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My pulse pounded. My legs twitched. I tangled the bedsheets, tossing and turning.
“Bad night?” Patti asked, rolling toward me and patting my shoulder.
“Yeah. I’m freaked about this LTS Camp thing. My role is so vague. I’m afraid — ”
“Bruce, stop,” she said, lifting herself on an elbow. “You always do this. Flip between seeing yourself as a know-it-all expert and a know-nothing loser. Neither is true.”
“Yeah?”
She smiled, rubbed my neck.
“You wrote the history. You taught yourself basic ecology. You introduced ACC to the camp and Centre. You can do this, too!”
“Thanks, Pal,” I said, snuggling closer. But when I slid my hand under her nighty, she said, “Sleep tight,” turned away, and wrapped the duvet around her.
Kim and I chose 12 LTS boys; six each. Suzanne Sorenson, Girls’ Director, chose nine campers. Fit, strong, warm and friendly, with long brown hair, Suzanne had a gentle yet firm way with her girls. Her partner, Chuck, directed Wilderness One, so she knew mountains. Kim took the lead during our spring in-city meetings. He laid out an LTS’s responsibilities: Assist counsellors. Take over their groups on their days off. Work one to one with kids who need extra attention. Act as extra staff on outtrips. A cheer went up when he announced we would attend the All-Camp Training Weekend on the May long-weekend. Then, in June, we’d paddle the Bow River from Banff to Seebe.
I sucked a breath. I had never canoed.
My summer in the evening shadow of the Rockies began with the All-staff Training Weekend. It kicked off with a Friday night dance. I had spent the day in town with Patti, and got back out to Camp at about 8:30 pm. As I walked from the parking lot to the Lodge, I heard loud laughter coming from the Nurse’s Cabin. Inside, I found Kim, Chris, and Mike Walters, a PIT counsellor passing around a Scotch bottle. Kim and Mike wore new but self distressed white overalls with no shirts.
“What the…?” I said, shaking my head.
“We’re Willy and the Hand Jive,” Kim explained, slurring his words.
“WTF, you guys?” I said. “Our kids are here. The band is playing. We gotta go in.”
Kim killed the Scotch, then led us to the Lodge. He kicked open the double doors with the heel of his cowboy boot and yelled, “Let’s geddit on!” He rocked out like a madman — until he slipped on debris from an earlier watermelon-eating contest. Flopping around on the floor like a walrus on wet rock, he couldn’t stand up by himself.
“Get him the hell out of here!” Gary yelled, his neck veins throbbing.
Chris was arguing with the Business Manager about kitchen cleanliness, so Mike and I hauled Kim out of the Lodge and onto on the beds in the Nurse’s Cabin.
At breakfast the next morning, I asked a hungover Kim, “I thought you supported Camp’s no drinking rule?”
He grinned.
“Camp doesn’t start until the campers get here.”
I didn’t know what to think.
In mid-June, all three LTS groups spent three days practicing flat-water paddling on Chilver Lake. A few of the boys had paddling experience from their days as Hector campers. I can’t recall any experienced girls, including Suzanne. On the fourth day, we drove to Banff. We put eight, 16-foot Grumman aluminum canoes into fast-flowing water below Bow Falls. I used my just-learned J-stroke. Matt paddled in the bow. Dave sat midship. The first 100 metres went well. My gastric butterflies settled. Then, from my right, the Spray River stormed into the Bow at a ninety-degree angle. Chaotic turbulence spun my boat around. I flailed at the choppy water, generating more splash than power. Unable to orient its bow downriver, I let the boat float backward into a gentle eddy. Kim had Matt, a long-time Hectorite with river experience, change places with me. I took the bow, my face burning with shame. Matt did a fine job in the stern. I relaxed.
Just past Canmore, the river split around an island. The Tilley Twins, tall, cocksure legacy campers, ignored Kim’s’ command to hug the right shore. They were too far out in the middle of the river and tried to go around the island’s left side. But the cleaving, flood-level current slammed their boat into a six-foot-high logjam on the island’s point. Their canoe disappeared under a tangle of giant grey pickup-sticks. The brothers clambered over them to safety. But Suzanne clung to a log, her head less than a foot above water. Matt beached our boat. I jumped out. Kim sped past, his long legs storking through the shallows. Minutes, maybe seconds before Suzanne slid underwater, Kim grabbed her arm. A few seconds later, I grabbed her other arm. While the twins whined, “It’s not our fault,” Kim and I hauled her to the beach. Girls wrapped her in jackets and sweatshirts. After a short paddle to Deadman’s Flats campground, the boys built a warming fire. Girls shared dry clothes with Suzanne. Kim sprinted to the Husky gas station on the highway to call for pickup. When he returned, he walked the Tilley’s into the woods, then ripped a hole in their defensive posturing all of Canmore must have heard.
Back at Yamnuska Centre, a recovered Suzanne corralled the kids in a duplex while Kim and I attended an incident debrief in the staff cabin. In its cedar-log living room, Kim faced a circle of angry faces. Gary lit into him. Kim lit back. Hands lifted, eyes flashing, he said, “If paddlers won’t follow instructions, what can I do?” Arguments flew around the room like trapped crows. I leaned against the back wall, looked down, and kept my thoughts to myself.
After Kim and several long-time paddlers left to recover the canoe, I shuffled up the trail to the old sawmill site, eyes down, kicking at stones. At the site, I sat on a Douglas Fir stump beside a remnant sawdust pile, gnawed my knuckle, and tried to calm myself. I’d been shaking since I watched the boat hit the logjam. But it wasn’t just the accident or my paddling fiasco upsetting me. Since I’d started at the Y, a torrent of doubt had swept me up. Self-pity threatened to engulf me.
It’s too much. I won’t fit in. I’m an outsider; no more than Kim’s shadow.
But, after stewing and snapping twigs for several minutes, I looked up, let my gaze wander into the surrounding woods. Once denuded by loggers, the mountainside had reforested itself. Spruce and a sprinkling of aspens grew where the once-dominant Douglas Firs had fallen. Succession: change after disaster ecologists like Aldo Leopold would call it. Peering into the forest, Patti’s words echoed: “You can do this!” I sucked a couple of aromatic breaths, stood, stretched, then sauntered down the trail to the duplex. Eyes up, grinning at cheeky chickadees flitting through sunlit spruce branches. “A good life must be crafted,” Dimock had written, “not just hoped for.” I resolved to make LTS Camp mycharacter-building corral. But how?
Two weeks later, the entire Hector Boys’ staff lolled on the Lodge porch and steps, chatting quietly. Most wore scruffy jeans or tattered cut-offs and t-shirts. In jeans, my Hawaiian-patterned t-shirt, and flip-flops, I sat in a weathered Adirondack chair. I puffed on the bent-stem Peterson pipe I’d bought after my nicotine-craving in the canyon. When two large yellow school buses lumbered out of the forest, the staff jumped up and boomed out a Hector “cheer.” I stood, hands in pockets, scanning the others for clues about how to act. Sixty 10- and 11-year-old boys streamed from the buses. Russ’s counsellors shepherded Mistayan campers to the side of the Lodge to form teepee groups. Kim’s LTSs hauled their luggage from the bus. Then Russ led his rag-tag flock into the teepee-dotted forest. Bulky packs dwarfed diminutive bodies. Suitcases dragged in dust. Pillows clutched to skinny chests evoked images of fleeing refugees.
I led my group of guys down the dusty road past the No Cars sign to the open field. Ed Schell, Assistant Kananaskin Section Director, stood on a flat rock addressing a throng of Intermediate campers. In floppy black pants and a buttoned plaid shirt, I thought he looked like an old-time itinerant preacher. Ed had been the Diamond Cross site manager in the winter/spring. He had issues with Kim and Chris, and had not liked when we came to visit the spring staff. I didn’t like him or his approach.
“What do we want to do?” Ed yelled.
Campers glanced at each other, shrugged.
“C’mon!” Ed said. “What do we want to do?”
“Swim?” volunteered a kid up front.
“Ride horses?” said another.
“Go home?” squeaked a sad-looking boy from the rear.
“No!” Ed said, nodding his head up and down. “We wanna get to know each other, and I’ve got a great game we can play to help us.”
Fifty 12- and 13-year-olds groaned. Counsellors flinched. I shook my head.
Within minutes, the field was bedlam. Ed shouted complicated instructions and corrections to them. Kids dashed haphazardly, chasing each other, wrestling, wandering off toward the woods. Even Ed’s counsellors looked confused. I told my guys to attach themselves to one of them, then help with luggage and settling in their kids. Then, knowing I’d get angry if I stayed, I trudged up the road muttering, “Fuckin’ ridiculous!”
I found Kim perched on the Lodge steps, smoking. I sat, lit my pipe, then puffed in silence. When I described Ed’s debacle, Kim lit another Camel and rolled his eyes.
“Ed fancies himself an ‘educator.’ But you’ve seen him. He’s a disaster.”
I nodded. But my face must have showed worry.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. I keep thinking I should do more. But what?”
“My first summer as a counselor here,” Kim said, exhaling a smoke cloud, “I felt lost for a week. I’ll start showing you the ropes tomorrow. It’ll get easier.”
Our two LTS teepees sat in the forest between the Director’s cabin and the canyon. Each grey canvas structure had a wood pallet floor with a rock-lined fire pit in the centre. A semicircle of metal bunkbeds faced an oval door with a canvas flap. Evenings, my guys and I watched our fire burn down, chatted about the day, and told bad jokes. Matt, a compact, competitive skier with curly black hair and mischievous eyes, was a long-time camper. He had spent the previous summer at Wilderness 1, the Y’s mountaineering camp. Dave, a short, nerdy kid with a big heart, lacked social skills, but was keen to learn. Kids nicknamed him “20 Questions.” Long-haired Brad towered over the others, but weighed less than any of them. A year older than the others, he too had spent the previous summer at Wilderness 1. And climbed with some counsellors that fall. He seemed more mature and competent than most, and would prove to be an excellent leader. Brent reminded me of a hippie ranch hand, with long blonde curls, muscular build, and a bright smile. No camp experience, but a nicer guy, I couldn’t imagine. Bill was slight, wiry, smart. Quick to pick up on cues. He’d excel throughout the summer. Along with Brad, the guys would name a high pass after him. I had all but written off tall, mouthy Mike. He refused to accept any blame for the logjam incident.
For three days, I shadowed Kim, observing his interactions with LTS, counsellors, and campers. I asked questions. Tried his techniques with my guys. Took feedback. After my “orientation” ended, I roamed Camp alone. The spring staff I knew welcomed me. Others acted as if I hadn’t been initiated into their club. I took it in stride and tried to figure out ways I could be helpful to them, and to my LTSs. Each day, I took one of my guys for a stroll. I asked and answered questions, listened to concerns, and assuaged doubts and angst. Sometimes, I refereed differences between LTSs, and between them and counselors. I tried to help them find the lessons in good and bad experiences, and ways to apply what they learned. Hard work, but, slowly, I came to like it. I was so engrossed in my day-to-day duties I missed the excitement over the big Watergate Scandal; something I would have delighted in my “radical” days.
Almost all the counsellors shrugged off my attempts to promote ACC as a teepee group activity. Environmental concern was low to nonexistent in “oil country” Alberta. Two contrary Kananaskin counsellors insisted their nature program was “salamander hunting.” Their kids caught pails full of the migrating amphibians, teased them with sticks and knives, then burned them in a campfire. It turned my stomach. When I brought it to their attention, Ed, and Walt shrugged and said, “It’s kinda tradition.” Gary looked pained, but didn’t press the issue. I shook my head in frustration.
I enjoyed doing hike checks. Alone or together, Kim and I trekked to nearby campsites, checked in with LTSs, chatted with counsellors, joined in activities, then hiked out in time for supper. As the summer progressed, I realized few staff purposely applied Dimock’s corral ideas, though many did so intuitively. Personal growth through adventure formed the bedrock of Hector lore. But, mid-summer, we heard rumours some Kananaskis counsellors were coordinating hikes to meet with girls’ groups, and party after the kids bedded down. Counsellors laughed at our informal requests to cut it out. Then, the issue blew up at “Allocations.”
One evening a week, Kim and commandeered a table in the Lodge. Section Directors submitted their counsellors’ written LTS requests for the coming week. All counsellors wanted the strongest kids. We wanted the best experience for our guys. Figuring that out was not always easy, nor peaceable. Worse, logistics sometimes dictated we assign a girl to a boys’ group, which delighted the counsellor but upset his colleagues. In the second period, all Kananaskin counsellors wanted girls; refused to accept any boys. They crowded our table, shouting, “Most of the girls are stronger than your wimpy boys,” and “Our program needs come first!”
Walt and Ed offered no help. Gary suggested we compromise.
Really? Let these jerks make out with 15- and 16-year-old LTSs. Not fuckin’ likely.
The Kans still clamored for girls at breakfast. After chatting with me and making a quick call to Suzanne, Kim announced, “LTS camp is shut down indefinitely. No trips without a second staff.” Dramatic move. Outtrips were the highlights of camper’s and counsellors’ summers. Kim and I told our guys to hang around the teepees or beach. Then, fuming, we drove to Calgary to confer with Gerry. He calmed us down over a large Hawaiian and a couple of Heinekens at the Prairie Dog Inn. He didn’t approve of suspending LTS Camp, but applauded us for standing up for Hector values. “I’ll talk with Gary.” The next day, the Kans reluctantly accepted boys. I lightened up; feeling proud I’d stood up to the horny bozos. By mid-summer, finally feeling a part of the Hector family, I enjoyed Camp, and looked forward to our backcountry LTS hike.
My stomach quivered and my blood ran fast as I watched Kim’s index finger trace a winding loop on topo maps spread out on a Hector Lodge table.
“It’s a challenging trail,” he said. “Wild. Remote. Little chance of meeting other hikers. But awesome backcountry surroundings!”
Starting from Mud Lake on the Smith-Dorrien Road, above Canmore, we would hike over Burstall, Palliser, and North Kananaskis passes to Lower Kananaskis Lake. Five days. Four nights. 45 miles. We’d twice cross the Continental Divide. Blood beat in my ears. “Remote” did not appear on my hiking resume. Recalling Chris’s “mountain sense” adage — “Good judgment results from experience, which often results from bad judgment” — my arm hair stiffened.
Struggling for the heights, I told myself, involves venturing into the unknown.
Five days later, after a quick-gulped breakfast, the seven of us jumped into the van. Above Canmore, on the Smith-Dorrien road, the driver dropped us beside Mud Lake. All around us, 10,000-foot glacier-capped peaks jutted into an azure sky. We tightened boot laces, shouldered 45-pound packs, then started up a well-worn trail. Serenaded by chickadees, thrushes, and what sounded like warblers, we wound through willow flats, then up into a dense pine forest. We passed streams and small lakes. We crossed a wide wet glacial floodplain, then grunted up 1000 vertical feet of switch-backs to Burstall Pass’s rock and boulder-strewn summit. Mounts Robertson and Sir Douglas loomed above us. In the distance, Mount Assiniboine jutted into the grey sky. Holy fuck fuck!
I felt the awe and trepidation I’d felt at the Plain of Six. We sat on flat rocks, savoured bag lunches, and slaked our thirst with water that had been ice hours, maybe minutes, earlier. After lunch, we thrashed down knee-knackering switchbacks and fought our way through avalanche debris to the braided streams of the Spray River headwaters. At the edge of a dry meadow, Brad and Matt showed us how to set up the ground-hugging lean-tos they had perfected at Wilderness 1. That night, we pan-fried pork chops and stir-fried veggies on a rock-lined campfire — our last fresh food. After supper, we killed a bag of Oreos on a short hike to Leman Lake. There Brent, Dave, and Bill cracked up the rest of us, trying to hand-catch fat trout lolling under a logjam. Sauntering back to the lean-tos — peaks afire with alpenglow — a cautious smile crawled onto my face. But, when I slid into my down bag, demons slithered in beside me, hissing, “What if...?”
I was in wild country On my own.[1]
The next morning, a 4.5-mile hike and switchback grind brought us up to Belgium Lake. Surrounded by meadows rich with multicoloured alpine flowers, we enjoyed a lakeside lunch of cheese, crackers, trail mix, and dried fruit. An easy, 2-mile stroll put us at the top of Palliser Pass and at the Continental Divide. Water on one side flowed to the Pacific and, on the side we’d just come up, it flowed to the Atlantic. The boys whooped and hollered as they jumped back and forth between Alberta and BC next to a cairn marking the Great Divide. I told the guys what I had read about John Palliser and the British North American Exploring Expedition. Circa 1858, they had mapped mountain geography, looking for passes that might lead to the Pacific Ocean. Below, in the wild upper reaches of the Palliser Valley, a pencil-thin trail winked in and out of sight.
We hustled down to Palliser Lake and set up camp. Next day, we glissaded too long on a snow slope above nearby Back Lake. Late starting, we picked our way down a faint trail that snaked back and forth across a dribbling stream that would eventually grow into the Palliser, join the Kootenay, and become the mighty Columbia River. Matt wanted to lead, but lost the trail. A still-arrogant Mike marched us into spiny, skin-ripping Devil’s Club. I took over and followed Brad’s “keep high” advice. Gut churning, I kept one eye on the sub-alpine terrain we traversed and one on the patchy trail below. Near dusk we turned north-east, up Leroy Creek, then camped on a pebble strewn floodplain.
After a mac and cheese dinner and fig bars, Matt, Brent, Dave, and Mike hiked upstream to scout the trail to North Kananaskis Pass. They returned with long faces.
“There’s no trail,” Matt said. “It’s a box canyon.”
My map showed the valley dead-ending beneath a large glacier, but there seemed to be a trail leading up steep terrain on the right-hand side to the pass. The guys swore the trail petered out before valley’s end. I thought I should go look. But a Niagara-force deluge drove us under our tarps. Lightning blasts, brighter than daylight, detonated on every side, followed instantly by ground-pounding thunder. We lay in our lean-tos facing out, awestruck by nature’s fierce power.
“Better than a light show,” Brent shouted.
I woke to sharp-toothed fear gnawing at my entrails. After breakfast, I suggested we check the trail again, but the boys swore there wasn’t one. I paced beside the creek; mind frozen. What to do? What to do? What—? Matt’s voice called me into the present. He pointed to a steep, snow-filled gully that split the 1500-foot-wide scree slope above us. Trails crisscrossed the scree, but I didn’t think they led to the top. Matt did.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what we saw looking down from North Kan pass during Wilderness. Maude Lake should be just over the ridge at the top of the gully.”
I ran a hand through greasy hair. My historical reading had suggested fur traders had trekked over North Kan with packhorses. No horse could climb that gully. My mind froze. I almost slid back into a semi-catatonic state. Then Brad and Bill volunteered to climb the gully to see if it led to the pass.
“If it does, Brad said, “we’ll wave Bill’s orange anorak.
I gulped saliva; nodded. Brad had climbing experience; Bill hadn’t.
“Be super careful. Come down the moment it gets too hard.”
Brad and Bill crept up the gully, kicking steps in the snow. 2000 feet above us, rock outcrops pinched the gully into a narrow defile. Brad chopped steps with his ice axe.
Shit!
The boys disappeared at the top. I gnawed a callused knuckle. Minutes later, they reappeared, waving the anorak. My heart rate dropped; breathing became easier.
“Kick hard,” I yelled, as we started up. Brent wore soft soled work boots. If the steps rounded, he could slip and take us both into the boulders below. We plodded up the gully. Were extra careful where the rock pinched into the narrow defile.
At the top, a rocky, 30-foot-wide ridge ran between what I would learn were Mounts Beatty and Putnik. No lake. I whispered to Brad, “Not North Kan?”
He pointed to a narrow, black line winding through forests and meadows far below.
“I’m almost certain that’s the South Kan trail to Three Isle Lake and Forks, our last campsite before Kananaskis Lake. I think I can find a way down that skirts those cliffs.”
An hour later, standing on a two-foot-wide trail in the valley bottom, I almost let myself relax. The kids jumped around and hugged Bill and Brad.
“A successful traverse of Watson-Hvizdos Pass,” shouted Matt.
“Time to celebrate,” whooped Dave.
“Not yet,” I said, voice cracking. “Not ’til I count all three islands in Three Isle.”
Hiking down, Brad whispered, “There’s just one island in Three Isle.”
After dinner, the boys fell asleep in minutes. Adrenaline twitched my legs all night. Next morning, we hiked down a steep headwall, past a spectacular waterfall, and along an easy trail to Forks. A Parks sign pointed to North Kananaskis Pass. I dropped my pack, walked into the forest beside the North Kan River, and let tears of relief join its flow.
Matt and Brad were bound and determined to blast up to the pass, a steep, 6-mile slog. I knew I couldn’t stop them. The others insisted on staying put. Torn between forcing them to hike again, or letting Brad and Matt climb to the pass alone, I joined the eager duo.
“Stay put,” I said to the others. “Do not go anywhere except to the creek for water. Or the edge of the woods to pee.”
They nodded. Bill and Brent started lunch. Dave got out a deck of cards.
The boys and I started up the trail. But avalanche debris hid the junction where the trail to the pass split off from the low trail. When tree blazes we’d been following petered out, we had to bushwhack straight up 1500 feet through tight packed pine and spruce. At Marble Canyon, a mostly flat kilometer below the pass summit, we ran into Chris Miller’s Wilderness group who were practicing crevasse rescue techniques in the canyon. When I told Chris about scrambling over the ridge, he ripped into me about “reckless judgment” and “splitting the group.” I had no comeback. I let him yell at me as Matt and Brad moved out of earshot, up toward Maude Lake. When Chris let up, I trudged after my guys, shame hanging off me like lead chains.
At the summit, a glance down the other side confirmed a faint trail, zig-zagging in the scree above the avalanche debris and forest that hid its lower reaches. I walked off, squatted, blew out a long breath. I shook my head, anger and relief mixing in my thoughts. Happy the boys got to summit the pass, but not about the way we’d got here. I sucked a deep breath, let it out, then returned to Brad and Matt. After a water bottle toast to our “success,” we headed down the proper trail. More leg shaking switchbacks; remnants of the slide that had hid the path going up. The Forks campsite was dark when we arrived; the other guys asleep in their lean-to. They had laid out our tarp and left three granola bars on it. We devoured the bars, then spread our sleeping bags on top of the tarp. The boys zonked. Aching knees kept me awake. I didn’t relax until the van headed home.
Kim had picked a wild, awe-inspiring route. But he’d over-estimated my ability, experience, and confidence. My mistakes had led to a thrilling experience for my guys and, I hoped, to better judgment for me. But I was relieved it was over. Humbled, I laid my head against a van window and listened to the group. More simpatico. More mature. I fell asleep listening to them chatter. I woke to the guys laughing about a radio story about a boy in New Mexico who radioed he was trapped in an overturned truck with his dead father. Although a huge search ensued, it turned out to be a hoax. I rubbed my eyes and thought, “That kid could use a few summers at camp.”
Back at Hector, we settled into familiar routines. But the boys seemed more confident, self-possessed. I beamed with satisfaction as I made my daily rounds and watched them interact with kids and counsellors with confidence.
In mid-August, my LTS group with Suzanne and four of girls headed out in a van on Visitations. We planned to compare programs and philosophies at five camps. First day, we survived a hilarious six hours with six-to-nine-year-old’s at Y-Tic, a day camp on the edge of Calgary. That evening, the kids wanted to see a movie. Boys wanted a shoot ‘em up; girls a rom com. I persuaded them to see Jesus Christ Superstar. They loved it. Back at the campfire, we chatted about the connection between values and actions.
The next morning, we drove north 100 miles to the United Church’s Camp Kasota, on Sylvan Lake. We rolled into the parking area and walked to the Lodge as lunch was ending. The program director, who I’d spoken with by phone, claimed she hadn’t known we had planned to arrive that day.
“Sorry,” she said, sounding otherwise. “I have nothing to observe today.” She pointed to a flat spot behind the garbage shed. “Camp back there, if you want.”
Suzanne and I exchanged scowls, then hustled the kids into the van and drove to town for burgers and shakes. She and I conferred over a cold beer in the hotel tavern. Suzanne called Pioneer Ranch Camp from a pay phone in the lobby and asked if we could arrive early. Their Director said, “Of course.”
The kids were leery of Pioneer because an evangelical group — the Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship — ran it. They feared it might bore them, or worse, push religion on them. Suzanne reminded them, “Our goal is to learn from different approaches.” We headed west toward Rocky Mountain House. In a spacious, high-ceilinged, log lodge on the edge of Crimson Lake, Pioneer’s smiling, grey-haired program director welcomed us with juice and warm cookies. She stressed spirituality and fellowship were just part of Pioneer’s program. Riding lessons augmented traditional camp programs. Each kid cared for their own horse and tack.
“Toward the end of a three-week session,” she said, “older kids take a pack trip into the rugged foothills north of Banff Park. It and all our programs facilitate character development, leadership, and Christian fellowship.”
After a site tour, our kids asked a surprising number of questions. Suzanne and I exchanged grateful smiles. We had planned to overnight at Pioneer Lodge 20 miles south. Then wrap our trip the next day with a visit to Camp Horizon, a Kiwanis program for disabled kids near Bragg Creek, west of Calgary. But the girls insisted we return to Hector. They said they didn’t want to miss the last Mixed Scoffs.[2] “Jennie has a date,” one added.
Suzanne’s eyes narrowed. She faced the girls, hands lifted, palms up.
“Really? You want to end our trip for one person?”
The girls chanted, “We all wanna go to Scoffs.”
Suzanne and I conferred. Not wanting to end the trip with pouty girls in tow, we headed to Hector.
A week later, despite kids’ jitters about being “grossed out by cripples,” we spent a laughter-filled afternoon at Horizon. Staff and campers were so upbeat we had to drag our crew away so we could make it to Hector in time for supper — a successful note on which to end Visitations. My guys went back to their routines. Kim’s left on Visitations. I hike-checked and rambled Camp. The cocky, gangly LTS bunch I’d met in May now acted with aplomb and conviction. Rambling along the path above the canyon one languid, sunny afternoon, I smiled, plucked a yellowing leaf off an aspen sapling, sighed. Working with these kids in this setting has been the best thing I’ve ever done. Surely, a path with heart. On it, I experienced integrity, a confluence of deep desires, a chance to walk my talk, and learn more about teens, mountains, and myself.
Summer’s frenetic energy wound down in lazy late August heat. Before lunch on the last day, sad-looking campers kicked up dust clouds as they trudged to buses. After lunch, a frantic whole-camp clean-up. Then Gary led a debrief in the Lodge. I sat on a short stepladder, rubbing damp hands on dusty jeans. I thought my six months’ experience at Hector put me on a level with third-year counsellors. So, toward the end of the assembly, I shared my concerns about the lack of environmental programs. When I singled out the evils of salamander hunting, the entire Kananaskin Section pounded their table, chanting, “Sal-a-man-der-hunting-is-FUN!” I stood, took three steps toward them, stopped. I ripped into them about values, character, environmental responsibility, and the awful cruelty of their “bullshit tradition.”
“You guys need to grow the fuck up.”
Silence. Red faces. A thumbs up from Kim.
Dunc Dow, a Mistayan counsellor, came up afterward. “Thank you,” he said. “They needed to hear that. We all did.” I no longer felt over-shadowed.
After a banquet and dance in Banff that evening, most staff left the next morning. Kim, Mike, Matt, Brad, and a few others hung around Yamnuska Centre’s Family Cabin for two days. We drank beer, goofed’ and spoofed’ and helped each other cope with what Kim called the “post-camp blues.
On the third day, Gary ordered us off the site.
I packed the Volvo. But before I left, I walked down to Chilver lake then sat on a weather-beaten wood dock. I chuckled as I gazed across the Bow Valley at Mount Yamnuska, remembering the nervous ex-teacher who had shown up at old Hector wearing an Appaloosa ball cap. Now, I felt changed; aware of skills I had not known I had, and others I’d developed over the summer. I had jumped in with both feet. Wrote a history. Organized a curriculum around ACC. Climbed mountains. Led a dangerous back-country hike. Stood up for ecology and ACC as part of Hector’s program offerings. I fell short in some areas. But stuck with it and learned much about kids, camp, and myself. I rediscovered the love and awe I felt when immersed in the natural world. And learned more about it than I could have imagined. Most important, I realized Camp could build teens’ character and confidence far better than the average high school. It built self-respect, sociality, and was much better for their souls.
A Redwing Blackbird trilling from a bullrush at the edge of the lake brought me back to the moment. I thought about “freedom to...” — what I’d done with mine, and what I might do in the future. A hazy vision of an “Environment and Character” camp flickered at the edge of my consciousness. I sucked in a long, slow breath. Sad but soothed by the soughing sound of marsh grass, I sensed this patch of the Bow Valley — nestled in the evening shadow of the Rockies — was more home to me than home. Tears welled. I promised to return.
I walked back to my Volvo, then drove toward Silver Springs. Listening to a John Denver tape, my mind swarmed with questions and concerns about full-time teaching. If I had not signed a contract with School Division 41 for the coming year at Springbank High, I would have been all over Gerry; trying to get a place in one of the grant programs Kim and Chris were lining up for another winter and spring at Camp.
But I had signed a contract.
[1] In 1973, safety mechanisms such as cell or satellite phones, emergency messaging devices, and personal location beacons had not yet been invented, or were phenomenally expensive. Emergency response requests involved someone running, then sometimes hitch-hiking to the nearest telephone to contact the wardens and rescue services.
[2] Every two weeks, Girl’s Camp staff joined Hector staff for snacks after kidss bedded down.