Like Falling off a Log

 

Like Falling off a Log

Noel Laflin

5-22-22

There used to be an old log that spanned the creek bed next to the campcraft area.  A Scout fell off it while crossing one day, breaking a rib or arm, or something, which led to the log coming down and a new, sturdier bridge being built.

To celebrate its completion, a ceremony was held one day back in the summer of 1969.  All of the camp showed up as the new sign for the bridge was revealed: The Greg Richards Memorial Bridge.  Greg wasn’t dead or anything, as he’s clearly the center of attention here, but making memorials of living staff members was a thing we did apparently. Know that Greg was going into the seminary shortly after camp would close that summer might, along with getting married by the end of the year, might just have been all the impetus we needed to memorialize him anyway. 

I am glad the new bridge was put in place as I remember a foggy night back in 1968 when I was trying to get to Geronimo campsite to check in a troop that had arrived late in the day. The fog was so thick that I kept getting lost once I was off the road. I eventually came to the creek bed, felt around for the log that crossed it, noted that it was pretty slippery from all the heavy, humid moisture, so found my way by keeping one hand on the bottom of the log as I walked beneath it. After that, it still took another 20 minutes to find Geronimo – something that should taken five minutes or less under sunny conditions.

Years later we’d build the log cabin just above that old creek bed and bridge.  In fact, the fine sand brought down by the water that flowed there every spring from snowmelt was a perfectly inexpensive ingredient needed for the cabin’s cobblestone floor. The sand was collected by wheelbarrow, brought up to the cabin, mixed with bags of cement and water, stirred by hand with a short-handled hoe, and then poured in sections to create the cobblestone floor. Rocks collected from the creek bed were put into place as the mixture began to set up.

The last summer that I was there, the bridge still stood, (albeit repaired occasionally) as did the cabin.  And although both are ancient history now, I can still picture an old treacherous slippery log, a fancier replacement, fanfare of a dedication, a smile upon the face of Greg, white sand, an old wheelbarrow, smooth stones, a sore back from all the hauling, and a log cabin. But still, it’s all a jumbled up kaleidoscope of very fine memories today.