It's All Good

There’s not so much of a story to tell as there is an odd collection of thoughts to share from this past weekend.

This afternoon the Major’s Cub Scout Pack held their annual Pinewood Derby Race. This year Major Havoc and his Bear den raced their cars in a set of heats that saw the Major take second place in each of three heats. While it was a nice showing, it was not enough to earn first, second, or third place overall in a field of twelve “drivers.” He had a very nice car, a homemade Lightning McQueen that the Cubmaster kept referring to as the “Rusteze” car. I’m not certain all his pistons are firing. I listened to him explain the rules of the race, including some stern warnings about how a scout would be disqualified from racing if certain conditions were met. The conditions were centered on car malfunctions. Not obvious cheating or gross rules violations. Just malfunctions. During a race of wooden cars made by eight-year-old boys, those very same cars had to operate perfectly or the boys could be disqualified. This was from a man who insists that he does everything “for the boys.” He then stopped the race for five minutes and asked one Bear Scout and his Akela to come fix the boy’s car because there was a hair hanging from the back end. A hair. Everyone sat for five minutes while the offending hair was removed. I’m not certain how much drag a single strand of hair placed on the car, or what mayhem might have resulted if said hair were allowed to trail behind the wooden racer, flapping in the stiff breeze created by a five ounce block of pine hurtling down a track at .00000000006 miles per hour. It was painful. No, what caught my attention the most during this afternoon’s race wasn’t anything that took place during the race, but what took place in the boy’s bathroom during the race. Specifically, I was amused to find that the Catholic School where the race was held stored their Advent Wreath, complete with four candles, on a desk just inside the bathroom door. I didn’t know that Advent candles were scented, or that a venerated tradition such as the Advent wreath would serve double duty as both a prayerful reminder of the reason for the season and an air deodorizer during the remaining eleven months out of the year. Whoever said that you couldn’t be spiritual and efficient?

I woke up early this morning when nature called. There is one nature call that I don’t mind while camping. There is another that I avoid at all costs. I avoid it for several practical reasons and one completely irrational thought generated by the scene in Jurassic Park where the dude was eaten by a T-rex while sitting on the throne. That was completely uncool. Please, if I have to check out of this world suddenly, at least let me have my pants buckled properly. That particular activity leaves one completely vulnerable. So, it didn’t help at all that during my return trip to the campsite I stumbled upon a fox that was scrounging through our trash for leftovers just a few feet away. He took off rather quickly. At least it wasn’t the pack of coyotes that spent the night howling just over the ridge.

With just minutes to spare, I made it to church for communion this morning. I was dressed in two day old, filthy camping clothes. I positively reeked of campfire. I wore my dark shades. And I joined my fellow parishioners at the altar for communion, silently amused by the stoic faces, visible winces, and strange looks. I have to give them credit. Nobody uttered a word of criticism. I think it’s called Grace. I really like our congregation. And I had a strong spiritual need to receive the Lord’s Supper today. It’s a good way to start the week.

Saturday’s sunshine and warm temperatures turned the frozen tundra of eastern Kansas into a mess of wet grass and slush that made driving out of the campsite nearly impossible. I experienced the rare pleasure of good ol’ arrogant farm superiority country charm when the farmer who owned the property upon which we were camping used his John Deere back hoe to pull my grocery getter to the top of a hill. He was good natured about it, but dished out a heavy helping of grief because I drove a Toyota minivan on asphalt the363 days each year that I’m not camping on his land rather than owning a six wheeled Ford F series truck that averages 14 m.p.g. for the two days a year that I’m blessed to pay him a visit. Honestly, I don’t know how my priorities could be so screwed up. I took great pleasure in the fact that his tractor couldn’t tow me back up the hill on its own. His rear wheels were spinning in the snow and slush. He tried explaining that the pedal on the floor that engaged the rear wheels in such a manner that they turned together (rather than independently) wouldn’t stick, and kept slipping on him. Right. The pedals. Since he was backing up the hill with the tow strap hooked to my tow hitch, I put my van in reverse, gave it some gas, and working together we got the van up the hill to drier ground. Think he’d acknowledge team work? Think he’d acknowledge that his John Deere couldn’t tow my Toyota up a snowy hill on its own? In these parts, “Toyota” is a word that best belongs two paragraphs up, right about where the dinosaur ate his lunch. I thanked the farmer for his help. He drove away without another word.

He’s really a friendly, generous guy with a great sense of humor and a big heart for scouting. And one of the other dads took pictures that he promised to post on Facebook very soon. I’ll be sure and post that link as soon as I get it.

We are home. We are safe. The General had a great time, and we don’t smell like campfire any more.

It’s all good.

Eveready Lied

It quickly became a story to tell around every campfire. We were camping out west of Leavenworth, Kansas, last December when the scoutmaster’s cell phone rang. In the age of cell phones, no scouting dad who leaves his phone turned on escapes the weekend without taking at least one call. The amount of calls that some dads receive is ridiculous. I avoided that hassle by leaving my cell phone turned off and in the car. It remained that way until the scoutmaster’s phone rang early on a Sunday morning. We heard him mumble “okay” a few times, and then he leaned over my chair and quietly said, “Your wife says ‘turn on your cell phone and call her’.” Captain Chaos was sick and the Boss wanted my help. Apparently the expression on my face was a picture worth a thousand words, and on this weekend’s campout that picture was shared with more than a few newbie dad campers. Everyone had a good laugh.


Yesterday, while I was camping with the boy scouts at the annual Klondike Derby, Captain Chaos swallowed a battery. She didn’t swallow just any battery. She swallowed an Energizer CR2032 wafer battery. When The Boss called me on the campout and told me what had happened, I assured her not to worry. It was an Energizer. It would keep going and going and going and eventually come out the other end. That did nothing to assure The Boss, so I suggested that she call the poison control center. They suggested x-rays to make certain that battery had cleared the girl’s esophagus, and then became the most intrusive public service that you can imagine, demanding the name and number of our doctor, the hospital we would be taking the girl to, the name of emergency room physician, and a copy of his financial portfolio. They actually called back to our house at least once while The Boss was running around trying to get the Major and the girl ready to go. She assured the gentleman that she had the situation under control. He persisted. His rational was that the hospital would eventually be calling him for advice, so he would just call ahead. After a bit of arguing, she finally explained to him in a rather exasperated voice that since she cared for our daughter during a heart condition and a stroke she thought she could handle a swallowed battery.

He said, “Oh.”

Now, the advice that he gave was good advice, and somehow the emergency room doctor at our local hospital managed to access the situation without needing to call poison control. Go figure. X-rays showed that the battery had indeed become stuck in the Captain’s esophagus, and since the girl who thoroughly enjoyed all of the attention lavished upon her by the nursing staff of our local hospital had once had a fundoplication, the chances of the battery actually passing into her stomach were fairly slim. Her case was transferred to Children’s Mercy Hospital in Kansas City, with a CMH doctor-ordered ambulance ride for the girl and her mother. I had, by this time, arrived un-showered from the campout dressed in only the finest smokey camp attire, to deliver the insurance card for the girl and take charge of the Major. The ambulance driver went to the wrong hospital, doubling the driving time of a trip that The Boss could have legally made in 45 minutes had they allowed us to drive ourselves. Their concern for the Captain possibly having the pesky battery block her airway dictated the need to have a trained EMT along for the ride. There was room for him in our car.

Sometime after midnight, the Captain went into an operating room for a short procedure to remove the battery. She’s resting comfortably, out of danger, while the Boss sleeps on a couch in the corner of the room. The doctors want to perform a test to make sure that the girl’s esophagus wasn’t perforated. That will be today or tomorrow. I am about to rouse the Major for a very early return to the campsite to gather my gear, to help the troop pack, and return to town. After the BIG GAME, the game that the Boss wants to watch at the hospital so as to not be disturbed (like the girl will let that happen!) I will drive down to relieve her and spend the night with the girl.

The last thing I heard one of the scout dads say as I left the campsite yesterday was a cheeky, “Aren’t you glad you left your cell phone on?!” He was teasing.

And so life goes on, just one more blog post away from sanity…

(There’s No Place Like) Camping in the Winter Time

(There’s No Place Like) Camping in the Winter Time

Sung to the tune of
(There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays

Oh, there’s no place like camping on this weekend,
For no matter how low the merc’ry drops-
If you’re a member of Boy Scout Troop one-six-seven,
In the winter time you earn your camping chops!

Oh, the boys they start complaining when the forecast’s nice and dry.
They like to camp in ten feet of ice and snow.
If they don’t sleep in a blizzard then it isn’t worth the trip.
You can’t learn to treat your frostbite,
If it isn’t frigid at night!

Oh, there’s no place like camping on this weekend,
For no matter how low the merc’ry drops-
If you’re a member of Boy Scout Troop one-six-seven,
In the winter time you earn your camping chops!

The Scoutmaster builds a camp fire that’s seen from outer space,
It will melt a ring of snow a mile wide.
We’ll be sliding through a mud pit as we cook our dinner fare.
But, the food it is terrific,
Just don’t watch what they put in it!

Oh, there’s no place like camping on this weekend,
When we long for the comforts of a home,
If you want to be happy in a million ways,
Next time winter camp inside a Holidome!
Next time winter camp inside a Holidome!

See ya' on Monday!

Coyotes, Thorns, and Geese

When we watched the flock of geese circling overhead we knew they were looking for a place to rest for the night. They chose the field across the tree line from our camp sight, and I quickly forgot about them after they disappeared out of sight. Near midnight, shortly after I bedded down for the night, the coyotes came out. I had forgotten about the coyotes that live around that camp sight, a section of farm west of Leavenworth, Kansas, that is being converted into a Boy Scout reserve. The coyotes never come into camp, so they are not a worry. It’s really too bad that the geese couldn’t say the same thing. The braying and howling that signals the arrival of the coyotes was joined by the squawking and flapping of startled geese and the death cries of the few that didn’t make it to safety. It was an odd sound by which to fall asleep.

This particular farm is home to a flock of chickens, chickens that rarely succumb to the coyotes because of Duke. Duke is a very friendly and quite protective Chow that lives on the farm and understands that a large crowd of Boy Scouts means good eating. Not the boys, but their food that they willingly share. When Duke isn’t dismantling the outside of the farmer’s house in order to get inside on a cold winter’s night, he’s visiting all of the camp sites for a sampling of vittles. He’s eaten through things that are normally only digested by sharks and alligators. Duke does an admirable job of keeping the coyotes at bay. This means that the rooster that leads the flock of chickens is free to announce his presence all day. All damn day long. I had forgotten how much I hate roosters until I had to listen to that cock all day yesterday and most of this morning. It occurred to me that roosters really are some stupid birds. They make so much racket announcing their presence I’m surprised that the pack of coyotes hasn’t dispatched ol’ Duke just to get to the birds. Roughly translated, that rooster was saying,

“FREEEEEEEESH Chicken! Get your fresh chicken he-yah! Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh chicken! We got your freeeesh chicken hey-yah! Got some eggs for you smaller critters, too! Get ya fresh chicken he-yah!”

You’d think that a bird as defenseless as a chicken is would learn to keep its yap shut, but I guess that isn’t so.

The only other significant event for our campout this past weekend was my opportunity to make personal acquaintance with the thorns of a Honey Locust Tree. The Honey Locust makes great firewood. Unfortunately, in order to burn it you have to get past these,

 
 
 
 
 
 
some rather large and painful thorns that grow on the trunk and lower branches. The spines are quite sturdy, and can be used to make fishing hooks, sewing needles, etc. They really hurt when they are imbedded underneath the skin on your finger.

Ouch!

The new Boy Scouts who crossed over from their Cub Scout Webelos den last Tuesday night had a great time on their first Boy Scout camp-out.  Every one enjoyed themselves. 
 
Except the geese.

A Klondike Victory

A man far wiser than I told me that my oldest son is getting to an age where he is going to stop listening to mom and dad. He went on to say that it is our job to surround our son with adults who share our values, because the boy is going to listen to them. I am seeing elements of this taking place, which is just one reason why I am grateful that we found a very good church community that we joined two years ago and an excellent scouting troop. The people running each organization have had a strong, positive impact on General Mayhem.

It didn’t surprise me that General Mayhem’s Boy Scout Patrol took first place at the Klondike this past weekend. Of all the troops competing in this regional event, his was the fastest and most accurate in sledding, orienteering, first aid, and fire starting. For their efforts, the General’s patrol won a brand new cast iron Dutch oven, a lid lifter, and a new set of fire gloves. It was a true team effort, organized and led by my son. This was also his very first campout as the patrol leader for the Black Pythons.

Just three months ago the General was an assistant patrol leader leading the patrol while their patrol leader skipped two consecutive campouts. After each campout, the General observed how difficult it was to be a patrol leader, and commented on how tired he was. He gave no indication that he was interested in holding a leadership position. Earlier this month, he returned home from his first Boy Scout meeting of the New Year and waved his “patrol leader” badge. The old leader had stepped down. General Mayhem was voted to the open position. The General’s choice for his assistant patrol leader was a good kid, a nice young man who is polite, friendly, takes his responsibilities seriously and still knows how to have a good time. I was impressed with his wise choice for an assistant patrol leader. I told him so.

It is obvious that my son is being well trained by the adult leaders in his troop, by the senior patrol leaders and the patrol leader who recently stepped down. It is equally obvious that the last two years in scouting hasn’t simply been play time for him, although there has been plenty of that. I think I even saw some organization and planning employed for the Klondike that we have been trying to teach the young man but he has been resisting at every turn. His intrinsic motivation kicked in. He did this for himself and for his patrol. He did it very well.

My son never shared with me the fact that he was seriously considering the leadership position that he now holds. He never asked for any help while he prepared for the Klondike, although I was aware of what he was practicing at home. He didn’t say much to me after he won. He was very quiet in the car on the way home. Once he returned home he chatted endlessly about the entire event with his mother, and only then did he finally open up and share with me his enthusiasm for his journeyman victory. And in a very pleasant development, the General cleaned and stowed his gear after we returned home without a word of complaint. He even helped straighten the garage and move boxes to the attic.

I had to double check to make sure that I brought the correct kid home from the Klondike.

I would be lying if I wrote that this change to our relationship doesn’t bother me just a little. Part of the reason for his reticence may be conversations or conflicts that we have had in the past. Part of the reason for his reserve is his innate personality. I think that the biggest reason for his taciturnity is the fact that he is trying to establish his manhood separate from his father. He’s carving his own path, seeking neither permission for nor advice from me for these choices that he has made.

Dad needs to take a big gulp and adjust to this change. I need to step back far enough to allow the young man to mature as nature intends while remaining close enough to offer needed guidance. It’s a delicate balance. And I am entirely unprepared for this new development in parenting. I’m proud of him. I let him know it. For now, that will do.

I'll Take Warm And Dry

My usual source for blog material has been quiet this week. The kids have been polite, well behaved, cooperative, and happy. You know…boring. They’ve been everything we hope that our children will be, and I sure do wish they’d stop. I have nothing to write about.

Both Fredd and The Kid left comments on my “Kajamas” post about using steam registers to fake a fever and stay home from school when they were kids. Doh! I grew up in homes with radiators. If it had ever occurred to me to lean over the radiator until my temperature rose a few degrees I would have been “sick” so often I would have repeated the second grade. It just never occurred to me. Dang!

Since the snow has melted the chickens have returned to running around in a vain search for something fat, wiggly and juicy to eat. I didn’t realize how much I was missing their presence in the yard until they spent a month-and-a-half inside their coop. I just expect to be able to look out the window at any point during the day and see the hens wandering through the yard, walking across the dog, or looking through the window at the people zoo. It’s been a year-and-a-half since we became urban chicken farmers, and I have to agree with the Boss that these are some of the best pets you can own. They are self sufficient. They let themselves out in the morning and put themselves away at night. They are friendly, fun to watch, and they give us eggs. I like the eggs. If they could teach the dog how to lay an egg he’d be the perfect pet. Chickens don’t fetch.

This weekend is the Boy Scout’s annual Klondike. It’s a winter tournament where troops from northeast Kansas compete in a sled pulling contest. The teams stop at various stations along a predetermined route and demonstrate their skills in fire starting, first aid, sawing, blind tent construction and ice rescue. Since all of our snow melted just in time for this winter event, we will see which type of sled is better suited to be pushed through driving rain and mud. There is a 70% chance of rain on Saturday. Our troop uses sleds with runners. Some troops have their sleds on wheels.

Since we are a boy-led troop, the boys in our troop are very good fire starters. They have to be. If they want to eat on a camp out they must gather fire wood, build a fire ring, start their fire, and cook their meals. We have regular fire starting competitions within our troop in a variety of weather conditions. Our boys can keep themselves warm regardless of the weather. They will be competing against adult led troops. I do not understand the logic behind adult led troops. In an adult led troop the adults do things like starting fires and cooking meals. The boys do not learn the skills, which defeats the purpose of scouting. Our little pyromaniacs look at fallen trees the size of a Winnebago and say, “Yeah, I can burn that!”

The General has been practicing his first aid skills for this event. At various times during the week I’ve walked into a room and found Captain Chaos in an arm splint, a leg splint, a full body splint, and wrapped in enough toilet paper to resemble Tutankhamen. She is a willing participant in these medical sessions, and she loves the attention from her older brother. It’s a win-win.

It really is unfortunate that I have this remodeling project going on at home. The bathroom needs my attention, and I still have another room to complete in the basement. Darn it, but I just won’t be able to camp in a winter thunderstorm. I’m crushed. I shared the news with General Mayhem that I would not be able to camp this weekend and he didn’t seem to mind. He misses the downstairs bathroom. He would rather have me complete the remodeling project than sit in the driving rain and stare at a camp fire. Well, I can’t disappoint my boy, can I? I guess I have to remain warm and dry.

Flashback: My First Night of Camping

While I visit my father in Chicago, I thought I would share with you my very first post about camping with the Boy Scouts.  You'll recognize the first paragraph.  Enjoy!  I'll be back with a new post on Monday.

It was still dark when I awoke last Saturday morning, wondering who let the woodpecker into the camp grounds. I was unaware that woodpeckers were nocturnal and lived in the cold. Then I realized that the sound I was hearing was my teeth chattering because I was freezing! I didn’t actually sleep last Friday night. I shivered through a light doze, listening to the gentle lapping of water as it hit the banks of the tiny peninsula that we camped on called “Scout Island.” I listened to the sound of the wind whip through my tent because I was sleeping in a strange tent that I had to set up in the dark which meant that I didn’t know there were two mesh windows on either end of the tent, one of which I set up into the wind. I didn’t realize that I failed to cover the mesh windows with the rainfly, which I attached sideways. My house for the night was a small nylon Coleman wind tunnel. Add to that the fact that I was sandwiched between the tents of two other dads who left chainsaws running in their tents all night, my answer to the most frequently asked question on Saturday morning, “How did you sleep last night?” was “The coffee better be good!”

Boy Scout Troop 042 was an impressive bunch of kids. 042 is a “boy lead” troop, which means that the boys do not watch as adults show them “how to.” The adults watch as the boys show that they know “how to.” We arrived at the camp site, stepped back, and watched fifteen boys between the ages of 11-17 as they unloaded their chuck boxes, gathered wood, started camp fires, and set up their tents. These kids had fires burning in a couple of minutes and there wasn’t a match among them. Another dad and I took the troop’s water jugs to find a working spigot (apparently, I was the only person to bring five gallons of water from home) and by the time we returned to drop off the water jugs at each camp site the kids were completely situated for the night.

General Mayhem’s patrol leader was Harry Houdini, a kind and friendly thirteen year old who was difficult to find since he was covered from head-to-toe in camouflage. He helped the General get situated. You’d be standing alone in the dark, watching the activity in each camp, when a friendly voice would ask “Can I help you?” and this kid would materialize at your elbow. He did most of the cooking for their patrol and made sure that the General was fed. General Mayhem didn’t understand that each patrol had food for the weekend, and he went to camp thinking that the only food he had to eat for two days were the snacks that we sent with him. The scout master helped the General set-up a tent and gave him an extreme cold weather sleeping bag, guaranteed to make you sweat at temperatures below -30º.

It was an interesting weekend. The scout master and all of the dads slept and camped a short distance up the road from the boys. The boys took care of themselves. They woke up each morning, started their fires, cooked their food, and prepared for the day’s activities. The dads checked on the boys, but the boys took care of themselves. One of the older scouts confiscated the General’s pocket knife, explaining that he needed to go through safety training before he could carry it. A short time later Harry sat down with the General, gave him the safety training, and returned the knife. No adults involved.

The surprise of the weekend came as I drove a van load of scouts from our campsite to the eagle overlook at Missouri’s Squaw Creek National Wildlife Preserve on Saturday morning. The troop is sponsored by one Catholic Church, but many of the scouts attend mass at other Catholic Churches in the area. As I was turning into the preserve I tuned in to the conversation behind me in the van. One scout said, “I can’t stand that nun. She has absolutely no love in her heart. She’s as mean as they come.”

The other boys stated their agreement, and started telling stories of how mean this woman was.

Intrigued, I asked, “What is her name?”

“Sister Mary Battle Axe,” they replied.

“Oh yeah!” I said. “I know her.” I think it was at that moment that I was accepted into the troop as one of their own.

I solved my cold weather camping troubles the second night with a little help from the scout master. He gave me an extra sleeping bag that I laid underneath my bag. The extra bag helped me retain body heat during the night. I covered the exposed windows, and that night the temperature rose ten degrees outside of the tent. Coupled with my exhaustion and one Benadryl capsule, I slept soundly Saturday night.

Sunday morning was Friday night in reverse. The boys broke camp, packed the trailer, and we hit the road for the trip home. I drove home with four scouts in my car. The general was in another car with a new friend, a home schooled scout. The conversation in the van turned to hunting knives, and shortly each boy brought out their weapon of choice. There wasn’t a blade shorter than six inches, each one sharp enough to shave with, although none of the boys in the van were even close to having facial hair. They discussed the merits of cold steel blades versus hardened steel blades and explained how each knife could be used for hunting and cooking. One could be turned around and used as an axe or a pry bar. Two of them were capable of launching small rockets into orbit. As the knife conversation began to dwindle I turned on the radio and attempted to find the score of the Chief’s game but the boys commandeered the radio for some hard rock to listen to.

I tolerated a few minutes of squabbling over radio stations before I told them, “Pick a station or I’ll make you listen to my kids’ Veggie Tales Cds.”

"Veggie Tales!” they cried. “We love Veggie Tales!”

A minute later these hard core campers, these kids who spent the weekend cooking over a campfire and sleeping on the frozen tundra of northwestern Missouri, sheathed their bayonets, cranked the volume to an ear pounding level, and shouted along with Bob, Larry, and Junior Asparagus at 70 miles per hour down the interstate. Gone were the young men who spent the weekend stepping boldly into a man’s world. The kids were back, merrily singing The Sabu Song without a hint of embarrassment.

It’s an impressive group of kids with a dedicated core group of dads who were eager to welcome a new member into the group, even a stone cold rookie like myself. The General had a big grin on his face most of weekend. He was welcomed into the troop and encouraged to join in immediately. He wants to go back. We’re camping again in December. This experience is crucial because in order to continue home schooling we need to have more activities for the General to participate in that involve kids his age. Between Karate, Scouting, and the youth group at our church next year, we can plan on continuing to school at home through sixth grade. The General and I want that. The boss agrees.

Two years later: Harry Houdini is one of the Eagle Scouts who spent last Saturday night in a

Flashback: The Ballad of Winter Camping

While I'm on a short trip to Chicago to visit my father, I thought I would share with you a camping post from my first year with the Boy Scouts. Enjoy!

The Ballad of Winter Camping
(Sung to the tune of “The Ballad Of Jed Clampett”)

Come and listen to a story about a man Arby,
Who took his son a campin’ in February.
One day they got seven inches of rain.
All that rain is a real pain.

In the patootie. Pants a chafin’. Real bad.

Well the first thing you know all that rain turned to snow.
The other Boy Scout Troop went and packed up to go.
They said, “Warm homes is the place we ought to be."
But our Scout Master said, “Cold an’ wet is good for me!”

Got no powder. Britches a burnin’. Surprisingly warm.

Sunday morning we was buried deep in the snow.
Tents were collapsin’. Snow was snappin’ our tent poles.
We pushed half a dozen cars to get to this locality,
February campin’ just is not my cup of tea.

Baby Gold Bond. Soothes and heals. Need the large size.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?.

Survival of the Fattest

Did I mention that I'm just not a big fan of camping? It’s a tremendous amount of work that I would not have to do if I were at home. I have a difficult time relaxing around a camp fire when survival is a delicate balance between staying warm and spontaneously combusting in front of the towering inferno that our scout master creates with a few logs and the butt of a cigarette. Cold dry air combined with the heat of a camp fire dehydrates a person quickly. I’ve never been able to drink enough fluid to stop the inevitable vicious migraine that begins on Friday night and ends on the return trip Sunday when I pull into a truck stop for a case of Mountain Dew and two Excedrin. Our assistant scout master stretched, reclined in his chair, and opined, “Isn’t this relaxing?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “By the way, your shoes laces are on fire.”

In many ways, this past weekend’s campout was like any other Boy Scout winter camp-out, if you ignore the fact that a new member of the Voices of Thunder volunteered to bring a trailer full of wood to the camp site so that we would not have to venture into the dark snowy woods to locate fallen timber upon our arrival. It was an exceedingly generous offer. When he arrived his trailer had just enough wood to burn for fifteen minutes, if it had been burnable.

“I was amazed at how much wood was left up by the lake,” he told us. “Nobody had taken this stuff, so I snatched it.”

“That’s because it’s green,” the scoutmaster observed.

Oh, you can burn green wood. When you have an established, roaring campfire a green log will bubble and hiss and steam as all the water is boiled out of it. Then it will burn nicely. But, we didn’t have an established fire when we arrived Friday night with the temperature hovering at a nippy eight degrees above zero. There is more heat in a can of Sterno than there was in Friday’s campfire. You know you’re in for a long night when you hope to fart in your sleeping bag just for the heat it will generate.

Saturday morning the thermometer read -5.

The boys participated in a ten mile hike around Squaw Creek National Wildlife Refuge while newbie and I remained at the campsite to gather wood. The hike was intended to be a twenty mile hike for the Hiking Merit Badge, but was cut short by high winds, cold temperatures, and freezing rain. When the troop returned to the camp site I politely suggested to the scout master that the next hike be scheduled in nicer weather, before the searing heat of summer but after the frigid arctic winds depart for the season. He pondered this eureka moment with an amused smile. He has more interesting scouting activities to pursue in the summer months, so this event was relegated to the winter. Apparently, there is nothing better to do in a foot of snow than to recreate Amundsen’s race to the South Pole against Captain Scott of the Royal Navy.

With a wood pile the size of a small house, the main task for the Voices of Thunder on Saturday night was to adjust our chairs closer to and farther back from the campfire in order to remain warm without melting the tips of our boots, while scheduling first and second desserts around the evening’s activities. The boy’s held Campfire, shared Roses and Thorns, and departed for snowy adventures that involved getting too wet for the weather before bedding down for the night. The Voices of Thunder watched as two new Eagle Scouts (boys who earned the right to sit at the VOT campfire) marveled at the size and BTUs of our campfire as well as the volume of food that was cooked. Two fourteen year old boys begged off thirds, complaining that they needed to go into training to be able to consume that much food. They peacefully slipped into a food coma in their chairs before wandering off to their tents a few hours later. One pound of bacon, one pound of sausage, one pound of cheese, one pound of hash browns and 24 eggs were cooked for breakfast the following morning in one-half of a skillet that is large enough to bath a small child and needs two men and a dolly to move. That fed six people nicely.

We made it home in once piece. The next campout isn’t until the end of January. It’s the annual Klondike Derby, a huge winter camporee at Fort Leavenworth, where troops from all around the area compete in skills events while the Voices of Thunder continue the tradition of moving our chairs closer to and farther back from the campfire in order to stop from burning off the lower legs of our pants and turning fleece lined camouflage trousers into capris. Our Scout Master wants to hold a pig roast.

One winter camp out is completed.

There’s only three more to go.

Who Let The Woodpecker Into Camp Part Two, The Frostbite Edition

Some of you may remember two years ago when I wrote:

It was still dark when I awoke last Saturday morning, wondering who let the woodpecker into the camp grounds. I was unaware that woodpeckers were nocturnal and lived in the cold. Then I realized that the sound I was hearing was my teeth chattering because I was freezing! I didn’t actually sleep last Friday night. I shivered through a light doze, listening to the gentle lapping of water as it hit the banks of the tiny peninsula that we camped on called “Scout Island.” I listened to the sound of the wind whip through my tent because I was sleeping in a strange tent that I had to set up in the dark which meant that I didn’t know there were two mesh windows on either end of the tent, one of which I set up into the wind. I didn’t realize that I failed to cover the mesh windows with the rain fly, which I attached sideways. My house for the night was a small nylon Coleman wind tunnel. Add to that the fact that I was sandwiched between the tents of two other dads who left chainsaws running in their tents all night, my answer to the most frequently asked question on Saturday morning, “How did you sleep last night?” was “The coffee better be good!”

Guess what? We’re going back there tonight. I’m almost as excited as I was on that very first Boy Scout camp-out. And at last night’s planning meeting, our Scout Master casually mentioned that there were scouts he would not allow to come on this trip. Why? Well, because the weather forecast calls for a high of 23 degrees and a low of 10 degrees. At least that is +10 degrees. I guess there are scouts that he doesn’t trust to prepare for dangerously cold camping temperatures. I suppose I should be proud that I am the father of one of the responsible ones, but if General Mayhem was a dirt bag I could be spending the weekend in a warm house in front of a brand new large screen TV.

When I thaw out on Sunday I’ll fill in the details.

Have a good weekend!