Camp Fife; Goose Prairie. Those words conjure up a myriad of warm and golden images. Boy Scout Troop 123, with its besieged scoutmaster, all of the atrocities and antics, fill my mind. Those were wonderful days, watching Dan grow and have fun. He is such a nature hound that the scouting thing really took him in. The hikes, overnights, camp-o-rees, all the events were special. Best of all, though, was summer camp.
Camp Fife was a troop pleaser. Every year we’d create a huge log structure for a “campsite gate.” This ostensibly was to use lashing and pioneering skills but there was a more sinister hidden agenda. The second to last night of camp there would be an impromptu water balloon war with the neighboring troops and the bastion was our defensive shield. I have so many happy images of Dan, amidst his friends, hanging on the logs and pelting the unfortunate interlopers from Troop 266 or some other “enemy.”
In the quiet of later night, I’d be sitting by the campfire and gazing into the flames I would see ghostly images of my own Scouting days with Troop 476, Fitz, our ex-Marine scoutmaster and my Raven Patrol buddies at Camp High Sierra. They came alive for me in the reincarnation of all the doings at Camp Fife.
There was one terrifying event, though, that is indelibly pressed into my brain. I forget the year, or what night of our week-long Camp Fife sojourn it was. It must have been after 1994, since I was Scoutmaster then. Out of a deep sleep, my mind recorded a plaintive cry in the night. It may have been loud but the succeeding ones were not. I heard it again: “Pop!” “Pop!” The anguish of its tone, the uncertainty of the voice, ripped me awake.
Bolting from bed, clad only in my undies and jacket, I crammed my feet into my boots and bolted out of the tent. Pausing a moment to gather my sense of direction, I heard it again and took off in the direction of the next campsite to the east. By now I recognized Dan’s voice. Running through the forest, flashlight feebly picking out the way ahead, I came upon a small forlorn, squatting figure, turning his head this way and that way, trying to get his own bearings in the dark. His look of panic subsided slowly as we clung together. There were more words shared but I do not remember what we said. I am aware, even now, of the great sense of relief and blessing I felt that Dan was OK.
We walked back to his tent where his bunkmate, Dan Gamache, still slept soundly. There we decided that he must have been walking in his sleep. I stayed with him for a bit, after he crawled back into his bag and when he began to get sleepy I left to go back to my own warm haven. It was then that I noticed I’d been parading about in the Wenatchee National Forest in my BVDs. Jeez!!! Thankfully, next morning, it seemed as if no one had heard or seen our crazy midnight maneuvers. The life of a Scoutmaster like the life of a father is never dull !!! That is an understatement !!!
JP 12-30-2010
