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?