Every session at IBC the campers had the opportunity to go
on an overnight camping trip. On these
overnights I learned how to chop fallen logs for firewood and how to build a
fire. I learned that burying the large
galvanized jug of milk up to its neck in the ground helped keep it cool. I learned how to dig – and use! – a
latrine. I learned that if you rubbed a
bar of soap all over the bottom of the fry pan in your mess kit, it was easier
to clean after you’ve used it to cook your hamburger over the fire. And I learned that sand is almost as good as
Comet for scouring out said mess kit when you clean it. I doubt there’s a camp around today that
provides that sort of education, mostly because they couldn’t afford the
liability insurance. But I’d have to say
that mostly I learned how to scare myself out of my wits.
These trips were called the “Three-Day Hike;” not because we
hiked for three days, but because we were gone for three days, from Friday
morning to Sunday afternoon. The time
actually spent hiking was more like three hours, but that doesn’t mean it was
inconsequential. Thirty odd youngsters,
ranging in age from eight to seventeen, covered the roughly five miles from our
base on Grand Traverse Bay to a secluded site on a beach on the eastern shore
of Lake Michigan. We were not unlike the
Von Trap family, if each of the children had invited five of their friends to
escape with them. Only instead of a dramatic
mountain path over the wildflower studded Alps, our trail was the dusty, pebbled
shoulder of a well-traveled highway. And
instead of singing about the hills being alive, we were chanting something
about how we “left, left, we had a good job and we left.” And instead of all our worldly possessions bouncing
rhythmically inside the rucksacks on our backs, all our necessities had arrived
at the campsite hours earlier via the camp bus.
And instead of being chased by
Nazis, we were sitting targets for whatever evil lurked in The Woods.
The Woods, with a capitol T and capitol W. Any eight year-old child knows – along with many
Sondheim fans – that The Woods are rife with all sorts of danger. And in my day, one such danger came in the
form of the killer who had a hook instead of a hand. A hook that he used to scrape the roofs of
cars containing love-struck teenagers who had parked at night to neck in The Woods! And after the boyfriend went to investigate
the source of the scraping, it was the hook that was found dangling from the
car handle in the early morning light when the cops rescued the terrified girl
and told her whatever she did, “Do not look back,” because if she did, she
would see her dead boyfriend hanging from
a tree above the car! But she
did! She did look back! How else could we have heard that story?
And as if psycho killers weren’t enough to keep me awake all
night in my sleeping bag (believe me, they were), there were always the ghosts
who sprang nightly from the abandoned graveyard we discovered a mere hundred
yards from our campsite. Some of the
older girls, led by Gail Drysdale, had gone picking the wild peas that grew
along the access road and had wandered off into the in the chest-high grasses
of an adjacent field where they literally stumbled upon a small collection of
ancient headstones dating from the 19th century. After the girls reported back, wild-eyed and breathless, the
rest of us campers had to go see for ourselves.
We were quickly able to determine that these were obviously the graves
of Civil War soldiers because, come on, who else died in the 1860s? And it didn’t take much for my imagination to
fill in all the terrifying blanks of what was in store for us that night. I’d seen enough Twilight Zone episodes to
know that most Civil War soldiers don’t even realize they’re dead. And if there’s anything a dead Civil War
soldier can do, it’s haunt the living.
They roam the Earth at night, lost souls seeking relief from the pain of
battle and the emptiness of love lost. (I
admit that second motive only came to me years later after watched the Ken
Burns documentary.) The only thing that
brings them peace is the torment and misery of others. What else could explain how sick Gail
Drysdale got after she tried eating some of those wild peas?
The secret to surviving these overnights, obviously, was to
try to stay under the radar and out of reach of these malevolent beings. And indeed, one of the happiest moments I
experienced on a Three-Day Hike was the time I was able to snag the spot in our
tent that was absolutely the most protected from any ghost or murderer. It is good that I remember this sense of
total security so vividly, because, sadly, it was extremely short-lived.
We all shared a common tent which consisted of one massive waxed
canvas tarp spread on the ground and a second massive tarp draped overhead on a
rope strung between two trees. Crude,
yes; but these were the days before shock-cord ten poles and lightweight rip
stop fabric, and it was effective for a group our size. Upon arriving at camp we would claim a spot
on the ground tarp, using our sleeping bags as markers. On this one particular trip I was ecstatic to
realize that my sleeping bag lay in the absolute center of the tent. There were five rows of five bags, and my
position was the third bag in the third row.
I knew I was going to sleep soundly that night because there was no way
the ghost of Sullivan Ballou or old Hook-For-Hands was going to get to me
without first going through at least half of the other girls (for what it’s
worth, I am ashamed today at my disregard for the lives of my fellow campers.)
Unfortunately, this was the first Three-Day for many of the
other girls. So when it was announced
that the tent was mostly as insurance in the event of rain and that sleeping
there was optional, most of my human shields opted to abandon their posts in
the woods under a tent for a position on the beach under the stars. I envied their fearlessness, forsaking
shelter from the elements – both natural and supernatural -- without a second
thought. Nevertheless, I joined
them. This was not an act of bravery so
much that it was still a cautious calculation that there was safety in
numbers. In retrospect, I can see that
this was also a wise choice for another reason: if the rope above my sleeping
bag had ever given out, I would have surely smothered under the weight of that
motherfucking tarp.
I have to confess that I did enjoy the stargazing. And it’s a wonder a soul as cowardly as
myself did not feel diminished when confronted by the vastness of space. I was even able to appreciate the beauty in
the occasional distant flash of lightening in the distance on some nights. Although that was usually a momentary triumph
of reason in response to my initial thought that Chicago had just been hit by a
nuclear bomb and everyone on Earth, including my parents, had just been killed.
During the day, of course, I felt safer. The demands of camp chores, hours spent examining
an endless assortment of seaweed and driftwood, and frolicking in the
considerable waves of Lake Michigan kept my ghoulish imagination otherwise
occupied. By the light of day shadows
disappeared and there was nothing to fear, unless I could see it with my own
two, open eyes. Unfortunately, one of
the things my own two eyes saw was the dinosaur down the beach.
I don’t remember if it was on very my first Three Day Hike that
I saw him, or my second, but it was an early one, and he was there, clear as,
well day. Several hundred yards down the
beach, all the way down to where the land curved out of sight on the horizon, the
silhouette of his long neck and tiny head jutted out from the trees. Distant as he was, I knew how tall those
trees were, therefore, unaware I had just invented the sophisticated concept of
perspective, I could tell that this was no baby dinosaur. And yes, I realize I am describing a
Brontosaurus – the most lovable of the dinosaurs – but don’t tell me you would
feel a twinge of fight or flight if you saw one on your street.
Luckily, this one, like I said was so far away that I knew I
wasn’t in immediate danger. But I kept
my eye on him, towering over his portion of the sand as he gazed out toward the
vast lake. Motionless. Never moving.
Ever. Always in the same position
in the morning as he was the night before.
It was such suspicious and puzzling behavior that when we broke camp and
went home that Sunday I felt not only relief for not having been eaten, but
also a vague sense of incompleteness.
There remained in my young mind a mystery about this creature that would
have to be solved at a later time, on another Three-Day.
My opportunity came on our next overnight, which was either
four weeks later during the second session or one year later, which in
paleontological terms is really just a blink of an eye. After setting up camp as usual, we all threw
on our bathing suits to hit the waves, as usual. But my mission was twofold. I was there for fun and reconnaissance. Unlike Little Jackie Paper, I hadn’t forgotten
my Puff the Brontosaurus, and as soon as my friends and I cleared The Woods and
hit the sand I did a scan of the view to the South. It took a moment for memory to synch up with
what I saw now, as shapes, colors and shadows took on a familiar feel. It only took a little effort, but eventually I
was able to make him out again. Still in
the same position I had last seen him. And
to be honest, he seemed a little smaller.
A little less intimidating. And
let’s face it; I myself was bigger, older and a little less, well, let’s just
say susceptible.
Nevertheless, I tried hard to deny the facts that were
hammering hard to sink in. If I admitted
what I suspected was the truth, then I’d be losing something. I just didn’t know what that something
was. And I don’t know why I ultimately decided
to confront my dinosaur face-to-face, but that’s what I did. The only explanation I can fathom is that the
mixture of emotions I felt was untenable and that I had to make a choice between
death or disappointment. I like to
picture this moment as bravely stepping over a threshold.
I made the walk down the beach alone. Surprisingly, it was an even greater distance
than I had assumed it would be. My
dinosaur seemed to stay the same size and shape for a very long time. And then, finally, one step further and all
was revealed. As I’m sure you have
guessed, Puff was not an actual dinosaur, but neither was he an optical
illusion created by the weathered trunk of a fallen tree. He was an optical illusion created by two weathered trunks of two fallen trees. It wasn’t even one piece of wood! From my vantage point far down the beach the
silhouettes of these two dead pines had merged, one supplying the outline of
the neck with the other, a good distance further down the beach, providing the
head. A myriad of feelings swirled in my
head: Yes, there was relief, that I
wasn’t about to be killed by a prehistoric monster and disappointment that I
hadn’t actually discovered one. But
there was also pride that I had dared to confront my fear and vanquish it all
on my own. And there was amusement that even
though I had anticipated that my fantasy would be disproven, neither was the
reality what I had expected.
That was nearly fifty years ago and I still remember every
sensation as if it were yesterday. But while the famous IBC Three-Day Hike at IBC
was responsible for teaching me lots of helpful skills, the fact remains that
these days I do not poop outdoors (if I can help it) or fry hamburgers over an
open campfire with any degree of frequency.
So you might assume that the takeaway here is that the most useful thing
I learned during those trips was how to deal with fear. This would not be unreasonable, especially given
that I am still able to scare myself silly with all sorts of worst case scenarios. Granted, the adult definition of scary runs
more along the lines of taking out your first mortgage or watching your kids
get in the car alone after getting their driver’s license, but the lesson would
remain the same in principle. And you
might expect me to conclude with some pithy adage, such as “Fear is not always
based on fact. And reality is not only
less scary when you meet it face-to-face, but it can sometimes even surprise
you.” That might even be sound
advice. But no, I’m not going there.
The point of my story is that the fear was part of the fun during
those trips. A big part. Maybe even the best part. Abandoning all reason for the adrenalin rush
of terror is a trademark talent of youth, and the youthful. Set me down in front of a movie screen and let me watch Frankenstein, and I'm ten years old again. So in summation, I will say that if you want
me to give up the childlike ability to suspend my disbelief, to deny the
possibility that ghosts exist and creatures long thought extinct still lurk in
remote forests, you’ll have to pry it from my cold dead brain. Despite any of the foregoing, as far as I’m
concerned, there’s still a beach on Lake Michigan populated by a one-handed
killer, a battalion of undead Union soldiers and a very lonely Brontosaurus.
