needle nose pliers from Ace Hardware, pushes my head back against the chair, peers through the hole of the reflector and spreads my nostril with the prongs of the pliers.

“Yep, we are going to cauterize those capillaries.”

Those are words I never wanted to hear. I’ve heard stories of people with broken noses or bleeding situations which would not stop until they were cauterized. My image of this process was fresh from dad’s experience with skin cancer and uncontrollable bleeding from the surgery. Late one night dad and I made a trip to the Falls City emergency room to stop bleeding which we both felt was out of the ordinary. To fix the problem, the doctor fired up what looked like a pen with a glowing tip. He touched it to the bleeding and what smelled like hamburgers on the grill filled the ER.

The ER doctor said, “Now that should do it. You take this home and if it happens again, just touch this to the surface and he will be fine.”

Right.

That pen stayed in the junk drawer of the house until we closed up Morton Street and said good bye to the house.

My image now was of the doctor pulling out his junior wood burning kit and sticking it up my nose. Instead, he pulled out a hose and with little finesse stuck it up my nose and gave what felt like a blast of freon. It was like shoving an ice cube up my nostril. Don’t ask me how I know what that feels like.

“Doesn’t taste too good does it?” was his only consolation.

I agreed.

“We will have to numb it a little more.” With that he shoved more stuff up the nostril and left the room.

Once my nose started to thaw I could sense the numbness settling in. My teeth and upper lip were getting numb, I was hoping that was what was supposed to happen. After what seemed like an hour but it probably wasn’t, the doctor came back in and announced,

“Well that should be numb now.” My first thought was,

“Should be?”

I was bracing for fire up the nose when he pulled out three sticks, each with what looked like some chemical on the end. Up the nose he goes. Now if this is what it felt like numb, I would hate to know what it would have felt like without all the prep. But I was brave and only one tear welled up in the corner of one eye.

Next he shoved what looked like a cigarette up my nose.

“This is packing that will dissolve on its own. You will be fine with it. Have a good day.”

That was it.

I exited through the crowded waiting room with every eye turning towards me. Each one of my fellow patients hopefully thought, “Well he survived, maybe I will also.” I tried to look like nothing happened as I walked a straight line to the door.

I didn’t realize how bad I looked until we were back in the car and I flipped down the visor mirror. I looked like a coal miner with my blackened nose. The tip of my nose was black and the packing was already dissolving and running down into my moustache as a black drool. The rest of the day was spent wiping away the packing that came out the consistency of hair gel. I was not fit for public appearance.

The next day, when it was time to go to work, I had to clean myself up. I figured a little rubbing and all evidence of the day before would be gone. Not quite. Soap did not take the black away. Nail polish remover didn’t touch it. Toothpaste, my go to for stubborn stains, no effect. Shave cream, nope. It was Tina’s suggestion to use the mechanic degreaser soap. The degreaser made some progress but by this time I think I had the start of a good size chemical blister on my nose from all of the rubbing and mixtures of various cleaning agents.

Just a note for you should you find yourself in a similar situation, toothpaste and nail polish remover were probably never meant to go up the nose. They burn worse than the acid sticks

But, all is well now and I can add one more experience to life’s repertoire and just explain it with… its all part of growing up.

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There is a first time for everything

Adventures appear when you least suspect them. Growing up, escapades and new experiences are around every corner. As we grow we are faced with so many first time experiences. Some of these situations and occurrences we miss by no fault of our own. Few of us remember our first experience of snow, a first birthday celebration, or the first time we heard birds singing. Those around us marked those events with excitement and in many cases, pictures. I think that is why as parents cherish those first in children’s lives.  As grown ups we are capture and record something we missed out on the first time around.

Then, there are those events which happen later in life. Being older you recognize them as firsts. For some events, you hope it is also the last time. For me two first time events happened in the same week in 1968. Both events made an impacted growing up and both I hoped not to repeat soon: Grandma Casey’s death and my first week of Boy Scout camp.

Camp was on my radar well before I was every officially a Boy Scout. Scout camp was as much a part of our family as vacations were to other families. The camp lodge, lake, staff quarters and several of the campsites were all comfortable places to me when I was making my plans to attend camp. During Tom’s camp staff years, we visited camp almost every week and it wasn’t long before I was roaming camp like it was my personal neighborhood.

My earliest memory of Tom heading off to camp was watching the troop load up at their meeting place on Harlan Street. The troop along with all of their gear was loaded in the back of an open cattle truck. I can remember dad handing up to Tom a homing pigeon carrier loaded with one bird ready to be pressed into service.  Once Tom arrived at camp, the plan was to send the bird back announcing the troop reached their campsite safely.

To demonstrate how important the camping experience was to our parents, they were sending a son off, who was enduring all of the limitations of Cystic Fibrosis, to a hot dry camp, traveling twenty plus miles in the back of an open truck and relying on a pigeon to let them know he arrived safe.

In 1968 it was my turn to make my first official trip to camp. Scout camp in 1968 was $24.00 for a week of camp. That may not seem like a large sum but when you were earning .50 a yard cutting grass or the same amount for snow shoveling, it took a while to reach the required amount. I worked hard to get all the money together and rallied each week when I turned in my deposit at the meeting to see another step closer to the full amount marked off my bill.

And then, Grandma Casey’s health started to slip.

Mom and Dad would make visits to the nursing home and come back talking in hushed levels. It wasn’t hard to understand this independent woman was not going to be here for long. When Grandma passed, it was the week before the troop was scheduled to go to camp and her funeral was scheduled for Monday morning; the troop was set to leave that Sunday.

Grandma Casey was the essence of Grandmotherhood.

Grandma Casey was the picture of Grandmotherhood.

Talk about pulling a kid in two directions.

I can still remember mom sitting on my bed telling me it would be okay to miss the funeral and go to camp. But that wasn’t an easy decision on my part. If you remember from earlier blogs, I was  the unofficial MC for funerals and weddings at St. Peter and Paul. I couldn’t let Grandma go without being the one to orchestrate the characters needed for a proper funeral.

A phone call to Bill our scoutmaster cleared the way for me to join the troop on Monday afternoon and still attend Grandma’s funeral in the morning.

Who says you can’t have it both ways!

With Grandma’s funeral behind me, Mom and Dad packed up in the Dodge Dart, (Black Beauty was out to pasture at this point) and headed for camp. It was an oppressive July day, the kind that makes you not want to touch another person and also check yourself to make sure you have no embarrassing sweat marks. Arriving in camp I checked in at the lodge and hiked down the road to the troop’s regular campsite. Scout troops are a little like church people selecting a pew. There are always many to select from but the same one is always picked. The troop’s favorite site for years was the Dakota campsite. It was close enough to the main lodge to make it convenient but far enough out of the way to create a little scout mischief and not get caught. There was a stream that ran behind the site which provided plenty of entertainment that mothers would never approve of and most important, the best latrines in the whole camp.

I arrived in camp in just enough time to participate in the evening flag ceremony. The entire camp population circled the flag poles as the colors retreated for the day. Troop 393 was positioned facing west to the setting sun. To this day I have not witnessed a sunset with the vibrancy of colors painted in the sky. It was as if an artist took the shades of fall, brilliant oranges, purples, reds and yellows and smeared them together like kindergarten finger painting. As the colors were lowered, a warm breeze blew around our ankles and red winged black birds hollered back at the bugler in competition as he played taps.

I was not a weather watcher at this age. If I was, I would not have been so enamored with the colors of the sky and would have paid more attention to the signs around me. The tints in the sky were the front runners of a massive storm front moving in. The warm breeze around our legs was the effect of heavy air pushing weaker air down and the black birds were just trying to warn us to get off the hill before lightning started.

The rain started as a gentle summer volley. The first drops released the fresh smell of rain. A few lightning flashes cleared the air and filled it with more nitrogen infused drops. Nightfall came and everyone retreated to their tents ready for a gentle rain. No one worried about a little rain, we were all experienced campers, at least we thought that until,

it actually started to rain.

The rain started hitting the canvas of our A-frame tents with loud pops. The stretched material bounced as the drops became bigger and stronger. Lightning flashed casting a green light, the color of the tent canvas, through the two man tent. The flaps on the tent were tied to the upright poles in the front and back. The side flaps, which were usually rolled up to get some air on hot nights, were now down and staked to the ground. If you hadn’t checked the ropes leading to the stakes earlier, it was too late to make any changes.

The rain began pelting the tents with the force and sound of a bathroom shower. Lightning flashes were coming at a rate so steady you could have read a book by their light. The light display also revealed the inches of water flowing through the floor of the tent. My tent mate and I were lucky enough to be sleeping on old army cots inherited from our dads. We could watch the water come through and still stay dry in our sleeping bags. Scouts sleeping on air mattresses or directly on the ground were not so lucky. One member of the troop, a sound sleeper, floated out the back of his tent and was finally brought to life by the pouring rain on his face.

Our gear did not stay dry. It was a choice, dry bed or dry clothes. It was too late to save the packs and suitcases stored under cots. Boots and tennis shoes were tied to the cots already, so for many those, items were up and dry.

The creek that ran behind the campsite seemed like a great amenity to the site until this night. The roar from the water was enough to make most of us look out the back flaps of the tent to see the gentle stream now bank full and threatening to spill into the campsite. Canoes from the lake made their way down the torrent as the lake spilled its guts into the stream. The canoes banged as they lodged in the trees along the stream. Their hollow thumping pleas for help could be heard when the thunder decided to take a break.

The storm parked itself over the Humbolt Boy Scout Camp and sat on us until early morning.

The closer it came to daybreak the more homesick I became. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was with family, dry and not worried if I was going to be lit up by the next lightning strike. I was missing Grandma and wondering if this scout camp thing was everything I thought it was going to be.

In the morning, as the sun crested over a distant hill it silhouetted the trees and cast long rays into the campsite. Leaves sparkled as if they were touched by ice rather than rain. The air had the freshness that follows a summer storm when dirt is washed away and the air is purified by countless cleansing flashes of light. The red-winged blackbirds returned yelling at their cousins the blue jays while they both competed for new food.

The daylight also revealed the flattened grass from the rivers running through Dakota site. Several tents were collapsed and their residents, who took refuge in neighboring tents, popped their heads out to survey the damage. Two canoes were t-boned behind the site, both fighting to get free from the raging water that brought them together. The troop slowly started to gather in the center of the campsite around a picnic table that was now three feet closer to the edge of the woods than it was the night before. Each scout started sharing experiences of the night. No one had dry clothes. Most of the guys appeared in swim trunks, because they feel good wet anyway, boots trailing muddy laces and wet camp T-shirt. We were about as far away from a Norman Rockwell painting of Scouting as you could get.

After making sure everyone was okay, we were dispersed with assignments to get the site back together. Once our jobs were finished, we were free to tend to our personal gear. It wasn’t long before the campsite looked more like a laundry facility than a campsite. Every available branch had a line strung from it holding a week’s collection of clothes.

A camp staff member came to the site to check on us. He brought with him news of the rest of the camp. The staffer detailed how in the middle of the night the staff was moved out of their tents. The staff area was below a new dam for the lake. With run off and rain the lake was not expected to reach the dam for another couple of years. This would give the dam plenty of time to settle and firm up.

The lake reached the new capacity during the storm and there was fear the dam cold not hold it back.

All of the canoes and rowboats docked on the shore of the lake were either down the feeder stream or floating around in the middle of the lake.

The staff member told us you couldn’t tell where the camp pool started and the mud around it stopped. The hill above the pool slid down to the pool leveling the area out around the deck of the pool.

Roads to campsites were washed away or so muddy one dared not walk on them for fear of sinking in the mud. The staffer told us we were all confined to our campsites until further notice by the staff.

One of the great advantages of scouting and a lesson you take with you when you leave the program, is anything can be accomplished with team work and selflessness. We operated on the patrol system which meant everyone had an assigned job. To do your job meant the patrol would succeed. The patrol leaders started rounding up the cooks and fire starters. The picnic tables were moved back to less soggy locations and the dining tarps over them were resurrected.

It wasn’t long and the smell of charcoal fires were filling the campsite followed by frying bacon, eggs and pancakes on the griddles. The night’s experiences were getting farther from our memories and our bellies were getting closer to being satisfied.

The last notable event of this experience takes place while I was in the latrine. Most camp latrines are not structures that encourage lingering. On a humid 100 degree July day you are in and out. This morning was a little different.

The storm cleared the air. It was cool and the torrential down pour must have helped to purify the fragrance normally associated with the outhouses.

Dakota campsite in better weather.

Dakota campsite in better weather.

While doing my business I was in no particular hurry as this was the first private moment I had since arriving in camp. That is, until the walls of the latrine began to shake. There was a thunderous drone that vibrated the ground where my feet were resting. I could see the only tree that shaded the outhouse bend down as if some giant was pushing it over from behind the structure. A wind wiped through the outhouse and almost pushed me off my pedestal.

I figured this was it. This was the second coming for sure and I had been caught with my pants down (secretly everyone’s worst fear when that time comes.) God tried to get us with lightning and rain, now comes the earthquakes and wind.

Not wanting to appear before my Maker in a compromising position, the process I was involved in quickly accelerated. Stepping outside I realized God had come in the form of a twin prop, troop transport helicopter labeled with the Red Cross emblem and He landed just outside our campsite. When the cargo bay doors opened four horsemen, (no intended apocalyptic reference here but it works so go with it) made their way down to the campsite.

The chopper was dispatched by the main scout office in Lincoln after reports reached them of the devastating weather in Richardson County. All phone lines were down. Power was out through much of the county. Roads and bridges were either washed away or closed. The riders started working their way through the campsites to make sure we were all in one piece so they could report back to our parents that they needn’t worry about the Boy Scouts.

The rest of the camp week was uneventful compared to Monday night. There was no swimming in the pool for the rest of the week. So what, we had a new lake twice the size of the old one. Within a day, all of the merit badge classes were back on schedule so no one lacked for any activity. Uniform requirements were eliminated causing the evening flag ceremonies to be attended by what looked a band of ruffians set on taking over the camp.

The closing campfire on Friday night was held on the shore of the new lake. We were all bonded by the shared experiences of the week. Scouts who would never see each other again sang campfire songs together louder than any church gathering. When the campfire was over, boys and leaders exchanged good byes and safe travels with brother scouts. The scene looked more like a class reunion breaking up than a group of teenage boys and leaders anxious to get home.

Years later, as Camp Director, I enjoyed walking down the road to the Dakota campsite at night with only the moonlight to guard against stumbling. On these nights I would stand outside of the site undetected and listen to the boys enjoying the campground in the same way we did years earlier. I could picture where my tent stood on that July night. The faint leftover essence of charcoal from the troop’s evening meal would take me back to the morning of eggs, bacon and pancakes when breakfast outside never tasted so good.

First time life events that help you decide who you are and what you can endure are after all just…all part of growing up.

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Cobbler, Guns and Coffee, Oh My!

The late fifties and early sixties was an age before television began to lull us inside and present a distorted view of reality. Life outside of the house was exciting and adventuresome. Inside was for eating, sleeping and homework. Outside was for quests, socializing, learning and getting into trouble.  When we were ushered outside to play, mom’s words went something like this; “Go outside, play, have fun and don’t get into trouble.” The problem was, my idea of trouble and mom’s was usually different.

Trying to stay out of mischief often necessitated belonging to some youth organization which parents believed would somehow mold us into responsible adults. If you were one to push the limits, the threat of reform school hung over your head. For those who were not as rebellious, organizations such as 4-H, FFA, sports or Boy Scouts did the trick.  I tried the football route but quickly learned I did not care for my face being stepped on by kids twice my size. Boy Scouts became the route to salvation and a somewhat un-criminal life.

My brother Tom started the scouting experience in our family. Tom earned the Eagle Scout rank, which was an accomplishment for a young guy fighting Cystic Fibrosis. On a hot Nebraska July night, Tom, along with four other scouts pinned on the rank of Eagle in front of a crowd that required the Jug Brown Football Stadium behind the high school to hold all the guests.

Tom was my first lesson in dealing with a person of limited resources. I refuse to call him disabled as many people would want to today. For Tom, the disease was an inconvenience and he dealt with it as such. It might be better to label it as a distraction, but for him, it was never a disability. By fifth or sixth grade I was already taller than him, but in my mind he was bigger because he was after all, my big brother. Years later, I was honored to join him in the Eagle brotherhood. Today I measure each new Eagle Scout against Tom’s accomplishments and life style.

Scouting in Falls City was the adventure you read about in Boys Life or in the Boy Scout Handbook as you thumbed through it in the Boy Scout section of the J. C. Penny store. I couldn’t wait to be a scout. All of the tenderfoot requirements were memorized well before I signed on. I had visions of camping in the timber outside of town, wearing my uniform to school on scout days and leading a patrol through town at the start of a hike, each member dutifully following behind the flapping flag of the wolf patrol.  As a troop we never went on a fifty mile hike, saved a life or helped old ladies cross the street. But, when no one was looking and without even knowing it, we saved our own lives and helped each other cross the street from puberty to manhood.

We were a camping troop as well as one which believed in initiation ceremonies, PBA (pink belly association) flashlight army, snipe hunting and a few other things that might run counter to today’s Boy Scout philosophy or practices. We had fun and we learned valuable life skills. Skills such as how to ride in the back of a pickup without being pitched out or better yet, how to drive the same pickup, pre-license of course. Each scout in the troop eventually mastered the skill of boiling the hell out of coffee, making it the best tasting beverage you’ve ever had on a cold night, how to pop milo “borrowed” from a nearby field, and God forbid, how to shoot a gun.

Our Scoutmaster, Bill, was the father of two girls, so I believe he looked at each one of us as his sons. Bill worked in a local shop that made the cabinets for mobile homes. He was the first guy I knew who looked like he shoved softballs under his skin making his shirt sleeves stop above the biceps. He wasn’t showing off, he was a hardworking man who came by his muscles honestly. I used to do push ups every night hoping my arms would match his. I gave that idea up years ago.

On occasion, Bill would announce a shooting night for the next meeting. On these announced shooting nights, we were to bring our .22’s. On scout night, one week later, you would see a half-dozen pre-teenage boys walking down Stone Street, the main street of Falls City, toting guns. No one thought anything of it. Today, it would probably generate a SWAT team response and it would definitely create some form of national news coverage. After the meeting we would cut down through the city park (read, Death Drives a Ford Fairlane Sept. 7) then hike by way of an old service road taking us past the water and light plant down to the Nemaha River. Once there, we would plink at whatever we felt was a good target.

Old LP records were some of our favorite targets. We would roll LPs down the banks of the river and try to hit them before they ever reached the river bottom. Thinking back now I realize how dangerous that really was but somehow Bill controlled it. There were never any close calls that I remember. I also wouldn’t mind having a few of those LP’s back.  What should have caused even more alarm for the locals, was these same boys walking home in the dead of night carrying armament. How would you react today if you were sitting on your front porch enjoying the evening air and listening to the crickets and you saw four boys, dirty, sweaty and carrying on walking down your street, each carrying a rifle?

It was from these nights that I learned to shoot, gain respect and responsibility for what a weapon could do; lesson never taught, but lessons learned.

As a troop we were good at winter camping. Understand Nebraska winters are as cold as Nebraska summers are hot. There are many January days when the high temperature is still below zero. There is a description of Nebraska cold that says; “It was so cold outside that all the people’s words froze in mid-sentence. When spring came along, all the words thawed at once and you couldn’t hear yourself think.” Few people in their right mind venture out unless they were required to. That is unless you were a member of troop 393. Bill would sign us up every year for what was called the Winter Freeze Out camporee.

The winter I learned to sleep naked in my sleeping bag (well almost naked) was the most memorable of all of the winter events and a source for a few more stories that will follow. It was January. A fresh snow fell in the afternoon and by the time we got the tents set up, we were all ready to pack it in and go home. We were cold, wet and hungry. This changed when Bill made some of his ground coffee elixir; coffee boiled with the grounds then served in a tin camp cup, (which I still have.) You could smell the aroma of the coffee sneaking through the campsite like a winter butterfly fluttering from one bare branch to the next looking for some warmth. Once touched by the aroma, you were prompted to change your attitude and begin the task of fixing your evening meal. Many chose to fix easy camp food like hot dogs or “hobo” dinners. You made “hobo” dinners at home by throwing on to tin foil ground meat, vegetables, and whatever else you wanted in your meal. (I always liked a little A-1 in mine.) You formed a pouch around the concoction with the foil and packed it away. Once at the campsite, all you had to do was pitch it in the coals until the hamburger was cooked. When you opened the foil, the steam fogged your glasses and thawed your nose. The bouquet of smells made you feel like you were back at mom’s table with her special one pot meal.

Bill was in charge of dessert. His Dutch-oven peach cobbler was the crowning glory of camp food. I still get a little teary eyed when I reminisce about the taste of this delicacy. It is a lost taste, which cannot be duplicated without the old seasoned ovens and subzero nights. Bill would mix the cobbler in several dutch ovens, then bury the ovens in campfires around the encampment. No one dared lift a lid until Bill gave the orders to sample. Once done, the ovens shared an oozing peach and dough creation. The edges burnt from the coals and peaches on the bottom, caramelized. To make it even better, on this encampment, someone had the great idea to bring ice cream which of course needed no freezer. The vanilla ice cream, on top of hot cobbler, fresh cowboy coffee; excuse me while I wipe away the tears and the drool.

As the camp evening wore on, the younger scouts played flashlight army or buried themselves in their mummy bags thinking for some reason that was the way to stay warm.  The older scouts, those of us who actually had a few whiskers, sat around the fire, drank coffee and finished off the cobbler dished up in Styrofoam cups while Bill sat there blowing smoke rings from little cigars. They say that smell is great reminder. When I catch a whiff of tobacco smoke, campfire or coffee, it’s easy for me to conjure up those nights around the fire. When we stepped away from the fire we realized how cold it really was but for some reason instead of feeling colder, we felt older for the experience.

It was all part of growing up.

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