AN UNWORTHY IDOL – My Summers As a Camp Counselor

There’s no better way to notice and celebrate small wonders than to see them through the eyes of a child.

Glad to say, I’ve had a few opportunities to do that: as a parent, as a grandparent, and simply as a keen observer of how folks of all ages interact with wonder. Certainly one of the best was the two summers I served as a camp counselor on southern Maine’s gorgeous Lake Sebago.

I was a sophomore in college when my roommate, Kim, told me of his long love affair with Camp O-At-Ka—as camper, junior counselor and then senior counselor. He encouraged me to apply.

So, with Kim’s recommendation, I became the counselor for Cabin Durham, in the camp’s Junior Unit, for boys ages nine and ten. (Kim was counselor for another junior unit cabin, so we had a good-natured rivalry going all summer.)

If I didn’t already know it, I soon learned that ten-year-old boys are like dynamos of wonder. They’re curious; they see things with innocent delight —most have not yet acquired the hard-edged “attitude” that comes with adolescence.

       The kids understood, almost instinctively, 
       the nature of water.

That summer still ranks as one of my lifetime favorites. I became part of a wonderful, generations-old tradition for campers’ families—most of them from west-suburban Boston suburbs like Newton, Waltham and Wellesley. Many of the boys were carrying on an O-At-Ka legacy handed down from their fathers and grandfathers.

It was an opportunity for me to learn about leadership and collegiality, to immerse myself in life in the out-of-doors and, I suppose, to test my native parenting wings. And then there was the heady feeling of being idolized by a bunch of boys who believed I could do no wrong.

IN MY ELEMENT
Along with my high-school-age junior counselor, I led my eight campers in the typical summer camp fare: sports competition, boating, sailing, crafting, and performing songs and silly skits. There was also a spiritual component reflecting the camp’s Episcopal Church heritage.

My favorite part, though, was the camp’s embrace of Nature and all the opportunities for exploration and adventure. This was my element, a place where
I knew I could share my wilderness canoeing experience and my gifts for observation, curiosity and spiritual reflection.

In two summers at O-At-Ka I led both canoeing and hiking trips to some of Northern New England’s most beautiful places: Maine’s Rangeley and Mooselookmeguntic lakes region, the Saco River and New Hampshire’s fabled White Mountains. I loved organizing and outfitting those trips, but even better was the thrill of getting out there in the wild, teaching the boys a few new tricks, and observing how the experiences affected them.

DIFFERENT STROKES
Some of my campers came with a bit of experience in canoeing, but none to the extent of that I’d acquired in my wilderness canoe trips in northern Minnesota. So it was fun teaching them various camping skills and demonstrating just how adeptly one can maneuver a canoe using the various paddle strokes.

    Thank God, the paddlers had been thrown 
    out...because the gunnels slammed together
    with enough force to sever a limb.

The kids understood, probably from playing with it, the nature of water and its ability, even though it’s a liquid, to push back when you force the blade of your paddle against it. They were quick studies. With a little practice, they were handling the basic strokes like old pros.

A bigger challenge was teaching them the concept of vectors—how, to maintain a straight course when the wind or a current is at your side, you have to compensate by keeping your bow aimed at a point upwind of your destination.

FOCUS AND PHYSICS
The Saco river trip provided a stark lesson on both the vital importance of those paddling skills, and the sheer power of flowing water.

One afternoon we were easily navigating a class-II rapids when we approached a bridge. As one of the canoes without a counselor or junior counselor in it approached the bridge the boy paddling stern apparently got distracted for a few seconds.

I watched, helpless, as the potential catastrophe played out in what seemed like slow motion. The craft had turned sideways, and instead of passing harmlessly under the bridge, it struck one of the v-shaped concrete piers, right at the aluminum canoe’s midpoint. Within seconds, it flipped, open side upstream facing the water’s powerful flow, and then buckled, wrapping itself around the pier like so much tin foil.

Thank God, the paddlers had been thrown out and were able to swim around the wreckage, because the gunnels slammed together with enough force to sever a limb. (Later, the mess had to be salvaged by a wrecker from atop the bridge.)

I’m quite sure none of those boys will ever forget that lesson on focus and physics.

BIG LITTLE MOUNTAINS
As for my hiking trips at O-At-Ka, the highlight was conquering the Presidential Range, the White Mountains’ string of seven 4,000-foot-plus peaks named for U.S. presidents. Among them, 6,288-foot Mt. Washington, whose summit weather station holds the world record for the highest recorded wind speed not associated with a tornado or cyclone—231 miles per hour.

My cabin group was fascinated by this fact, and the indications everywhere of the place’s deadly reputation—like trailhead signage warning climbers that many others who’d not been adequately prepared had perished here. Or, on the summit, the big chains running over the tops of the weather station buildings to keep them from blowing away.

The White Mountains are small compared with their big brothers farther west. But non-technical climbing in the Whites is arguably more taxing, because, unlike the Rockies, for example, most of whose trails zigzag their way gradually to the top, these trails simply go straight up.

For a ten-year old boy, depending on his physical condition and temperament, such steep ascents are pretty daunting. A couple of our kids got so tired and discouraged that they felt they couldn’t go on. There was embarrassment; there were tears, but I dug deep for the motivational skills and patience to deal with the situation, and we eventually managed to do it together, learning a valuable lesson in teamwork.

        They’re beginning to learn that there’s a
        place where their fears and their growing 
        capabilities intersect.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS
On both water and land, it became clear how much better than I these ten-year-old boys were as observers, as enjoyers of life in the moment. While I had to be laser-focused on logistics, navigation, and the welfare of my young charges, they just did what kids do; they watched and listened, pointed out the small wonders they discovered, and dared each other to take mostly-harmless risks. Most of all, they just played.

They proved that boys will be boys. While big and awesome got their attention, so did some details—the grosser or gorier the better. Like the power of wind and water, especially when there were stories of deaths involved. Like how plate tectonics had squeezed and lifted this immutable granite into mountains, which then got scoured and scooped by glaciers.

Then there was the way clouds of black flies zeroed in and gnawed along the edges of our buttoned-up collars and cuffs, leaving bloody rings. Or the eerie, plaintive night calls of loons across a mirror lake. And definitely how that insane old man with the glowing red eyes—last seen right here in this area—had stalked, then torn out and eaten the eyes of a bunch of young campers.

Boys both fear and love stuff like that. At that age they’re beginning to learn that there’s a place where those fears and their growing capabilities intersect, where knowledge, ingenuity and practice impart power.

IN FOR A BLOW
The weather had been fairly warm and calm when we started out, but sure enough, by the time we were nearing the summit of Mt. Adams, the temperature had plummeted into the 40s with steady 45- to 50-mile-per-hour winds. The kids took photos of each other leaning into that wind at a 15- or 20-degree angle. Another lesson on the dynamics of an element.

An unforgettable irony of our ten-hour trek up Mt. Washington was peeking over the last little crest in the trail and catching sight of a big parking lot. That’s right, turns out there are two other ways up (by car and by cog railway). Nonetheless, we all felt proud and triumphant having conquered New England's tallest mountain under our own power.

EXPECTING WONDER
On these and all my trips, I loved how the group, with a little guidance of course, coalesced into a team, with the boys falling naturally into certain roles—as leaders, as workers, as cheerleaders, as clowns—to handle various challenges.

I also enjoyed teaching the kids some of the observation skills I’d already mastered at that ripe old age of 20: patience; thinking as an animal, bird or fish thinks; and, perhaps most importantly, fully expecting wonder instead of just looking for it.

WHEN IT BLOWS IT SUCKS – The Winds of a Lifetime

Funny I should be working on a post about wind just as Harvey, one the US’s most destructive hurricanes on record slams into the Texas Gulf Coast. I’m in awe of storms like this; some slightly warped part of me wishes I could experience such awesome power first-hand—without, of course, suffering the consequences.

Come to think of it, I have indeed experienced some pretty amazing winds in my lifetime—some even topping Harvey’s 130-mile-per-hour best.

                                          ~/ - /~        ~/ - /~        ~/ - /~

To encourage my readers and the kids in their lives to appreciate the wonder of wind, I often suggest this little exercise: find a draft-free room, light a candle and place it in a corner. Then sit down on the floor five or six yards away and blow toward the candle.

You’ll wait a second or two as your breath, like a wave, rolls toward the flame and, if your aim’s any good, makes it flicker. It just shows how much like a liquid this magical, invisible, life-fueling substance we call air acts, ebbing, flowing, swirling, pouring into voids.

But that’s just a parlor trick. What about the real-life impact winds have on us?

STANDING ON PRESIDENTS
I once led a group of ten- and eleven-year-old boys on a climbing adventure in New Hampshire’s beautiful White Mountains. The goal: to summit a few of the “Presidentials,” a range of 5,000-plus-foot peaks named for U.S. presidents.

The culmination was scaling the legendary Mt. Washington. Now, at 6,288 feet, this upstart’s no Rainier or McKinley. But it does have its own claims to fame, including its prodigious winds.

Signs at the trailheads warn those unaware that climbers die on these slopes all the time, even in summer. That, in the course of the four or five hours it takes to get to the top, conditions can easily change from light, 85-degree summer breezes to a 40-degree November gale.

PHOTO: Erin Paul Donovan

In fact, when we reached the summit we could see that the only thing keeping some of the buildings from being blown away during the worst storms were the steel cables holding them down like a load on a flat-bed truck. This unassuming peak held the record, until 2010, for the highest straight-line wind velocity ever observed on earth: 231miles per hour.

The day my campers and I climbed Mt. Washington the winds only kicked up to about 50 miles per hour. But it was enough to require considerable effort—and a bit of inclination—to make any headway. It was enough to show those kids how powerful a force wind can be, as both ally and adversary.

PHOTO: Jose Azel / Getty Images

    The roof of the next-door apartment building, 
    complete with compressors and vent stacks, 
    lay across my lawn.

NOT IN KANSAS ANY MORE
The sultry afternoon of June 14, 1981, a tornado churned from southwest to northeast across the Twin Cities Metro, generating winds approaching 200 miles per hour. I’d been repairing a window frame on the second floor of my South Minneapolis home when I first noticed the warning signs: an eerie calm and dark, greenish skies. And then the rain and hail.

It was when I saw debris starting to swirl and heard that storied freight-train rumble that I knew. I grabbed my dog, a candle and matches, and the portable radio and headed for the basement. On the way down, I remember distinctly the feeling in my ears, like being inside a vacuum.

PHOTO: Ernie Melby

It was all over in about two minutes. Thank God, my house appeared to be intact, but when I stepped outside it was a different story. My garage listed to one side, most of its shingles sucked off. The flat, tar-and-gravel roof of the next-door apartment building, complete with compressors and vent stacks, lay across my lawn. Trees and power lines were down. And one corner of the old, solid stone church on the corner lay in ruins.

Ever since I was a boy, I’ve had a fascination with tornadoes. And now I could say I’d been in one. Ironically, I have yet to actually see one.

    Even my trusty “water-resistant” Timex watch 
    proved no match for the pervasiveness of the 
    incredible blast.

THE SOUND AND THE FURY
My buddies and I had just begun what was supposed to be a simple, relaxing overnight paddle trip down the beautiful upper St. Croix River. Unfortunately, we got a late start, so by the time we’d loaded the canoes and pushed off the last glow of daylight was all but gone.

Feeling our way down the river in the dark, we bumped and scraped our way through a series of class-one rapids and began searching the shore with flashlights for a decent campsite. Fortunately, we spotted what looked like the ideal place on
a small, sandy island.

As we pitched camp and started working on dinner, the southwest sky flickered with lightning. Big deal, I thought; what are the chances it will come our way?

Well, come our way it did. We’d finished our late meal and were enjoying an after-dinner drink around the fire when it hit. The only shelter we had was our tents, which worked fine on the torrential rain, but were no match for the wind.

ILLUSTRATION: Encyclopaedia Britannica

In what meteorologists call a downburst,* our little islet was suddenly stomped
on by 50- to 60-mile-per-hour winds, which ripped out our tent stakes, bent the aluminum poles and drove water through both fly and tent. We had to yell to be heard over the wail of those winds and explosions of thunder.

Even worse, the monster stalled right over us, battering us for a good ten minutes—plenty of time to contemplate the very real danger of the trees all around us, anchored only in the loose sand, falling and crushing us, or suddenly conducting 100 million volts of electricity into us through their roots.

When it was over, the only things left supporting the saturated nylon were our cowering, shivering bodies. We might as well have just sat out in the open; everything we had was soaked. Even my trusty “water-resistant” Timex watch proved no match for the pervasiveness of that incredible blast.

        The wind had not only stirred up those 
        challenging waves; it also fanned the 
        cooling process.

TO THE CORE  
Wind can do its dirty work in more ways than just with brute force. I was canoeing with seven friends across Tuscarora Lake in northern Minnesota’s incredible Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. It was a cool fall morning and the wind had started to whip up some pretty big waves for a lake of this size.

But we were mostly seasoned canoeing veterans; if we followed best practices for these conditions, it was nothing we couldn’t handle. I guess the key word there is “followed,” because within ten minutes, instead of sticking together, we found our three canoes well beyond shouting distance of each other.

Long story short, a couple of paddlers lost their focus. In a few seconds their canoe got caught broadside to a wave and turned turtle. Fortunately, our second canoe noticed their predicament and went to the rescue.

We managed to haul the shivering canoeists and their partially baled out craft to a nearby campsite, but by this time Win, a wiry guy with no insulating fat on his frame, was showing signs of hypothermia.

In this case, the wind had not only stirred up those challenging waves; it also fanned the cooling process, sucking the warmth out of Win’s body faster than it could produce it. Fortunately, by keeping him awake, sandwiching him between two warm bodies inside a sleeping bag, and feeding him hot liquids, we were able to avert tragedy.

(Ironically, later that afternoon, we were harnessing that same treacherous wind in makeshift sails to propel us effortlessly across another lake.)

So, what are the most memorable scrapes you’ve had with wind? Tornadoes? Hurricanes? Sailing fiascos? Anyone ever flown through the eye of a hurricane?

“The wind is us-- it gathers and remembers all our voices, then 
sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.”  
TRUMAN CAPOTE

* In 1999, a sharp line of storms swept across the BWCAW, unleashing a broad, nearly continuous band of downbursts—called a derecho—flattening millions of trees like the sweep of an immense, malevolent hand. It wiped out some 40 percent all the mature trees in the million-acre protected area.