Campfire Tales - Beginnings



CAMPFIRE TALES

An Introduction

Noel Laflin

Winter Solstice, 2001

“We are the men of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff,

Our code is women, Lake Arrowhead and graft.

                                    Since we are ready to counsel all you clods,

                                    We had to train super hard to build our bods.

                                    They call us rotten & ugly & uncouth,

                                    And yet we’re still in the flower of our youth,

They pay us practically nothing for the year and             yet,

                                    We’re the greatest staff in all creation,

                                    Someday we will rule the nation,

                                   Don’t you wish we’d gone to summer school?"

Ghosts and History:

It’s been twenty-five years since I last sang the words of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff Song.  But those juvenile lines burn deep within my memory.  It was as if all this time, this grownup life had been but a weekend pass home and the next batch of Scouts were now standing before us at the flagpole assembly area listening to those insane refrains.

There I am - a member of the 'greatest staff in all creation.'  At first glance, I’m seeing myself as a timid youngster, a thirteen-year-old hidden to the far side of the older staff, faking the unfamiliar chorus.  I feel scared.

Blinking my eyes, the lad is older, bolder and obviously more confident in his voice; the words coming easily and comfortably to his lips.  I feel accepted.

Looking again I see a young man in his early twenties now leading the rest of the staff in the song.  He looks to be in charge of things, gesturing for all to sing, a seasoned veteran, quite at home with his surroundings.  I feel happy.

Glancing once more, I now see that the assembly area is deserted.  It is an empty place, bereft of campers, leaders or staff.  A soft, cool wind blows its way through the quiet woods carrying a ghostly tune in its wake.  If you listen closely you can hear the words ever so faintly - now here, by the abandoned mess hall - now there, by the empty pool.  Listen:  'We are the men of the Camp Ahwahnee Staff.'  I feel forgotten.

I spent nine summers working as a Boy Scout camp counselor.  My home away from home was a ninety-minute drive from Southern California’s Anaheim up into the San Bernardino mountain range and more specifically, to Camp Ahwahnee.  Later known as the Ahwahnee Scout Reservation, this four hundred plus-acre parcel of rugged land was one of several prime properties owned and operated by the Orange County Council, Boy Scouts of America.

Summer camp started with 'hell week' (staff only) in late June and concluded at the end of August.  A full-time camp ranger and his wife were permanent residents on the property.  We, the camp staff, were seasonal, changing greatly or sometimes little from summer to summer.  Some faces, like mine, seemed to haunt the land year after year, moving our way up the camp staff totem pole.

Numbering upwards of forty individuals, we ranged in ages from twelve to seventy years old.  The youngsters, or Counselors In Training (CITS), were eager, unpaid Scouts, asked to stay on an extra week or two or three, hoping to capture a full-time paid position if the opportunity presented itself early enough within the season.  The rest of us received meager 'honorariums' starting at five dollars a week all the way up to the top positions that paid little more than a hundred per week. 

Camp Ahwahnee first opened in the summer of 1955.  Previously known as Larry’s Boys Camp, our prime piece of forest was elevated at sixty-seven hundred-feet.  The communities of Running Springs, Arrowbear and Green Valley Lake were its closest neighbors.  U.S. Forestry Land surrounded us and extended our privacy greatly.  Across the road, a YMCA and Campfire Girls camp seemed to protect the area even more.  The land was steep and hilly, a mountain of granite.  At the very eastern edge of the property, known to us as Inspiration Point, the trees suddenly gave way to an expansive view of the desert below.  Sunsets from this vantage point were awe-inspiring.  It was also the kick-off point for the steep downhill hike, two miles below, to Deep Creek

In my opinion, we were beautifully isolated from the world beneath, bathed in sunshine, crisp mountain air and the fragrant aroma of pine and fir.  We were more than a mile above our boring lives 'down below,' as we came to call anywhere but here.  Whether one stayed for the day, week or summer, this place could enchant one’s soul.  It drew me back, year after year for a decade of summers and many winter weekends, when a snowy carpet transformed the landscape.  It still haunts my dreams these many years later.  Why do you think I need to write these words now, if not for its continued spiritual pull on my psyche?  There are many a day and night when my entire being craves to return to this special place, the land of my youth, where star-filled heavens seemed to touch a boy’s outstretched hand and the water which flowed from deep within our mountain tasted sweeter than any wine on earth.  But I digress from this brief history.

The Northern Orange County Council, Boy Scouts of America (rival to the Orange Empire Council and later merged into one giant Orange County Council in the early seventies) first gained title to the land after Larry’s Boys Camp folded.  My earliest memories of Ahwahnee took place in 1959, as my older brother was going to camp. 

Vividly, I remember the long and winding drive up Highway 30, feeling vaguely carsick, as my father drove onward and ever upward.  Suddenly the air cleared as intense blue sky erupted around an unexpected curve.  Desert brush gradually gave way to individual, tough conifers making valiant stands.  These lone, green sentinels eventually merged into forest.  The smell of pine invaded the open windows of the old Ford, filling our station wagon with thin, cool, soothing mountain air.   My nausea ceased.  I knew, instinctively, even at this young age that I had entered a new home of sorts.  We stopped for breakfast at Lloyds in Running Springs; the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries from the bakery, mixed wonderfully with the crisp mountain air.  Ahwahnee was only five miles away.

I then remember being in the camp itself, holding my mother’s hand, as we climbed a steep and dusty dirt road within the forest.  I was told, years later, that we had gone to the official dedication of camp.  I’ve seen an old black-and-white photo of my mother and me at the scene.  I was six-years-old.  It was my first trip to Ahwahnee.  I believe something crept into my soul that very day, directing my movement back to this land a decade later.

I have had many years to reflect upon the Ahwahnee summers.  There are a few thousand memories to sort, categorize and play through again and again. Some will be shared over time.  Some quickly discarded.  Others are lost and long forgotten, I fear.  Nonetheless, I will give it a try, putting some of these tales on paper.  It’s going to be a long process, I think.  That’s all right.  It took a bit of time to acquire them all anyway.  I hope I can draw for you, dear reader, a decent picture of Camp Ahwahnee and some of its inhabitants.  'I will do my best,' as the old motto once instructed me to do. 

So, throw another log on the campfire and make yourself comfortable upon that old tree stump.  It’s going to be a long night of storytelling.