Summer 100: #61-70

Summer 100: #61-70

61/100

I sit down at my cluttered desk after showering by lantern; it had been a few days since my last. Paperwork, letters, camera gear, shards of information constantly migrate on its surface, always in some state of disarray. I organize it in the mornings, but by nightfall, my hard work has seemingly been negated. I invert my headlamp into my water bottle and distance myself from the oil lantern. Although each room is fully-equipped with electric lights, a blessing and a curse, I find the constant thunking of moths against florescent tubes rather irritating. Under a bluish glow, I attempt to pen a few more letters, finally finding myself starting to relax. My days off are just around the corner once again; I make a mental note to make more notes for my staff during my leave. Already, two moths have invaded and drown in my bottle; perhaps it's time to go to sleep.    

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62/100

Efficiently, I pack my backpack and bolt for Jimmy's car only after thanking him profusely for its use. Although driving will save me roughly 25 miles, my slapdash and incomplete plan involves a fair amount of hiking during “danger hour”; monsoon season is currently in full-swing, especially during late afternoon. I make decent time on paved highway and carefully roll through a few miles of washboard road. Cloudy skies above me don't look promising, but regardless, I park at Ponil's parking lot and start walking. Miraculously the weather holds as I arrive at Pueblano, and as if on schedule, so does the downpour, washing away any desire I had to continue onward. I decide to spend the night, fortunately I know a few of the staffers. Sam and I worked in the same vicinity last summer, our paths crossed a few times. He shows me the work which went into cleaning their once musty and dusty tie shack; it looks great.

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63/100

Set in 1914, Pueblano is one of two logging camps which offers spar-pole climbing, something which I still have yet to do. Although the rain has passed and clear skies prevail, perhaps there will be better weather next time- typical New Mexico. Jacob and I catch up on how our summer's are panning out. For the last few seasons, he worked in the Ranger Department and we chat about the transition to Backcountry. Everything seems to be going well, despite mid-summer cabin-fever. Loggerball, like baseball in reverse, is just about to start; staff are infamous for having an untarnished record against campers. He tries to recruit me for their evening game, but earlier, I had strategically offered to cook dinner for camp. Definitely a spectator sport.

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64/100

Beneath my head the floor rumbles, a familiar sound of clamoring boots jolts me awake. A quick glance out a dusty screened window tells me dawn on my first full day has already broken. Three...two...one...a half...counting down silently, I force myself to sit up and begin packing; my daily schedule manifests with each piece of gear stowed away. Nearly finished, I scrounge around, finding my usual provision of strawberry Pop Tarts. I venture outside to warm my bones in the sun and begin aggressively hydrating. Along the river bank, tall grass droops under the weight of morning dew. Another gorgeous day, huzzah. 

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65/100

My last bite of breakfast disappears as I venture towards the staff tents to begin lacing up my boots. I find Patrick doing the same, getting ready to relieve a fellow staffer from early spar-poles; today was his rotation to sleep in. My staff have asked for a similar schedule despite already having one of the latest wake-up times for a backcountry camp. The South Ponil Creek quietly hums in the background while we sip our coffee. Strapping on my pack, I stow my cup and bid the magnanimous musical men farewell before quickly cross-referencing my map. I have not taken this trail - I am not going to get stuck in the rain.

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66/100

Although not steep, the trail steadily gains altitude. Up, up, up, I feel as though I should be nearing my destination. My silent prayers seemingly answered, the trail crests and before it sprawls a familiar looking meadow. Miranda's trade tent is a distant white speck, dwarfed by the foothills of Mt. Baldy. I summited the 12,441' peak in 2012 and take a moment to lean against a rock, attempting to absorb some of the grandeur. A knot of excitement forms in my stomach as I reminisce over the difficulties and stupid choices which went into climbing Baldy, or for that matter any mountain. I remember my unlikely hiking buddies and how we randomly met. I remember not bringing enough food or water I remember trying to outrun dark and ominous storm clouds while quickly plunge-stepping down loose boulders. I think would do it again. Maybe next year. Maybe.

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67/100

Large, puffy clouds float East high above the expansive meadow; it seems as though today's afternoon storm has passed by. A few other visiting staff and I sit and talk inside the dimly lit cabin, calmly enjoying our lack of responsibilities and current emergencies. After a hearty meal of stew and fresh baked bread, the evening's activities are ready to commence. Everyone makes their way down into the meadow as the sun begins to dip below the contour line. Three teams are efficiently split up while rules are briefly discussed. Five bases are pointed out and home rock is flipped to determine first team up to bat. When the rock drops, madness ensues; let the games begin! I may not have been able to keep all of the rules straight, but one thing remained clear from their game-ending chant: neighboring camps who request meat products better not be harboring any vegetarians.

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68/100

Sunrise happens much too early at Miranda. I fumble dumbly, finding my wristwatch under a sock; the time reads 6:24. It's supposed to be my day off. I awake inside the cabin to find a few people already sweeping and convince myself to begin dressing. As I begin to pack, I remember making plans with Carter to hike today. First, I decide to investigate a large grove of aspens along their meadow while the low morning light illuminates the pale trunks. Wild flowers, large saplings, fallen trees, everything is drenched in dew, even my pants and spare pair of shoes. Up ahead, I hear him chuckling and pointing to his monstrous custom moccasins, a muzzle-loader over one shoulder. “Totally worth it”, he proclaims; a sentiment I slowly find myself agreeing with on many different levels.

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69/100

The learning curve for throwing a 'hawk firmly into your target is steeper than expected and staff spend a fair amount of time sharpening the ever-dulling blades. Frequently inside the cabin, a rough scraping noise emits from rusty files being drawn across tomahawk heads. I find Nick at the dining table utilizing a spare fifteen minutes to stay ahead on maintaining program supplies. For mountain men, everything seems to be about preparation. A well-oiled gun, sharp tomahawk, sturdy shoes, each item needs to be in top shape for tracking down big game. I see a crew awaiting instruction from the porch; he doesn't hesitate in sticking his first throw.  

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70/100

Each consecutive summer I work, I recognize fewer and fewer staff who started the same year I did. I remember the day I met Karl; it was the last week of summer and he had been transferred to our camp, helping us prepare to close down. Now, down at the end of their long and greasy table, I see him unfolding a small swatch of cloth and gesturing for me to join him. I sit down opposite of him and notice a few stacks of numberless cards, dried meat, and a rather large tomahawk. He quickly glosses over the rules; there's a twinkle in his eye. I have always known Karl to be a bit mischievous. I cautiously decide to play along.

Karl Hubbard Miranda Philmont Scout Ranch Cimarron New Mexico.

Summer 100: #71-80

Summer 100: #71-80

71/100

Having secured most of my gear, I tell Carter I am nearly ready to leave. Taking a peek inside one of Miranda's heavily decorated trade tents, I find Cody preparing to give a trade-talk with an approaching crew. Tools, utensils, large ropes of dried tobacco, and furs from varying small game adorn the tables, each item baring a story which waits to be told. With a firm handshake I wish him well before throwing on my pack and finally heading down the mountain. It's been two weeks since I last saw beer and there's a green chile burger with my name waiting for me at the bar. We waste little time. 

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72/100

Once again I find myself seated at one of the only restaurants in town, the St. James Hotel, this time for lunch. As far as I am concerned, there are few things better than eating a hot meal having directly come off of the trail. Shortly after ordering, our food arrives, and like slovenly kings, we feast. It occurs to me tonight is Abreu's Phil-Fiesta; a themed event where each camp picks one day to party and eat as much as possible. Noting the irony of food begetting food, we pay and exit. A weather-worn building I frequently park against catches my attention. Bold colors of the Southwest peel away from the crumbling wall, a great reminder to reapply sunscreen. 

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73/100

Abreu and Zastrow are geographically very close, in fact, few if any camps share a neighbor as close as we do. My plan is to stop by my camp to ditch everything except crucial overnight gear and to take care of some business with a few of my staff. I am expected to return tomorrow morning, however, an unannounced visit will help set the tone needed for my brief discussions. Quickly, I take care of my business, grab my lightened pack, and wrangle up my friends; time to party. We head out and begin the leisurely walk to Abreu; it's a good thing I have one more night off.  

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74/100

I take my heaping plate of food out onto the porch and begin stuffing my face; one of the many joyful benefits from constant exercise is the lack of anxiety over calorie consumption. A quickly setting sun dips behind the mountains, outrageous hues streak through heavy cloud cover, painting the sky in an explosion of warmth. Lavender and orchid, peaches and cream; an ethereal dream floats and flickers around me. The intensity only lasts for minutes before settling into a more familiar shade of dusk. Grabbing a knit beanie from my pack, I head back into the kitchen. Dessert is almost ready. 

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75/100

By now, most of the guests have left. Under dim oil lamps, a few people remain, gently swaying on rocking chairs and porch swings while muted guitar melodies twang over buzzing crickets and the humming Rayado. I sit back and reflect on the totality of my journey from the last several days; improvising and planning both played an equal role in the success of my set. In previous years I wouldn't nearly have been as brazen or as carefree. My knotted shoulders and sore hips remind me of how far I hiked the past two days. I glance over and find Ben also deep in thought. Perhaps it is time for bed. 

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76/100

Our horseshoe pit is almost dangerously too tiny; we need to make an addition. Future land development has been permanently obstructed on three sides by (1) a large, dense thicket of mature scrub oak, (2) our leach field, and (3) a 70 year-old apple tree planted by the camp's founder. The most plausible solution for expansion lies in removing a hideous stump with vulgar juniper bushes growing from its base. My passion for having this atrocity eliminated is akin to old men and their need to silence noise disturbances. However, the stump is enormous and the afternoons are sweltering, our shovels are small and our time is limited. Gordon found me obsessing and in an encouraging tone proclaimed “mountains are tall and rivers are wide.” So we started digging. And digging. We dug for two weeks. And when it all seemed like too much, we even got a little help from out friends. Proof that if you dig it, they will come, even if it's in the form of a bulldozer.  

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77/100

All crews who camp overnight at Zastrow are spending their last night in the backcountry. Part of our evening program involves a somber ceremony in which we ask the participants to silently reflect on their trek and personal journey through Scouting. Towards the beginning of summer, I empowered my staff to accomplish and improve this area of program without relying on my help. My main intention was to give them something to grow and be proud of, but also to capitalize on 20 minutes of quiet during dusk; hopefully a recipe for success in passive leadership. So far, so good. As I glance upwards at the dim and nearly cloudless sky, I notice dozens of headlamps flickering and bobbing down our Northern hill as campers return from the ceremony. The skies indicate we might even be able to offer Astronomy program tonight, a first in days. 

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78/100

It's uncomfortably hot—again. The preponderance of flies has been driving me insane. I angrily swat a few more away from my pasty legs, sweltering heat has driven me to wearing shorts. Tomorrow cannot arrive quickly enough; never have I wanted to take my days off more than I do now. June feels like it was eons ago, late August seems impossibly distant. Midsummer doldrums are undoubtedly effecting my staff as well, perhaps I'll let them sleep in tomorrow. Reflexively, I smack my tingling neck with an open palm. Stunned and still buzzing, I finish him off with the horseshoe in my other hand. “Thirty-eight!”, I gleefully shout towards the main cabin.  

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79/100

Noon arrives and I couldn't be happier. Although this set will be a day shorter due to the second Camp Director meeting which is in a week, I still have plenty of desire to hike. Practically skipping, I make it to the cars in under 15 minutes. Engine roaring to life, sunglasses on, windows down, I take off down our bumpy dirt road. Just before exiting onto the main highway, I cross under power-lines which are responsible for Zastrow's power. An invisible and impossibly long corridor explodes out in front of me. Visions of dolly zooms and mirrors endlessly reflecting play out into the horizon. 

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80/100

My borrowed car skids to stop at the turnaround. I get out, lace up my boots, and hit the trail. With only a few more open days left in my schedule for hiking, I based my evening's destination purely by trail preference. As I continue onward, the air becomes heavier with moister; distant rumbles of thunder encourage me to pick up my pace. I cross over the North Fork dozens of times, eventually losing count. Delicate wildflowers and dainty waterfalls decorate my path, a lushness found in few other places on the Ranch. Not much further on, I find myself in a familiar grove of aspens. I must be getting close. 

Summer 100: #81-90

Summer 100

Summer 100: #81-90

81/100

After finishing dinner's dishes, I wander out on Cyphers Mine's porch to snag some coffee. Everyone has started to assemble in anticipation for Stomp, an almost historically accurate musical extravaganza, which is sure to entertain. A few staff carrying lanterns and cumbersome instruments head towards the smaller cabin with dozens of people following in tow. I grab a few more cookies before making my way over, eventually finding a decent seat towards the back. With little notice, the ensemble explodes to life, the entire show interrupted only by raucous clapping and laughing from the crowd. I take my unspoken cue during the last song and begin heading back towards the main cabin as to avoid any rush. I turn around to see a mass of headlamps flickering on, illuminating the dense darkness around them. Camper exodus never lasts long.

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82/100

Since early morning, heavy clouds have been passing through camp, threatening us with rain. Only in the last half hour has their decision changed, an ever increasing pitter-patter of droplets can be heard on our tin kitchen roof. I finish my dinner and tell my staff to hold off from starting charcoal for our cobbler dutch oven feast while I scout weather conditions. A quick jaunt up to our meadow reveals just how socked in we are— looks like we are making eight cakes tonight. When a Scout has had their expectations set on cobbler for 12 days, cake is severely lacking in culinary appeal. I have had to deliver worse news though, perhaps I'll even get a small slice.

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83/100

Obligated from the immediate need to start charcoal, I decide to take advantage of the ominous silence in our secluded meadow. Four more days remain until the second Camp Director meeting; it has been hard to quiet my apprehensions. Tomorrow brings the start of August, my final set of days-off begins the day after. There are so many camps I have neglected to visit. I still need to type up the second half of my report and I have yet to hear back on my application to work during fall. I take a breath, deeply filling my lungs with clean mountain air. I try to feel support from the damp rock on which I sit, and slowly, I return to our meadow. Cake nights are insanity– loud music and teenage boys tweaked on sugar– but there is little else I would rather be doing.

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84/100

My staff are confident and comfortable with running camp in my absence and require no input before my departure. I snarf my breakfast, smear on sunscreen, and switch on my earbuds. Seven strenuous miles up the Rayado, my rendezvous point takes me along a familiar route I have hiked countless times before. Famed for a particular section of trail, “the Notch' is a perilous passage through a windy and narrow section of exposed rock. The crossing is barely wider than my arm span and I recall the stories of dynamite and labor it took to carve this mountain. Most people stop to admire the grand vista, but the rocks are more breathtaking today. 

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85/100

My trail continues upward through dense pine and heavy underbrush. I begin to descend and the scenery no longer feels foreign, a sign my destination is nearing. Radiant afternoon sun bathes the river's banks with warm hues. Swarms of gnats glint in the haze while massive bees buzz back and forth between black-eyed Susans. Trout dart upstream into shadows and crows caw upon my arrival. It would seem as though Mother Nature has granted me quite a welcoming party; I know Fish Camp and its staff will uphold her standards.

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86/100

Last night's sleep on Fish Camp's couch has completely refreshed my spirit and aching quads; I feel unstoppable. To bypass starting a fire in the wood-burner, coffee is made with water boiled on a portable backpacking stove, then slowly poured through a paper filter resting precariously on one's cup. A flash from my years spent at other interp camps reminds me that this morning's process is pure novelty. Taking care not to spill, I also grab the book I picked up yesterday and mosey outside, situating myself in 'the ring'– a 4-foot wide suspended metal ring thick enough for one person to comfortably slink against. The weather couldn't be more idyllic, hopefully it holds for our baseball game later this evening. Skimming for my place, I realize I am more than two-thirds complete. Perhaps I can finish before we leave, there isn't any room in my pack for rentals. 

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87/100

Go-time is here. I cinch my pack and hoist it onto a waiting chair, shift my weight, then my waist. My eyes fall on a small patch of wilting black-eyed Susans; miniature sundials marking the passage of time by their withering petals. I am fully aware today will be my last hiking day this summer–a fruitless notion–but one I cannot move past. We say our farewells and begin to hike, the Rayado deeply hums while trees gently sway with the breeze. I am so very far from finished. 

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88/100

After showering and scouring off the majority of my last week off, I make my way over to the Villa Philmonte's vast lawn. Softballs thwack into mitts as both sides begin to warm up, voluminous clouds effortlessly drift above our massive green; what a perfect day for a baseball game! I catch an unmistakable scent of hot dogs and popcorn, looks like dinner has been taken care of. Tonight's friendly match determines a “winner” of a two-part baseball series between Backcountry and Ranger leaderships. Our rivalry is comically overstated, but having won the first game, it is apparent the Rangers are hungry for more than just hot dogs. 

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89/100

I watch as the scoreboard is hoisted into the air, proudly displaying the game's final for all to see; it was a blowout. From the corner of my eye, I catch a water cooler-shaped blur racing towards amassing celebratory yellow shirts. In one swift motion, the entire contents is dumped onto Matt's shoulders as he lurches forward, attempting to avoid the icy torrent. Even though we lost by a fair margin, seeing the opposing team's plush mascot stolen and high-tailed across the Villa lawn into a waiting getaway minivan made for a pretty spectacular seventh-inning stretch. After all, it's all just a game; might as well have some fun.

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90/100

Boundless talks about gather during yesterday's meeting has left me feeling drained and restless. Alone in a sea of people, I wander building to building, mind racing, searching for familiar faces. Past staff members manifest momentarily, a mental mirage generated from previous summers. I desperately want to leave basecamp, but the thought of returning to camp tomorrow morning doesn't sit well either. Hopefully I find a friend going into town who wants some lunch. My days are dwindling. I must finish strong.

Summer 100: #91-100

Summer 100

Summer 100: #91-100

91/100

One more successful astronomy program has just concluded; it's late and cloudless. I can still make out a handful of softly twinkling stars, despite a waxing moon which is due to be full in a few days. Crisp shadows fall from every tree, the intense glow blankets our vast property in brilliant blue and stunning silence. Nearly lost in a sea of trees, our little hut dimly radiates back out into the wilderness. A soft breeze gently rustles my windbreaker; thankfully the crickets have decided to turn in early. 

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92/100

Crews sleeping overnight have already retreated to their respective camps to start cooking dinner, a good indication we should begin as well. Sitting up from the porch, I take my current stack of paperwork and hurl it onto my desk—undoubtedly due for another cleaning. Turning towards the kitchen, I catch a shimmer of color through the trees at the end of our road. As our visitor approaches, he slowly reveals a cloven hiking buddy. A wide-brimmed straw hat and braided goatee protrude underneath a boldly striped poncho. Having worked with Ian for a summer, it's good to see him with his hair down, so to speak.  

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93/100

With only ten days left until the end of the season, most camps are experiencing a decrease in the amount of crews they see. However, as one of the last outposts in the backcountry, we have been utterly swamped and the crew-load forecast shows little mercy. My staff have been working hard, continually putting participant's needs over their own and it has only gotten more challenging. Chuckling to myself, I remember the spurious write-up I received two summers ago for napping—a contemptible offense in my superior's inexperienced eyes. My staff deserve to rest, I know they will finish strong.

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94/100

Tonight, program delivery for some of my staff was far from ideal. The time for competency has elapsed, I expect more effort—especially this late in the season. As a result of our blunder, not a single member from any crew stayed for an astronomy talk. Sitting down by the horseshoe pits, I stew over tonight's actions in our quiet camp; a perfect container for my turgid thoughts. Negativity nearly consuming me, I stand, turning my attention to the cosmos. Perhaps this energy needs to be redirected, not quelled. I still have plenty of light. 

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95/100

Just as Jimmy and I finish with one of our final ATV sessions, shady, dense clouds drift towards our rescue. This new program has collectively kicked us all in the pants and I know our staff aren't the only ones working hard at keeping things operational. For the last two weeks, we have been operating a five-hour certification course to preselected Rangers who have a 'day off'. Despite calm direction and informative demonstrations, our only injury worth observing was a broken clavicle from an overly-ambitious young man who seemed intent on earning more than his certification that particular day. After retreating to our cabin, one look at Jimmy's dusty, stoic mug tells me volumes. 

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96/100

Twinkling blackness entirely envelopes camp. Last night's radio readout still echoes in my ears, today marks the closure for hiking in the backcountry. Thankfully, both Carter and Jamie have stopped by to celebrate, having already spent most of the day baking. Nearly all of my staff are content with turning in early, but Jimmy decides to join us as we head up to our turnaround for a completely unobstructed view of the Milky Way. Lying underneath the shimmering expanse, we recount summer's highs and lows while satellites blink in and out of visibility. Spinning and spinning, time wanes on, yet I feel more at home than ever before. 

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97/100

We head into our Wood Badge museum to debrief after bidding our crews goodnight. Flickering lamp-light casts creepy shadows over dusty patrol flags and our mounted kudu head. Only two more days with participants lie ahead of us and I remind everyone they deserve equal, if not better, levels of enthusiasm. I swiftly address a few items concerning impending gather before getting to my second big announcement which is of little secret: ATV program has officially ended for the season. Cheerfully, we stand and head to kitchen. Cookies have always been a great way to celebrate. 

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98/100

I take another heaping armload of trash out to our bear box. My, or rather our, lovely chateau will be empty and vacant by tomorrow afternoon, returned to its original condition. Fortunately, we don't have to forcefully remove rat feces from any of our cabins which makes cleanup vastly more pleasant. Filling up my empty water bottle from the spigot, my attention is robbed by a small patch of sunflowers. Having recently bloomed, they serve a vibrant reminder our season must end, fall is on its way. I feel something cold hit my shoe; seems I overfilled. 

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99/100

Exiting the quaint coffee shop with my iced Americano, I wander through a few dilapidated alleyways, scanning over rusted out pickup trucks. My train ride is an hour behind schedule and Raton is not a memorable city. I find myself staring deeply into a bank of vacant windows, less than 24 hours have elapsed since our camp's gather. Taking another swig, I remember waking up out in front of the Backcountry Warehouse surrounded in a mountain of my own luggage to this morning's glorious sunrise. A causal passerby might have noted my bivouac as an excuse for lazy, drunken slumber. However, not once have I heard a declaration for less nights spent under a blanket of stars.

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100/100

My journey West begins. From nowhere to backwater, from suburbs to cities, over and over again—it begins. Bouncing on bumps and rattling over rails, each knock jars me further into abstraction. Closing my eyes, I try to escape to my safe haven back in the wooded foothills. A stewardess crackles over the intercom. Flagstaff will be a smoking stop. I stare down at the blinking cursor on my laptop, my report is still unfinished. Shifting my attention to the window, I watch power lines scallop in and out of frame while the sun begins to set. Tipping back the rest of my beverage, I shut down my computer and put up my feet. And so, my wait begins.