Camp Movie

                                     

Camp Movie
 Noel Laflin
January 6, 2001

By Friday afternoon Dave Herzberg had captured all that was necessary for our purpose, which was to make a film about our summer camp.   What was needed now, as he had some left-over film, was just some improvisation based on music and lunacy.  Fred La Velle would be our star.  After all, it was his music along with his lunacy that inspired the idea. 

  

We had but one week by which to shoot all of the footage needed to represent our typical day.  We wanted to show every aspect of what a Scout could expect at Ahwahnee - from his arrival on Sunday until his departure on Saturday. 

Over many a cold beer Dave and I had begun the planning some months prior to camp’s opening.  With planning came reminiscing. My friendship with Dave had begun eight years earlier.  We had spent a lot of our youth on this mountain.

Years began to ebb and flow as we drank and shared our experiences.  Summers blurred one into another.  There was a lot of material to consider.  Ahwahnee and adolescence - they were synonymous.  Memory reigned and then rearranged it all again.  

And so we began the filming on a bright Sunday morning in August.  It was the country’s Bicentennial.  

Throughout the week Dave would roam the camp, zooming in on kids, staff, adults, and their activities.  He was out at the rifle range, archery range, nature center, craft area, mess hall, pool, campfire rings and trails. If there was an activity happening, Dave was there to catch it on film.  

As it turned out, he was a master with that little whirling machine.  One moment folks were diving into the bright blue pool and the next they were flying out again.  Faraway vistas would gradually pull back and zoom in on a singular sugar pine cone hanging in the breeze.  A half-built log cabin magically became a completed structure sitting majestically under a canopy of ancient oaks.  Ghostly troops mysteriously appeared at a previously deserted assembly area.  The camp rooster, Horatio, jumped out of flames. The old camp ranger, Gene, ran the obstacle course in sped-up triple time.  Dave had fun with his art, but dissolves of one scene into something totally unexpected were his specialty.

And so Fred’s Revolution evolved. 

With the promotional end of the project in the can and un-shot film just burning a hole in Dave’s camera, he turned to Fred’s music for inspiration. Fred had a passion for the Soviet Men’s Chorus in particular that year.

Thus Fred was transformed from camp counselor into Lenin.  Deep male Russian voices sang in the background from the cabin stereo. Fred, now scowling into the camera with a white sheepskin floor rug thrown about his shoulder and a Scout hatchet in his belt, read fiery oratory to passing Scouts. The fiery passages were actually some of Fred’s own poetry.  His bountiful use of the English language surpassed what most of those kids, not to mention most adults, had ever encountered in-or-out of school. Simply put, it was hypnotizing.  Not knowing what to make of it all, most of the Scouts stood transfixed, taken in by the scene, the flowery prose, and foreign marching music. The filming had taken on a force of its own at this point and Fred worked it accordingly. 

As his assembly grew, he then led the swelling troops back to our cabin, situated in the middle of the camp.  Kids picked up steel rakes, shovels and axes, cheering as they followed their new leader. The insanity took on a life of its own.   Dave followed dutifully, the camera whirling. 

I don’t know if it was madness or pure dumb inspiration that gripped Fred next, but as he reached the cabin, he grabbed a small white fir tree and took a giant bite out of it.  Chewing with great vigor, he swallowed the whole damn mouthful of young pine.  He then reached into the cabin and pulled out a two-liter bottle of Listerine mouthwash and gulped deeply.  Gargling with great gusto, Fred accidentally swallowed most of the nasty amber liquid before spitting what was left into the adoring crowd.  Not fazed in the least, he picked up his book and began reciting more poetry. 

The mob had had enough.  One-by-one, and then two-by-two they dispersed.  All that was left by the end was Horatio, the camp rooster.  Fred had beckoned the troops to come back, as the revolution had only just begun. But they did not.   He then crouched low and beckoned for the rooster to stay.  He too, turned tail and bobbed off into the woods.  Fred stood there, a broken warrior, disheartened at his change in fate before finally sauntering back into the cabin, kicking the door closed in last defiance.  Dave faded the scene away.  The revolution and film were over. Our summers at Ahwahnee were now over as well. 

There were accolades for Fred’s near-Oscar-winning performance by all who partook of those final scenes.  The poor man tried to thank us, but had somehow lost his voice due to the eating of the raw tree and the drinking of the Listerine.  He had no voice for the next two days. Fred was undeterred, however.  Russian voices sang in his stead as he cranked up the stereo.

Of course, none of this ever made the final cut of the camp promotional itself.  But Dave made a separate, unedited version for a select few of us.  I have been rummaging the house for the last week in search of it. I can’t seem to locate the tape.

I need to look up Dave Herzberg and have him stop by with a copy of that film.  He put it on video years ago, once there was such a thing.  Good thing, too, as my old Super 8mm projector bit the dust long ago.  Might as well call Fred while I’m at it.  We’ll have a viewing, the three of us.  It may have been half a lifetime ago - but only seems like yesterday. It flicked by - like the click of a lens.

Some cold beer will be in order.

Post Script -  September 2010

A package arrived from my good friend Dave.  Inside was a CD of the Ahwahnee film.

Dave, Fred and I finally did manage to get together.  It was at a premier showing at the Newport Beach Film festival of a new documentary by Dave. It seems that he is still a master with that whirling machine.

.

 
                                                                                                                    

 

Log Cabin Fever

Log Cabin Fever

By Noel Laflin
12-18-01

            Like many people in this world, I take great satisfaction in completing projects.  I love to see final outcomes.  Whether this takes the form of a newly painted room, a redesigned garden, a freshly cut lawn or a just completed short story makes no difference to me.  There is great joy in seeing something through to the end.  Some projects, however, just take a little longer than others.

            Case in point: there are those who would contend that I was just a little preoccupied for a spell.  Others would be a bit stronger in their judgment saying that I was just obsessed.  However you look at it, I accomplished my goal.  I built my first house at the age of nineteen.  To be precise, the structure was started at nineteen and completed by my twentieth birthday.  It was a functioning log cabin named Lear. Whereas Shakespeare’s King Lear went mad for a variety of reasons - blindness being but one - I went a bit crazy over giant Lincoln Logs.  In the beginning I was also blind to my madness. Over time I came to recognize it for what it was and embrace it fully.  Only through blind madness can some things be done.

 A fellow staff member, by the name of  Bob Kirkpatrick, first gave me the idea back in the summer of 1969; I was sixteen and he, a few years my senior.   I don’t remember the exact particulars of where we were or how the subject came about.  What I do recall quite well, however, was his passion on a project he had always intended to start but never got around to.  He wanted to build a log cabin as a pioneering project at Camp Ahwahnee.  Every kid who helped in its construction would be a proud participant, he mused; carving his name or initials in the logs and dragging his visiting parents to the site, showing off his wilderness skills.

“Hell,” Bob said, “those kids will bring their own kids to see that cabin someday; they will be that proud of it!”  He was indeed passionate on the subject.

 No power tools would be allowed, he continued - only saws and axes, just like in the old days.  I can remember Bob sighing with regret that he never took the initiative, or perhaps the time, to get the thing off the ground.  He left us halfway through that summer, after some unremembered dispute with the program director.  I never heard from him again.  We had been friends for three years and I always looked up to him as a mentor of sorts. His unfulfilled longing became my secret for the next three years.  When I suddenly landed the job as Camp Craft Director in 1972, I knew what our first pioneering project was going to be.  Little did I know that it would be the only project on my mind for the next full year.  Now, thirty years later, I feel the need to put that crazy project into perspective.  The perspective is now this: it was one of the best times of my life.

Every project needs its materials.  The only thing we had on hand at the start of this Daniel Boone endeavor was a small flat space of land located to the edge of the camp craft area.  It was the former site of numerous monkey bridges and rickety lashed towers.  Large oaks and sugar pines provided some filtered shade.  A small creek ran in front of this piece of land.  This would do, I thought, as a fine site for a log home.

         What I had always dreaded, however, was the securing of the timber needed to build a cabin.  Although our Scout camp was situated on four hundred acres of prime forest, the mere thought of cutting down thirty to fifty trees just to build a small structure seemed both daunting and wasteful.  It wasn’t until I was scrounging behind the camp’s warehouse one June morning and literally tripped over a few discarded telephone poles that a new light suddenly dawned.  Telephone poles, of course!  Neither chopping down of innocent trees nor drying time needed for those trees would be required.  Future dry rot and bugs would be eliminated because of the creosote injected into each pole.  I secured a camp truck and we absconded with those few precious black logs. My major partner in crime was fellow staffer and friend, Peter Backlund. Peter really had the smarts, which really came in handy over the next two years of building.
          The shortest one determined the length of the proposed cabin; it would be approximately eighteen by fifteen feet in diameter.  Finding more poles was now my quest.  My small staff and I hunted the property up and down, liberating the future cabin walls here and there.  Cars would never again bump harshly into the former phone poles laid prone in the upper parking lot, once we made off with all of them one night.  A few precious others were located throughout camp.  We had twelve altogether.  This would be enough to layout the basic design and take it maybe three feet high.  We were in need of at least eighteen to twenty more to complete the walls, however. Then there was the ridgepole and rafters to consider.  Since they would be smaller in diameter, I planned on using the natural white fir trees in camp.  They were our most plentiful trees, and weeding out could be justified.  But that could wait.  What I needed now were more phone poles.  As it happened, someone knew someone at Southern California Edison and they offered old poles to us, free for the taking at their Covina site.  We made plans for a flat bed truck.

Meanwhile, the cabin took shape.  With old two-man saws we scored the ends of the logs.  We then turned them on their side and chipped out the large notches with hatchets struck by mallets. It was with some trepidation that we tested our first notched logs.  They fit beautifully.  We were off and running.  There was always tinkering of some sort.  Deepening or widening of a notch could be maddening, but necessary.  Chain saws would have made a big difference too, but we adhered to Bob’s rule of long ago: no power tools.  We never deviated from that rule throughout the entire project.  Our tools were simple: axes, hatchets, bow saws, two-man saws and mallets.  Later, we would be in need of bark scrapers for the fir rafters, and good old hammer and nails for the shingles.  But that came a year later.  The trip to Covina was first.

            We had a hell of a time loading twenty more poles into the old camp flat bed truck.  We had an even tougher time trying to keep that old beast moving up the mountain with its heavy load.  Each pole weighed between five and seven hundred pounds.  But up we steadily climbed, waving cars backed up far behind to pass us on the straight-aways.  When we passed Running Springs, we knew we were on the home stretch.  We made it to camp before dinner.  We were notching away two hours later well into until dark.

            The whole project seemed to take on Tom Sawyer-like qualities.  Kids were nearly willing to pay us to help with the building.  Originally, I told the Scouts signing up for the Pioneering Merit Badge class that they would be expected to contribute at least one hour a day to the cabin.  Most of those guys stayed all day, foregoing other merit badges and free time.  Their buddies also came to help.  Bob was right - these kids did bring their parents to the construction site every Saturday before they left for home.  The only thing he was wrong about was the urge of boys wanting to carve their names or initials in the logs.  It seems that they grew to respect the project too much and did not want to detract from the old-time look it was rapidly taking on.  Over a hundred and fifty Scouts helped that summer.  It was both overwhelming and gratifying.

            By the end of that season the walls were up.  Camp closed.  The staff, as well as our camp ranger and his wife all left.  I stayed for an extra week on my own and laid the cobblestone floor of the cabin.  I had some help for two of those days, but worked solo most of the week.  Down into the creek bed I would run with the wheelbarrow.  Twenty scoops of sand would be shoveled in before I would push and pull the sucker back up to the site.  Cement and hand-carried buckets of water would be added, as I would mix it all manually in the wheelbarrow before pouring the next section.  No power tools - how I sometimes hated my adopted rule.  Nonetheless, I stuck to it and finished the floor in six days.  It was four inches thick.  I wanted to make sure it would hold up to the harshest of winters, which did hit at sixty-seven hundred feet.  It was September, time to finish up and head for home and school.  The nights were cooling down rapidly.            

But I will never forget those long, quiet days when I had the entire camp to myself.  Deer returned.  Shadows of low, swooping hawks would startle me while I wedged smooth river stones into the quickening mixture.  I would collapse at night and only hear the sound of the creek and coyotes in the distance.  You could touch the stars at night.  I was in heaven.

I was antsy as all hell throughout that winter.   I longed for the snow to melt and Spring to return to our camp.  You could find me up there nearly every weekend throughout April, May and June working with friends on the cabin.  The young white firs were cut and stripped of their bark.  They were notched and readied as the supporting rafters.  The day the ridgepole was put in place was a day of celebration, indeed.  I believe we all got drunk that night.

By the time the ’73 season started in late June, the roof was ready for shingling. Real cedar shakes were used.  High side shutters were constructed of natural incense cedar we split by hand with axes.  A large door was built and hung.  Bunk beds and a sleeping loft were installed.  I found an old iron-framed bed behind the warehouse and hauled it into the cabin.  The camp craft crew moved in.  We were finally home.

Pete Backlund and I lived in that cabin for two summers, always tinkering with household improvements.  Ironically, I developed sever allergies to creosote and had to give up my residency there for the last two years of my staff tenure.  I believe I inhaled just a bit too much sawdust from those giants during its construction.  But I did not mind.  Others fought over the right to stay there each summer and that alone made me proud. Kids, returning year after year, came to visit Lear, touch the wood, check out the chinking inside and brag about just how much time they had spent in its creation.  Everyone had bragging rights and justifiably so I thought.

Two more cabins were planned, but never completed.  The next one dubbed Romeo got his start during the Bicentennial summer of 1976.  We only had time to raise the walls and prepare a wooden floor before materials and time gave out.  Juliet was never started at all.  It was my good friend, Fred, who christened the three cabins.  I am only sorry that we did not get a chance to complete them before our youthful time gave way to careers and we had to move on with our lives.

By the 1980’s the Scout Council was looking to sell the camp.  The Boy’s Club Camp across the valley was interested in buying the log cabins.  Each log was numbered and taken apart like a giant Lincoln Log set, put into trucks, hauled seven miles away and reassembled.  I was told that the BSA council got a thousand dollars for Lear and the uncompleted Romeo.  I had the receipts for both cabins’ expenses.  They came to less than twenty-five dollars.   I was impressed with their monetary worth.  As sad as I was to see them go, I knew that they at least were going to have a good home.  We used to drink with the Boy’s Club Staff on many a night.  They appreciated well-built cabins too apparently.  I paid a visit to Lear after his sale and reassembly.  They did a good job.

By the early 1990’s Camp Ahwahnee had been sold to Calvary Chapel in Santa Ana.  I paid one last visit to my old haunt in the spring of 1993.  Some nice guys gave us the tour.  All the old structures from the fifties and sixties had been razed.  In their place were new, beautiful cabins . . .  beautiful log cabins.  The church folks, along with several millions of dollars at their disposal. definitely knew what they were doing.

My parents and sister were with me that Spring day as we toured the old camp craft area.  Where Lear once stood, a new staff quarters was being built, all out of highly polished logs from Missouri.  A pile of dirt lay to one side of the new building.  This area looked very familiar, I thought. 

        Something caught my eye.  I dug through the dirt and found what I was longing for.  It was a chunk of cobblestone flooring, weighing no more that a few pounds.  It was all I could find. Although Lear had been sold and moved years before, there was no way to take the floor, of course. Apparently the new owners had bulldozed the area to make room for the new log housing. I don’t know where the rest of my floor went.  I took the one and only found chunk home with me that day.  It rests atop my fireplace.  An old penned sketch of Lear lays framed nearby.   

          Thirty years have nearly passed and I can still smell the creosote calling me.  One of these days I’m going to take my daughter to visit a hand-built log cabin.  It’s in a different location now, but on the same mountain, sharing the same cool air of three decades past. I feel a spat of bragging may come over me when I begin to describe basic building concepts. Some memories of projects never end.  God, I hope not.

                                          



Spring 1973 - Setting the ridge pole in place.

Trees Hugs and Shutter Bugs

Tree Hugs and Shutter Bugs

Noel Laflin

December 7, 2001



Much of my life developed around trees.  I’ve got some old photos to prove it.

Earliest memories involve orange groves and eucalyptus wind breaks scattered throughout our town.  Frequent drives with our father could take us to a friend’s avocado grove in Tustin, ancient stands of California Live Oaks in Irvine Park or pristine pine forests in the San Bernardino Mountains.  Some of the best-remembered trees of all were on my own block, including Japanese elm, alder and magnolia.

I yearned to climb many of these towering giants from the time I was old enough to touch them or gaze longingly upward and wishing that I was just a bit taller.  Many of these first attempts ended in failure, as I could not even reach the nearest branch.  As I grew older and bolder, I devised new approaches to reach my goal.  One early sibling portrait pictures a very young me smiling sheepishly with a slight cut above my upper lip.  I had fallen off of misplaced wooden crates, used as a makeshift ladder for one backyard orange tree. I had attempted this climb just an hour before the photographer was due at our home.  My horrified mother first scolded me and then did her best to clean me up and try to hide the swollen lip, cut open by a jutting nail from one of the old crates.  I was five.  I love that old photo.

The first time I ever had the wind knocked out of me was due to a fall from an ancient Jeffrey pine at Idyllwild.  None of my Cub Scout pals thought to bring a camera to capture my turning blue.  The rotting rope breaking in my hands, as I attempted to scale the rough barked tree and the anguish of not being able to breathe for a minute or two, left an indelible picture in my head nonetheless.  A year later that same tree was struck by lightning and was badly burned and scared; but the tree survived.  A volunteer fireman did not, however, as he died of a heart attack while manning a water hose to put out that old tree’s flames.  It was only one the second time I had ever witnessed death up close.  I was nine.  There are no pictures but those in my memory.  Like the old tree that let me down and later burned, I too carry a scar into my middle years.  Some images don’t go away.  I am stuck with some negatives for life it seems.

Another Jeffrey, in another era, tried its best to kill me years later while I worked at a summer camp for the Boy Scouts.  Now, this tree had a right to its revenge, as I was the one who directed its downfall and pitiful resurrection as a peg-climbing pole.  The sixteen-foot long and twenty-inch in diameter beauty was taken down forcibly from its quiet vantage point in the forest with axes and two-man saws. It was then dragged, dropped and repeatedly manhandled with nasty grappling hooks by a multitude of Scouts, young and old.  We tortured poor Jeffrey in this fashion for more than half a mile before we finally stripped him of his last dignity and bark.  All of this was done under my sponsorship before we attempted to raise it once again in its new reincarnation as a physical fitness device.  I guess if I had been put through half of what that poor tree had endured, then I too would be mighty pissed and looking for payback.

It happened in this fashion: the damn thing fell on me. 

You see, the whole episode started with a hole.  It was fairly deep, about four-foot down and a couple of feet wide.  My plan called for the freshly denuded tree to be lifted and hoisted by many hands, as well as broad shoulders, causing the larger end to slide easily into the newly dug hole.  I believed that as it slipped into the ground, it would be fairly simple to right the former tree and keep it straight and level, as dirt and rock were quickly back-shoveled and neatly packed about its base.  This was a camp craft pioneering project, after all.  We were Scouts.  We could tame the wilderness for God’s sake.  Hummm . . .

So much for my theory.

Jeffrey, having been freshly hewn, was heavy with moisture.  It weighed several hundred pounds.  Complicating things further was the fact that we were running out of time.  This was the last day of summer camp.  Within hours, all of the free help would be long gone down the mountain.  This was my last project before the cool autumn weather set in and camp shut down for the winter.  Having no time for block and tackle rigging, we decided to lift the tree manually with the help of twenty-five or thirty volunteers.  Haste does make waste, I’m afraid.

Initially, the raw muscle power worked just fine.  The thick trunk of the tree gradually began its descent into the hole as planned.  Halfway down, however, it snagged on a thick root protruding from the side.  As I was part of the lifting party, I was first to witness the obstruction.  I was also standing dangerously close to the lip of the hole, shouldering my section of the tree. 

It was about this time that events became a bit confused.  I do remember the shouts of men and boys: “God Damn!  It’s slipping!”  Or was it: “Uh, Oh!” 

At any rate, phrases of this nature and more were being shouted all around me.  The damn thing was getting heavier by the second.  More cries of: “Stand Clear!” and “Get The Hell Out Of There!” rang out.  I tried to take their advice but found I had a slight problem; my left foot had slipped into the hole.  I was stuck.  Suddenly, all hands and shoulders disappeared.  All, that is, but mine. 

I remember the sick, crunching sound as Jeffrey rode me to the ground, popping its thick base out of the ground and reverberations echoing all throughout my body.   We were in a hard bear hug, he and I.  We lay flat.  Distant cries of “Jesus!” and “Holy Shit!” sounded so very far away.  My life flashed before me. 

“Hell, he was only twenty-two,” I imagined them saying.  “Now, look, he’s as flat as a cartoon character.  Wily Coyote meets the steamroller,” they would mourn.

Then faintly, I remember many hands coming to my rescue as the tree was rolled off of me.  The weight had been oppressive.  My chest was throbbing.  As I was carefully checked over, poked and prodded, people kept asking me if I was all right.  Since it was the second time in my life that a tree had knocked the wind right out of me, it was difficult to answer their questions.  The camp medic was checking me over. 

Eventually, people gently lifted me to a standing position.  I saw beneath me the mound of recently excavated dirt into which I had been pressed.  A discarded shovel, with blade up, had been inches from impaling me through the back.  I saw the full-length body impression in the soft, black soil.  I felt at my chest and detected an ache in the center region.  My head throbbed.  Despite all this, however, I was quite intact.  It was then that I heard a shutter click.  Someone was snapping photos.

Steven, my trusty aide, had captured the entire ugly episode on film.  Initially, I was ticked that he had not lent a hand in the raising of the log.  Afterward, I was grateful to have the photomontage as a reminder of just how quickly events can change in our carefully planned lives and take a turn for the unexpected.  How I escaped bodily harm with little more than a bruised sternum is beyond me.  But I’ve got the pictures to prove it. 

Jeffrey was eventually set in place.  Once the holes were drilled, I was the first to peg and pull myself to the top.  This happened the following summer, after a full recovery on my part.  I had never  before climbed a tree in such a fashion. 

I gained a greater respect for trees that day.  I never again took another out for use in such a trivial pursuit.  I learned to apologize to any tree first before the axe would swing, asking for forgiveness for what I was about to do.  I learned that trees have a photographic memory. They don’t forget a face. And some are quite capable of taking you down with them, should they fall.  

I’ve got some old photos to prove it.



           

Running Deep Creek

RUNNING DEEP CREEK

NOEL LAFLIN

August 15, 2010

(For John Greenlee)

The two boys sat atop the outcrop of rocks watching the sun go down.  They had come to this spot often lately as summer was winding down and thoughts of school and home were creeping into their subconscious ever more frequently now.  Neither wanted to let go of this amazing time in their lives, surrendering once more to parental control, flat tasting tap water, curfews and cities.  August was upon them; September but a slip away.  They would be parting soon.  The friendship would continue of course; they both knew that.  But the constant interaction, as experienced over the last eight weeks, would be interrupted and put on hold for nine months until the next summer rolled around once more.  It was cause for reflection; thus the daily ritual of hiking the two miles just to get to this remote but beautiful spot, taking a rough hewn seat high above the forest and watching another day come to a close.

When the two were not here just outside the abandoned wilderness area watching the sun set they could be found sharing meals together in the old mess hall, goofing around with the rest of the camp staff.  As one was two years older and had a car, the other always had the shotgun seat for weekly nights off to Arrowhead or Lloyds. Together they hiked all of the old existing trails through camp or blazed new ones.  But, best of all was the slipping out of lunch early each afternoon and racing off to Deep Creek for a quick afternoon dip.  Oh, the treks to the coldest swimming holes in the entire San Bernardino Mountains were worth the five mile round trip hike each day.

There was a beautiful trail to Deep Creek, which they both had traversed a dozen times.  But, the real adventure lay in a more direct, albeit reckless route the two had discovered early in the season.  Instead of following the meandering Ahwahnee Creek until it joined the major waterway, the boys found that racing pell-mell straight over Inspiration Point itself and careening down the mountain until it ended at Deep Creek saved both time and miles.  The trick was knowing, however, when to stop the headlong race down the face of the mountain before the forest gave way to a severe drop-off and a potentially life altering plunge, just short of the water.

It was sheer curiosity that first took the pair over the edge of the point one day and gravity which propelled them downward.  The boys dodged giant granite boulders; massive ponderosas and their heavy offspring which littered the mountainside; a virgin mountain meadow teaming with snow flowers, lupine and red monkey pod plants.  They ran with pure abandonment, whooping and hollering, slipping and sliding, tumbling and leaping like young gazelles through the ancient trees.  Their nostrils flared and took in the rich earthy smell of foot-thick pine needles, dogwood, incense cedar and the distinct aroma of vanilla wafting off the warm bark of Jeffrey Pines.  Onward they flew, ever downward until they suddenly caught sight of a fast approaching drop off ahead.  Grabbing onto buck brush and sliding across the slippery pine needles they finally dug in their heels and came to a halt just short of the precipice.  The land gave way here across a wide expanse of the woods and dropped off in a large landslide below to the creek.   Sidestepping the cliff, which was underscored by the roots of mighty pines reaching out into space, the young men made their way to the right and found a safe slide down to the Deep Creek Trail and stream.  They made note of the great amount of time saved with this madcap run and definitely planned to use it to their future advantage.  As the two took time to empty their boots, which had filled with sand, stones and pine needles, they also made mental plans of when to start applying the brakes next time, well in advance of avoiding an unplanned fall.

Once on the main Deep Creek trail, the pals continued their run through the canyon, jumping or ducking over and under downed trees, criss-crossing the creek over felled logs or rocks, continually lulled by the swift sweet calling of the pristine water.  It was the culmination of many a run-off from many a minor other creek or stream lacing the mountains.   It was snow melt from high atop Mt. San Gorgonio itself or ice cold water that sprang from natural wells scattered throughout the San Bernardino Range. Deep Creek was gathering moisture from all these sources so that it too could swell in size and proudly join other spills down the hill.  It had drive and was picking up steam the further downstream it charged.  It sang its own Aquarian tune and it stopped for no man or boy.  And, it was ice cold, even on the hottest of summer days.  It promised natural Roman bath-like pools at the end of their trail; a place to jump or even dive into and melt the dust of the trail and the sweat off the brow.   And that was the goal today and every day, which these two had found most addicting.

Before long the trail petered out altogether as it disappeared into the widening creek.  It then became a game of boulder jumping, making one’s way over the large smooth rocks that straddled the middle of the fast moving water.  After a few trips here, the bouncing from boulder to boulder became second nature; even in the dark of night, thought the older boy, with only moonlight or flashlight to guide him then, as he had experienced once or twice before while searching for lost campers.  But it was midday now, fine and clear and blue of sky and they were by no means lost.  Quite the contrary, as these two were on the hunt!  The boulders felt like trampolines beneath their trusting feet.

And then, here it began; deep clear pools trapped by the giant stones.  The water flowed in, over or around an assortment of pools.  Some even had minor beaches and warm flat rocks upon which to stretch out and take a nap or dry oneself after a cold dip and then perhaps catch forty winks before the clothes and boots were put back on and the arduous task of climbing out of this steep, deep canyon was undertaken once more. 

But, before the series of switchbacks along the long path back were even considered, the lads came to their favorite spot; chucked off their boots, shorts and long socks; tore off their shirts, flinging them to higher, drier rocks above and dove into the chilly pools of Deep Creek.   They swam and splashed like kids on holiday.  They yelled and sang praises and curses intermittently.  

“Damn! The water’s freakin’ cold!” 

 “Damn! This feels great!”

“Hell, I don’t want to go back.”

“Well, we gotta be back in an hour, so get your ass out of the water so we can dry off and get moving.”

“I hate the fucking hike back!”

“Well, bro, what goes down must go up … and that be us unfortunately.  Let’s do it.”

And with that the two begrudgingly removed themselves from the coolness, toweled off with their tee shirts, threw on their shorts and laced up the high top boots.  They took one last drink from the cold creek to sustain them for the long trek back as they never bothered with canteens. 

Noting the time, they navigated the numerous switchbacks that composed this narrow, dusty, hot trail in long strides.  They both had to be back to camp by two and it was now fast approaching that hour.  By comparison, this trail was not as pretty as the way down, as it had no water flowing beside them or the coolness that accompanied any creek.  But, that did not matter now.  They knew the way and knew that they could make it in time as they had successfully done so all summer.  And, despite the drudgery of the return, there was always the allure of tomorrow, when they would once more sneak out of lunch unseen, run past the assembly area, pool, nature center, rifle and archery range and catch their collective breath as they stood atop Inspiration Point, waiting for that perfect moment to fly over the edge and down the mountain at breakneck speed.

Forty seasons have now passed.  One of the former lads currently sits and reflects upon that summer of 1970. His fingers stay poised, lingering above the keyboard.  “I have got to get this right,” he thinks.  And so he concludes:  The friendship formed during that brief time with his old mate did indeed carry on throughout the years.  There would be a few more summers together in the sacred land of their youth, but never again the daily flights off the mountain.  Both would finish high school and then college and pursue very different careers.  One would speak at the other’s wedding.  One would comfort the other after the death of a parent.  A child would come to each of them late in life; for one a girl, the other a boy.  And although a span of years might fly by, with time not giving a good goddamn, one friend would seek the other out at a most unexpected but auspicious moment.

When I need to relax, especially before the taking of a blood pressure reading, I find myself atop an outcrop of rocks watching a most spectacular sunset.  Or, better yet, I stand high above the camp on Inspiration Point.  My new friend, John, is beside me.  We view a distant mountain meadow in the distance and decide that we should run down there and perhaps beyond to Deep Creek itself.  There will be adventure and a cool dip at the end. 

My blood pressure readings are always good.

The boys at the top of the run 45 years later.

Camp Critters

Critters

By Noel Laflin

May 12, 2010

Back in 1968, someone's squirrel monkey was once given free reign of the Ahwahnee handicraft lodge.  Come four o’clock, all of the leather working tools were collected, hung in their proper place on the wall and the shutters secured.  As campers wandered back to their campsites to prepare for the evening assembly (delighting in their newly fashioned belts and other leather do-dads), Dwight’s assistant, Mark Carlson, would see to it that the handicraft door was tightly closed. Then, and only then would the monkey, who's handler (to this very day) remains a mystery, be given his freedom.

Once freed, all hell would generally break loose. Mark and Dwight seemed oblivious to the simian’s jumping about from wall-to-wall grabbing and flinging hammers and sharp metal tooling devices willy-nilly. 

Upon completion of my first and only visit to the interior of the lodge and laying witness to the bedlam created by this murderous little creature, I swore that I would never venture into its realm again after closing hour.  A well-aimed screwdriver sent me scrambling for cover under the workbench. I quickly crawled to the door and let myself out.  From then on, I only listened from without to the mayhem spreading within those four thin, plywood walls.  

 The unknown monkey was not the only four legged creature to find its way up our mountain during my years at Ahwahnee.  And, in as much as I feared the unruly monkey, I loved Amy, a rescued baby raccoon brought to camp one summer via Andy, a young counselor in training.  Although I have forgotten the details as to her coming into Andy’s possession, I do remember the young bandit’s sweet nature.  Andy had a natural way with critters; they seemed to find him, especially when they were in need.  I recall an abandoned baby owl that Andy tended to also that summer.  Neither the owl nor Amy feared the boy.  Consequently, the rest of us could handle them without fear of a bite or scratch as well.  I suppose they surmised that any friend of Andy was a friend of theirs. Those of us working the nature area that summer used to hike the camp with Amy perched on our shoulder or sleeping soundly inside an unbuttoned shirt.  I remember the way she sometimes purred like a kitten or chirped like a strange bird when content.  She slept with Andy each night, snuggled up with the boy as naturally as any dog or cat.

By the end of that summer, however, it was evident that the raccoon was discovering that she really was a wild creature and needed to make her way in the Ahwahnee woods, minus the rest of us.  She would take off on her own, returning less frequently as the days grew shorter.  She had matured and toughen up too, so we did not fear for her safety as we once did when she was so very small.  Eventually, she did not return.  And with that, camp closed for the season.

Our ranger, Gene, told us later how he was walking through camp the following spring, when a full sized raccoon, accompanied by two of her babies stopped right in front of him as if to say, “Hey, there… remember me?”  It was Amy and family.  Gene said she showed no fear of him and yet did not stay long.  It was, Gene reminisced, as if she just wanted to show off her youngsters and get on with raccoon living.  The thought of this reunion, nearly forty years later, still makes me smile.

A summer or two prior to this encounter Gene received a phone call from someone in Green Valley Lake, our closest town, wanting to give him a donkey.  As Gene could never say no to any freebie he promptly went down the two mile road to check out the potential gift, who went by the name of Lupen.  Over time many of us would call her Lupe for short.  Anyway, it was love at first sight.  Gene led her back to camp that same day.

Lupe was with us at Ahwahnee for the next ten years.  She would frequently escape her corral and wander the camp, braying as she went.  This was the only way we ever found her.  And, being a donkey, she was stubborn as hell when it came time to lead her back to her lodging.  It could be an all day affair getting her home.  We soon learned that she would eat nearly anything so food usually did the trick.  She loved tobacco and soda, strangely enough.  I figured it must have had a worming effect or something that called to her nature.  With this rather warped reasoning in mind, I never really discouraged her from eating the occasional cigar or tilting her head to drink the offered Coke or Dr. Pepper poured into her open, upturned mouth.  She seemed to delight in the bubbles that fizzled on her giant, outstretched tongue.   Gene said we should have fed her gold colored foil and sold the soon-to-be prewrapped droppings as a novelty at the camp trading post.   We were never so bold as to try out that experiment, however.

Lupe seemed to live a charmed life.  She successfully fought off a pack of coyotes one bitterly cold winter evening, kicking and braying defiantly as members of this wild canine gang tried to bite her in the hamstrings and bring her down.  She, according to Gene, kicked two of the four right out of the enclosure and nearly trampled the other two to death, as he arrived with blazing weapon in hand.  They fled the area, yelping and howling, never to return.  Hell hath no fury like a donkey kick.  Lupe was, without doubt, the camp’s oldest, luckiest and most beloved mascot.  And, she had a cast iron stomach to boot, which was fortunate for her as both staff and kids tempted her with the oddest assortment of items – both edible and questionable.  She never stopped to consider the difference.  Lupe eventually outlived Camp Ahwahnee itself.

Another non-native species to join us during my tenure in the mountains was Horatio, the rooster.

Again, I do not recall how he made his way onto the property, but there he was one fine day, with a fellow cock-of-the-walk accompanying him. 

They were kept in a hastily built hen house at night, but had the roam of the camp during the day.  Shortly after their arrival, Horatio’s pal disappeared; probably having become a meal for one of the broken-spirited coyotes that tried to do in Lupe some years prior.  Who knew for certain?  At any rate, Horatio, bereft of fellow fouls at that point in his life, started cozying up to humans.  He was one damn tame bird by the end of camp.  My good friend Larry Lin was running the nature preserve that year and seemed to have the most interaction with the cocky fellow.  It was not unusual to see Larry carrying Horatio under one arm while going about his chores.  We made a camp film that summer, which starred a cast of dozens (adults, staff and kids) along with the likes of Lupe and Horatio popping in and out for their close-up cameos. 

With the closing of that summer season, Gene and his wife, Gladis, decided that Horatio might have a better chance of survival back down the hill, specifically at Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park, where a host of chickens and roosters called home.  So, off they drove, with Horatio safely tucked away in the camper shell of their truck, intending to sneak him out in the parking lot closest to Independence Hall, where all of the other roosters and chickens clucked and strutted about.  And they were successful in their covert operation of carrying him over to his feathered brethren, coyly setting him down amongst the other foul while they themselves slipped on over to Mrs. Knott’s Kitchen for a fine chicken dinner.

Several hours later, after a mighty tasty supper and a tour of the shops, Gene and Glad casually strolled back to the camper, only to find Horatio sitting on the back bumper of their truck patiently awaiting their arrival.   How they finally ditched the old boy has been lost to memory.  But somehow they returned to camp minus the bird.  I still picture Horatio, to this day, patiently waiting for their return.  Every time I get a chance to go to Knott’s, over the past thirty-five years, I still take a stroll towards Independence Hall and the picnic areas looking for descendants of the old cock, or perhaps Horatio himself.  Just how old can roosters live to be, anyway?

With all of the imported critters aside, Ahwahnee was not at a loss for native creatures indigenous to the San Bernardino Mountain range.  We had bears, hawks, lizards, mice, squirrels, chipmunks, deer, mosquitoes and deerflies.  We also had an abundance of snakes, both venomous and nonpoisonous. 

Rattlesnakes were a danger of course, so we took great strides to quickly remove them from the most inhabited areas of camp.  Peter Backlund and I were summoned on more than one occasion to remove the fanged sidewinders from campsites.  Usually, we had a snake stick at our disposal.  You know, this is a long- handled wooden pole, with a loop of wire at one end, which could be placed about the snake’s body, gently tightening the loop so the dancing, hissing serpent could not escape.  Once ensnarled, we could get it into a thick gunny sack and drive him way out of camp before releasing him. 

On one such occasion, however, we found ourselves without the special, looped stick.  I told Peter not to worry; we would just handle this rather big fellow with a rake, hoping to lift him quickly enough so that we could drop him into a nearby empty trash can, before putting the lid on it.  Well, of course things did not go as planned.  Peter, being much smarter than I, had his doubts from the beginning and was not willing to attempt the deed.  Me, being foolish and full of bravado, or perhaps just really hungry as dinner time was fast approaching, stepped up to the task at hand and went for the snake via the rake.  I caught up with the guy trying to make his getaway into some nearby buck brush, got him between the rake tines and almost had him into the garbage can before he slipped through the tines, hit the ground, immediately coiled and sprung for yours truly.  Now, it’s told that a coiled snake can strike a distance of half its body length.  This guy was about six feet long, so you can do the math.  My lower legs, which appeared to be his target, were about one-to-two inches beyond his reach.  All I remember, in that flash of a second, was seeing his open mouth and exposed fangs lunging toward my upper boot.  I believe I nearly wet myself.    Well, he eventually got away and I just shook with the heebie-jeebies for the next few hours.  In fact, I have to shake off those same jeebies today as I recall the failed attempt from so long ago.

Despite this, and a similar encounter with a giant rattler slithering his entire body across the top of my boot while I was once again in the company of Mr. Backlund (for Pete’s sake), I was rather fond of the non-venomous snakes that inhabited the camp.  I once found a beautiful young California Mountain King Snake and kept him as a pet for a few days.  These guys are multi-colored; red, black and white.  I found him slithering down a trail one day, picked him up and carried him in my shirt pocket.  He liked the warmth of my skin no doubt and would lie curled up as a lump in my pocket.  He would become curious at times and stick his head out of the flap, flicking his small black forked tongue, which would inevitably startle folks, especially during dinner or while I sat as a passenger in Jerry Bird’s car.  Poor Jerry, who unbeknownst to me had ophidiophobia, nearly drove us off Highway 30 when Nod, as I had by now named my new friend, made his whereabouts known to Mr. Bird.  My mother had a similar reaction when I finally arrived home (for a brief weekend pass), having been hastily dropped off by a still shaking Mr. Bird.  I finally let Nod go back unto his own land, upon my return to camp.  It was either that or having neither ride nor home to go to should I do otherwise.

 So, the many summers came and went and along with them the various and a sundry critters and their human counterparts that marked their passing.

I often wonder what became of the Andy; did he become a whisperer of sorts?  That boy had the calling.

Are there multiple generations descended of Amy that wander the old, haunted  Ahwahnee woods today?

And, whatever became of the tool-tossing mad monkey?

Did Horatio ever take to his own kind, living out his days just a stone’s throw from where a million of his brethren were served up as dinner to the humans he so loved, or is he still pining away for the return ride to camp?

Are there still fanged and non-fanged Slitherans spooking youngsters and oldsters alike in the old Land of Nod, aka, Ahwahnee?

How did Lupe fare, once camp was closed for good and she was transferred to another Scout property?  Did folks remember her fondness for the occasional unlit smoke and a Coke?

I’d ask Gene and Gladis for answers, or Jerry Bird for that matter… but they have all moved on beyond our reach now.

Time and age have taken their toll.  We are only left with stories. 

Pass them on, will ya?