Topic: Camp

Author: Chris Dunn

My flight leaves in the morning, but before I can get any sleep, I must stand by the open bag counting my shirts by days, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and spare…” Then pants. Why, you ask? Some OCD ritual to ensure the plane doesn’t crash, perhaps? Well, let me take you back in time to a young scout’s first days at Camp Friedlander…

Camp Friedlander was the local scout camp for my troop of cub scouts, and this year – rather than risking another unpleasant year at Fort Scott camp – I choose to camp with the boys. The main advantage scout camp had over regular camp was that I knew everyone. I’ve never been the kind of person who takes well to strangers. Seventy-five percent of my personality is tailored specifically to ingratiate myself with my current crowd, so when I first set in with strangers, I don’t know who I am. Sure, it doesn’t take me long to catch the vibe of the group and figure who I need to be to fit it, but with the scout troop, that was already decided. Scout Chris is helpful, friendly, takes direction well, and knows who all the bullies are and how to make them laugh so they leave him alone. Without that umbrella of protection, camp can be as harrowing as traversing a mine field.

Another pro of Scout camp was the structure. Activities were regimented and timed. A well-established hierarchy informed the chain of command. We took care to police our campsite every night and treat the woods with respect. That was the party line anyway, but even at our most riled we were better behaved than the kids at normal-people camp. Along with this discipline came an increased level of responsibility. We got to do things outside the bounds of the normal, litigation-concerned corporate structure. Why the first day we arrived, we spotted a massive, fallen tree halfway down the slope of a nearby ravine, and the scout masters postulated that if we could retrieve it, that it would make a fine center piece for our campsite, providing sitting space for at least 5 scouts.

Now retrieving the log was I’m certain much easier in theory than it turned out to be in practice. Logs don’t look as heavy on the ground as they do just an inch off of it. And this one was ten feet down a rather steep muddy slope. But do not underestimate the power of twenty, properly-motivated twelve year old boys. We worked with ropes and backbones, even as the light faded and the sun was replaced by hand-held flashlights and hooded lanterns, until with much fanfare and back-slapping, we rolled our fallen foe to its noble resting spot beside a budding camp fire.

Sitting on the ground near the log, dripping in the sweat of our shared victory, I took a moment to look down and realize I was covered in mud from shoulders to shoes. I indicated to my buddy (the buddy system was there to ensure no one got lost in the woods – see my March 4^th entry for how well that worked out) that I was going to go change before we started into the smores and campfire songs portion of the evening. I followed the bobbing light of my flashlight all the way back to my tent, working hard to keep my imagination in check in a world of shadows. But as I was pulling my pack from beneath my bunk, a specter of dread began to creep up my spine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew what was wrong, but it wasn’t until my beheld the nearly empty duffel that I realized what it was. I hadn’t packed any pants OR shirts!

How had this happened? I cast my mind back to the previous day’s packing. As I said, the scouts were big on structure. Each scout had been given a specific list of all the things he would need to bring. This was so you wouldn’t forget little things like bug spray and a canteen. First on the list, was 7 changes of pants and 7 shirts. They were first on the list! How could I have forgotten them? Then it dawned on me. That was just it. I could distinctly remember my thought process, “Sure, sure. Pants and shirts… Who’s going to forget those? Let’s make sure I get all the other shit in line first, and then I’ll pick out my clothes. Fox 40 Whistle – Check! Flashlight – Check! Comb – Now where did I put that...” They were all there, all the nicks and nacks packed neatly beside my “warm socks” and “long underwear” I had my dress uniform and the clothes I was wearing, but that was it.

An embarrassed dread filled me as I made my way back to the light of the fire. I didn’t want to inform the scout masters, but what else was there to do? I was certain that they would notice after a few days that the stench of my soiled clothing preceded my arrival by several minutes. I had to suck it up. The scout masters were a mixture of amused and flabbergasted, but in the end it all worked out. Even though I was small for my age, there were more than enough spare shirts for me to borrow, and a sturdy pair of jeans can go a day or two without washing. Also it turned out - though we were in the wilderness - laundry facilities weren’t as far away as camp made it seem. Still the laughing stock of the camp. From that day until I finally abandoned the scouts several years later there were always mocking voices saying things like, “And, of course, don’t forget pants!”

So to this day, some forty or so years later, I check and recheck my bags several times before any travel. I’m never taking that shit for granted again.