Camp

by Michael D. Eisner

  Chapter Six

  On The Algonquin

  1956

  Three weeks in the wilderness.

  Three weeks in the wilderness, with no prospect of seeing, hearing, or talking to anyone other than seven other campers and two staffmen. Three weeks in the wilderness carrying food in “wanagans” (large crates), pitching tents, paddling on and on through seemingly unending lakes in Canada’s Algonquin Park. Carrying canoes over three-mile portages. The senior wilderness trip . . .

  Only two days were left, two days before I would climb onto a truck with seven older boys (nine months older, at least), towing five canoes, hundreds of pounds of supplies, and shovels, tents, tarps, dehydrated food, and first-aid kits, transporting all this equipment twelve hours from Vermont to Canada. Two days to go, and now I was crippled with apprehension and stomachaches and dizziness. I could only think just one thing: How do I get out of it?

  I’d gone on many trips at Keewaydin. I knew what it was to be exhausted. I had been lost in the Green Mountains. I had been stranded on the wrong side of a raging river after a rain. I had broken a paddle and scraped the bottom of a canoe. But I never had been in the woods for three straight weeks, and never been old enough to be (almost) responsible. And thus I was trying to figure how to get out of all this. Maybe I could fake getting sick (I really did feel sick). I sat by the lake, quietly trying to hide these feelings, plotting a phone call to suggest to my parents that . . . I couldn’t think what to suggest.

  I was fourteen years old, preparing to go on the most cherished trip the camp had to offer. I had begged and pleaded to go on the trip. I could think of no higher honor, no greater status than to be among the select few who would be picked. Then I was picked.

  And I became petrified. I had nobody to confide in because all the other boys were obviously excited, cheerily packing the food, the canoe paddles, their duffel bags, and their gear. I was silent. I was scared. I was in a fog, and instead of helping to fill out the daily meal schedule and supply the first-aid kits, I sat around, useless. No, I didn’t get homesick; that was for the little kids. But I was trapped, and the more trapped I felt, the more panicked I got.

  I tried to keep reminding myself of the challenging hikes I had taken without a second thought, the long paddles against headwinds stoking feelings of exhaustion and exhilaration, not fear. There, without complaining, I had done the duties of other campers who came down sick. I had chopped wood without cutting off my leg, and I had bushwhacked through dense trees, looking for a discreet place not to have my rear bitten off by mosquitoes. I had learned the language of the canoe, to pole up a river, to carry it like a tray of glass, to protect it, to breathe in its capsized air pocket. All of that was second nature until now . . . sitting on the lake, my mind racing—racing, and focusing on nothing.

  The eight boys would be divided into four teams for this trip. At each campsite, one team would pitch the tents, one would build the campfire, one would cook the meal, and one would “wallop,” meaning wash the dishes. The next day, responsibilities would rotate. My partner, Baird Morgan, was ideal. He was the strongest, oldest, and best stern canoe man in the camp. (A canoe, like any boat, has a front and a rear—a bow and a stern. The person in the stern steers and leads the boat.) Now, before the trip began, he and I, as a team, were supposed to do our share during the on-campus preparation for the trip. We were assigned to patch the tents. It’s hard to patch tents when you’re completely unfocused. And without the tents—tents that dated back to World War II and, in some cases, World War I—patched up, rain would cause puddles or even little ponds where there was supposed to be dry shelter. A sleeping bag is the most important piece of equipment on a trip. Once it gets wet, there’s no escaping the hostility of nature. Wet clothes or a wet sleeping bag are the devil’s work on a wilderness canoe trip.

  Brownie, our trip leader, was a staffman, and he seemed at least a hundred years old in my mind, although he was actually forty. He had a strange hole behind his ear (almost like a bullet hole), which I was afraid to examine closely. He came over to me and sat down.

  “You know,” he began, “I’m always nervous before these big trips.”

  It took everything in my power not to look over at that hole, as I visualized its outline in my brain.

  “Sometimes I get afraid of things that I build up in my mind,” he said.

  I turned and looked at him as he continued.

  “I sometimes think things are more dangerous than they really are, but then I calm myself down and work through the problem and realize that I’m safe and I’ll have a good time. I always end up laughing at myself and wonder why I got afraid in the first place.”

  “Yeah,” I responded.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” he said, and got up and walked away.

  We left for Canada two days later. The trip up in the back of the army surplus truck was windy, the atmosphere festive. I usually found “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” to be a catchy tune, but this time I didn’t sing. On the way up, the sightseeing in Quebec City was cool, though I remained withdrawn from the group. By the time we finally reached the wilderness, I had a nagging case of internal butterflies. They were butterflies I recognized from my first day of school, butterflies I remembered from putting a first toe in the water at Jones Beach on Long Island, butterflies I recalled from jumping a horse over fences, following my reckless father down a rocky path.

  Once we got going, though, the butterflies vanished. Brownie’s reassurance had helped. I didn’t know exactly why, but slowly I could talk again and do the things I had done on previous trips. And on the first day, I even survived after capsizing while going over a waterfall—a small waterfall, but a waterfall nonetheless. A little later, I felt exhilaration as the daunting novelty of shooting rapids and creating campsites, with no parents or siblings in sight, became a nonstop adventure of self-reliance, of teamwork . . . and, yes, even of leadership. The only time I sat alone again by the lake was to brush my teeth. Portaging—carrying the canoes over land—became the challenge at hand, eight boys walking along the railroad ties, contesting who could carry the most in the quickest time. My anger directed at whoever spaced those railroad ties continues to this day. They are too close together to step on each one, and too far apart to step on every other one. And, of course, the rail was too thin to walk on except for future Cirque de Soleil performers. Instead, on these portages, the ties were ripe for tripping, and for learning new expletives.

  Long days paddling became the time to write the trip song. Shooting rapids provided the roller-coaster adventures of the trip. Finding great campsites, collecting wood, cooking morning bread, telling stories, living off the land, and eating prepacked dried food or peanut butter were the rewards.

  We arrived back at our camp in Vermont to a heroes’ welcome from 150 more junior campers. As we put away the tarps from the trip, Brownie came up to me.

  “Mike, we had a great trip, don’t you think?” he asked. “It’s great you were on the team.” He smiled in a way that I knew he knew. He smiled in a way that I knew he wouldn’t tell anybody what he knew. He smiled in a way that has connected him to my life forever, though I would rarely ever see him again.

  I now tried to look into that little hole in his head to see if I could fathom what was inside. I looked, and gleaned my last lesson of the trip: Wisdom can’t be seen.

  Funny, isn’t it?

  Chapter Seven

  Help The Other Fellow

  present

  I stand next to Waboos, looking at a wooden board hanging on the wall, one that I must have looked at a thousand times over the years. We’ve wandered into Keewaydin’s dining hall, a huge room that alternates between smelling like the food that’s eaten there and smelling like the solvents that are used to clean it.

  What’s currently attracting my attention, though, is not the smell of the air, or the hundreds of other items crammed on the walls—school pennants posted by campers, flags, coup boards, “older-tim
er” boards, fading paddles, and antlers nailed up years before. Instead, I’m focused on a plaque on the wall in front of me, above the piano on the stage platform. The plaque is roughly the size of a movie poster, with words neatly printed in white paint on a black background, like a permanently marked-on chalkboard.

  The top of the plaque reads: AN IDEAL CAMPER MUST . . . BENEATH THIS ARE A SERIES OF COMPLETED PHRASES THAT INDICATE WHAT IN FACT AN IDEAL CAMPER MUST DO: AN IDEAL CAMPER MUST BE HONEST AND LOYAL. BE MODEST. ALWAYS BE WILLING TO HELP. AVOID CRABBING. BE A LEADER. BE BROAD-MINDED. TAKE HIS MEDICINE WHEN HE DESERVES IT. There are fourteen of these in all. I read down the list of the mantras, the instructions for the camper who strives to be ideal. I reach the bottom: BE WILLING TO HELP THE OTHER FELLOW.

  On a campus filled with sayings, slogans, and mottoes, the single maxim at Keewaydin that is most often heard is “Help the other fellow.” Apparently, this particular dictum dates all the way back to the days of Commodore Clarke. It’s posted on signs at camp, and is oft repeated by staffmen in formal settings (the Sunday service) and at informal gatherings (for example, inspection, where a staffman may ask a camper to “help the other fellow” and pick up someone else’s tennis racket or comic book off the floor).

  It’s a simple saying, and certainly a virtuous one, but also one that, understandably, might feel a bit stilted today. Yes, to “help the other fellow” is to do the “right thing,” but so what? There needs to be some impetus, some reason, some cause-and-effect relationship that drives young campers to act in such a way. That’s why tripping is so central to Keewaydin’s core values.

  Pepe Molina is probably as nervous as I was before my senior wilderness trip. He finds himself part of a group about to head westward in a canoe on Lake George. Tripping is as old as any tradition at Keewaydin; in fact, it’s the reason the camp exists at all. Commodore Clarke founded the original Keewaydin Temagami in Canada solely as a tripping camp. When parents of twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys convinced Clarke to open a camp a little closer to civilization, in Salisbury, Vermont, the tripping heritage remained. Every wigwam gets involved, from the one-night Annwi trips to Moosalamoo’s three-week tour of the Verendrye in Canada. Pepe’s group left this morning from camp, headed for Lake George, as part of the second batch of Waramaug campers to depart, just a few days after Q’s group headed to Little Tupper Lake and what’s called the Whitney Wilderness area in the Adirondack Forest Preserve.

  Evan and James, the staff leaders on Pepe’s trip, are already a bit on edge; a few of the eight campers, including Pepe, have proven themselves to be somewhat volatile during their first few weeks at camp. It’s Evan’s first time leading a trip; he went on several during his days at camp, though, and knows the intensity of the experience, especially for young Waramaug campers. While the campers on these trips assume some of the burden with regard to paddling canoes, pitching tents, and cooking meals, it’s up to the staffmen to make up for what the ten- and eleven-year-olds can’t do. The staff must also be attentive to inklings of possible crisis—ranging from childish squabbling among the trippers to more serious safety issues in the woods.

  During the “shakedown,” or predeparture discussion before Pepe’s trip, the campers engaged in several arguments, and while “packing out,” or preparing all the food and supplies for the trip, an actual fight broke out. Pepe wasn’t directly involved, but he could have been. His size, combined with a take-no-prisoners attitude, seems to invite conflict, especially in a situation like this, where the kids are scared and anxious about the trip, not that they’d admit it. Fortunately, the van ride this morning has been calming—the campers are entranced by the sudden change in scenery from the confines of Keewaydin, where they’ve been isolated for nearly two weeks. When I went to Lake George as a Waramaug camper, you could drink right out of the water. Nowadays, with the lake much more populated, that’s no longer permitted. But on a sunny summer day, it’s still a sight to behold.

  On the shore, after the van departs, Pepe and seven others gingerly step into four canoes, supplies and equipment in tow. The canoes with a staffman and camper carry a lot of the supplies; the wanagan supply boxes, tents, and water jugs are placed in the bow of the boat with the camper to maintain weight balance. Each camper canoe carries the two kids’ duffel bags in them and other necessities. While out on the water, with just two to a boat, the campers—for the moment—seem to be getting along. Pepe and the others have quieted down since climbing into the water, and the rhythm of the five canoes smoothly floating in the lake is the calming rhythm that dominates the trip right now.

  Q Spratley and trip leader Michael Sotir are 150 miles away from Pepe’s trip, amid the islands of Little Tupper Lake. Unlike Lake George, the Whitney Wilderness is protected from population, maintaining its remote environment. Even the park rangers paddle from one location to another in canoes—no motorboats allowed. During the shakedown, Michael Sotir observed that nobody on the trip—camper or staffman—had been on this trip before, thus making it a true exploratory adventure. A ranger who briefed them noted that the area has a significant black bear population. Sure enough, no more than ten feet from the parking lot, the group came upon a pile of black bear scat, or dung. From there, a certain new sense of danger took over. When later that night Michael gave the trippers the option of staying on the mainland or on one of the many small islands that dot the shoreline of the lake, Q did not disagree with the unanimous consensus to stay on an island, a long swim away for any bears.

  Michael Sotir is one of a handful of staffmen in Waramaug beyond college years; in fact, he has two sons in the wigwam himself. A house builder in Baltimore, Michael, along with his wife, Carolyn, a songwriter and television producer, decided to spend a few weeks at Keewaydin with their children a couple years back. That’s all it took—they were hooked, and Michael decided to get all his construction projects done by mid-June, take summers off, and become a staffman at Keewaydin while his sons were campers there. Carolyn is now one of several women who live and work at Keewaydin, singing a good-night song to Waramaug each night, helping out with barbecues and special events.

  Concerned about Q’s lack of experience, Michael decides to make Q his bowman. This is a propitious decision, because Q, continuing his pattern of picking up physical activities quickly, has proven himself to be one of the best canoemen on the trip. During their days on the water, Q and Michael have gotten a chance to talk, and the contractor from suburban Baltimore has been quite impressed with the youngster from the streets of Fullerton. While Q is a reserved kid, he’s clearly bright, and, Michael notices, used to responsibility, being the oldest kid in a household with a working mother.

  On the last day of their trip, Q asks Michael about an island a short distance away. When no one else wants to go, the two of them decide to swim out to the island to check it out for themselves. They relax on the island for a few minutes, when suddenly there is a rustling in the woods behind them.

  “Do you think there are any black bears who might be able to swim out here and hang out?” asks Q.

  Michael ponders the question for a moment and glances anxiously into the woods behind him.

  “I doubt it, but anything is possible.”

  More rustling.

  “Let’s swim back and see what the rest of the group is doing,” Q suggests.

  Keewaydin director Peter Hare has an interesting perception of the role of tripping in the camp framework. He says that while the activities within the camp foster independence among campers, the tripping fosters interdependence.

  “When you go on a trip,” he says, “everybody has a role and everybody has to chip in, and you’re all depending on one another. It’s not like at home, when you can close yourself off in your own room.”

  While the concept of this division of labor could be taught and exemplified anywhere—in a factory, on a sports team, in a group project at school—what separates the tripping experience is the stakes. Eight boys in the wilderness, e
ach doing his own thing, doesn’t work. Everyone must do their jobs at the campsite for the sake of the team. If there is any problem, like a loss of supplies or food, the group has to find a way to solve the dilemma. If, while sleeping in tents on an island, a camper or staffman wakes up to the sounds of black bears (it’s unlikely, but not impossible) rustling through the trash, there’s no time-out button that can be suddenly activated to defuse danger.

  Some uncertainty, though, leads to impassioned team spirit. On a trip, no one is making fun of the kid who can’t light a fire or pitch a tent; they’re showing him how to do it and encouraging any progress. Necessity leads to team spirit; adventure leads to friendship. If a camper seems uneasy about portaging, and you’re his partner in the canoe, it’s best to offer encouragement (tell him he’s strong enough) before your canoe—and you—are facedown in the mud. And some reasonable fear of the unknown leads to maturity and toughness. Each camper is compelled to grow up instantly, becoming a youngster who pitches the best tent and paddles the strongest canoe. Keeping a canoe on a straight course becomes very important all of a sudden. Here is where you test what you learned back in camp about the K stroke, the little twist of the body that keeps you in a straight line.

  Ultimately, what these challenges lead to is a new and triumphant sense of achievement. While it’s great to hit a home run or get the best score on some school exam, it’s a much deeper and more satisfying success to win—to survive—as a team. Because that new team, the team that leaves camp in a van as two staffmen and eight campers, returns as a single body, a group with a new bond, tied together by adversity in the wild, a trip song, inside jokes told around the campfire.