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.

SEE YOU TOMORROW – A Lesson in Grace

When I spend any time with very old people—I suppose I should say older than I am—I can’t help but try seeing myself in their shoes. I’m especially drawn to those few elderly souls who, despite their obvious physical restrictions, still manage to keep learning every day and shining their lights of optimism, joy and kindness. That's what I want to be when I grow up.

Might the elegant designs Nature has crafted for everything else in creation include compensating us, when we age, for our loss of physical mobility with a proportional gain in our spiritual reach?

If this is the case, I think I might understand what grace is. And it brings to mind an experience I had when the door to my mother’s century-long life—at least the part of it that afforded her access to the physical world—had closed to a narrow slit.

                                             *    *    *
   
"Oh, Irene’s the one in charge of the whole place," Mom declared. "Everything goes through her." I looked at Irene and the others at our table, and somehow I knew she was talking about Joyce.

Mom had been in the nursing home for only a few days, and already she’d assigned a pecking order to her fellow "inmates." She'd even pointed out "the head table" in the dining room. It was always a different table, always one occupied by people no more able nor important than the rest. Still, the institution seemed of great interest and importance to her. There was no resentment in her matter-of-fact tone, just a vague note of resignation.

I'd been joining Mom every Thursday for dinner and bingo since she and Dad had first moved into assisted living eight years before. The staff at her new full-nursing-care residence had been nice enough to establish a standing guest chair for me at Mom’s table, so every Thursday there was a place set for me. Even more thoughtfully, they'd assigned to our table residents who could feed themselves, and who still had the ability—and the desire—to converse.

Tonight, everyone at the table seemed in fairly good spirits. And Joyce was positively in seventh heaven. One of the two dinner choices was biscuits and gravy. To her, this was pure ambrosia—real comfort food reminiscent, she explained, of her youth. The servers always brought her two large biscuits and an extra bowl of gravy on the side.

With her one functioning hand and special fat-handled spoon, she resolutely spaded off each morsel of biscuit, slathered it in the thick, starchy, sausage-dotted gravy, and lifted it slowly to her mouth. Gravy crawled down her chin, dripping occasionally onto her bib. I remembered my mother's comment about Joyce and wondered if she saw something I was missing.

I exchanged pleasantries with Irene, Mark, Marion and Joyce, but somehow the conversation never managed to build up a head of steam. I guess it's hard to talk when just taking a sip of juice demands every bit of your strength and concentration. Every few minutes, it seemed, a nurse would interrupt, dispensing medications in little pleated paper cups.

      While nearly everyone else in the room
      seemed carried by conditions beyond their 
      control, Joyce still carried herself.

As dessert was being handed out, I found myself looking again at Joyce. On the other side of that gravy-spotted bib, there was indeed something different about her. While nearly everyone else in the room seemed carried by conditions beyond their control, Joyce still carried herself.

It was hard to put my finger on, but, if one can imagine a 90-something, half-paralyzed, wheelchair-bound woman embodying a mystique, Joyce, I decided, had it.

This presence was by no means intimidating—though she was a woman with a large frame. But her erect posture, her direct, confident tone of voice and an earnest, resolute manner just seemed somehow strong, safe, reassuring.

She seemed wise too, as if, when she mentioned something factual, you could believe her. Among this community of crumbling minds and spirits, her core of strength seemed intact, as yet unconquered by her years.

Eventually everyone began leaving their tables one by one, a few steadfastly wheeling themselves, most being pushed by aides. It was then that I was glad I'd kept watching Joyce, because the most remarkable thing began to happen.

A woman at another table who'd been staring vacantly into her own lap was wheeled by her still-ambulatory husband all the way across the room to our table—to Joyce. When the wheels of their two chairs touched, the woman raised her head and gazed distantly into Joyce's eyes. "Yes, dear, I know," I overheard Joyce intoning.

   She'd always end her audience with those
   gently powerful words: "I’ll see you tomorrow."

I lost most of the words, but the solid, caring, deeply reassuring tone was unmistakable as she leaned forward toward the woman. Joyce raised her hand and, offering the softest part of it—the back—tenderly stroked her supplicant's cheek. "Good night, sweetheart; I'll see you tomorrow," she said.

In the coming weeks I witnessed Joyce's gentle ministry, once again with the same woman and with several others. "Darling," "sweetheart," "love"—she embraced them with her words and her touch. And she'd always end her audience with those gently powerful words: "I’ll see you tomorrow."

Last Thursday I was back in my special spot at Mom's table. "Hey, where's Joyce?" I said to no one in particular. There was an awkward silence before Irene's quavering little voice answered, "Joyce..." She forced the rest through a catch in her throat. "...passed away this afternoon."

I miss Joyce. Everyone misses her. My mom has appointed no successor to her imaginary exalted post. I keep looking for a sign that someone else—anyone—will carry on.

Maybe, I'm thinking, Mom was right after all. Maybe Joyce really was in charge.