Another weekend of Cub Scout Webelos (We Be Loyal Scouts) camping in the wilds of suburban Maryland on a small tract of reserved farmland surrounded by shiny new, foreclosed homes. The weather was perfect for instilling a love of the outdoors in a group of ten year olds - torrential downpours, wind, and increasing cold. Coupled with a leaking tent and a spider and mouse infested outhouse, the making of life-long scouts was ensured. Other than demonstrate what perfect asses we are, the purpose of the trip was to introduce the Webelos to real live Boy Scouts and to try to finagle an invitation to join their very distinguished troop. Whereas in Cub Scouts the parents hover over their sons, correcting their every move and utterance and asking them ten times if they are sure they don’t want to wear the $90 rain pants from REI, the Boy Scouts are pretty much left to their own devices, with a modicum of adult supervision. Case in point: the Boy Scout seen drudging up a mud slicked hill with 50 pounds of crap on his back wearing shorts, a t-shirt and black Merrill slip-on shoes. He has a parent somewhere who let him leave the house like that. But that kid had the hard look of the independent, positive mind on his face. So, it is not only a big transition for the Cub Scouts but for their parents as well.
Speaking of such, one usually finds that the parents attending these campouts are special people and SBD has become fully immersed in the peccadilloes, idiosyncrasies and skills of those in his son’s own Pack, such as who is the champion snorer, who is Julia Child behind the white gas Coleman stove, who is guaranteed to arrive without a flashlight, who is guaranteed to drop a deuce five feet from his tent instead of walking the hundred yards or so to the outhouse, and who is a crazy ax wielding, wood chopping fiend (full disclosure: SBD). On this particular weekend, there were parents and children from another Pack camping with us. It’s always a joy to discover such parents’ specialness because when you are camping, the more expertise on hand, the better the whole group does. A few examples with us this weekend:
- Mr. F16 Fighter Pilot. A multi-skilled dogfighter, this one. He spent the better part of Saturday in wet cotton jeans, a wet cotton rugby shirt, soaked tennis sneakers and no hat, demonstrating exactly how not to survive in cold, rainy weather. But, being the multi-talented sort, his other specialty was sitting by the fire in a camp chair brought by another parent, asking if anyone knew any good jokes, and then, when one of the few moms on the trip was out of earshot, volunteering his best anal sex jokes. His third specialty was chasing everyone away from the fire because he was a supreme, unfunny pain in the ass.
- Mr. New Zealander. This man’s specialty was to adopt a haughty, I’m-from-a-small-puke-chunk-country-of-anti-nuclear-sheep-buggerers-but-I’m-still-better-than-you-amusing-Americans attitude and to thoroughly ignore all the other parents while sitting in the camp chairs they brought.
- Mr. Befuddled-Look. It all started with his attempts to construct his three room tent on top of the camp site’s original fire pit. ‘Nuff said on him.
In any event, the parents were informed that we were to stay out of the way and let our sons “hang” with the Boy Scouts. The Boy Scouts split themselves into patrols of 5-10 kids, where they work together on building catapults, experimenting with fire, playing suicide knives, and ensuring that no sapling is left unsnapped in the forest. The Cub Scouts were divided into smaller groups to make it easier to cook them up for dinner, er rather to serve them dinner cooked up by the Boy Scouts. Sydney Brillo Duodenum Jr. was assigned to the Chicken Cacciatore Patrol. This innovative group had come up with a method of natural refrigeration for the chicken they were to use in their dish. Using this method, one digs a hole, fills it with water, places an impermeable barrier over the water, then places the wrapped meat on the barrier, then covers the meat with another impermeable barrier, and then quickly builds a fire before the meat goes bad or is discovered by insects. Thus, did the Boy Scouts at Chicken Cacciatore Patrol dig a hole, fill it with water, place their unwrapped chicken pieces into the water in the hole, cover it with fallen leaves, and then return to it eight hours later. Needless to say, Sydney Brillo Duodenum Jr. and his mates were back at the adults’ “kitchen” requesting some of our buttered salmon and rice with cucumber and chick peas salad.
After dinner, the rain had ended and a cold, crisp clear sky was revealed. The whole group gathered in the troop's cabin for skits, songs and testimonials on the merits of joining the Boy Scouts. All very impressive and solid kids. Why the hell not join, right? The Boy Scouts organization will be 100 years old in 2010. It would be a damn shame to keep Sydney Brillo Duodenum Jr. away from that legacy of building leadership, character and life skills in young men. He sure as hell won't get any of that from his old man. The evening ended with a game of capture the flag played on a pitch black, fog-shrouded field. Casualties were kept to a minimum.
Sunday dawned and Sydney Brillo Duodenum was up early scouting for logs and chopping wood. He created a spectacular teepee style fire which could not withstand the probings, blowings, pushings, pryings and peeings of eight or so boys. The fire having been beaten into submission, the Pack reformed and moved like a bait ball down a hill and into a creek bed where they discovered a large wet, crumbling log, which they proceeded to smash with sticks, rocks and a trenching shovel until it was rotting pile of mush.
Your future leaders, my friends.
