of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
March 5 1960
OUR SON, new to Scouting, went on his first overnight last week and I gather it wasn't quite the ball he'd anticipated. Fatigue was heavy upon him when he returned and he had little to say. He had a blister from touching a hot pan. He also had a cold.
We were disappointed about his silence and his sniffles but, being aware of the boons of Scouting, knew the experience was good for him. Our older son took to Scouting like a harvest hand to hot biscuits, went to camp several summers, made some of his warmest friendships there, and gained independence faster than otherwise would have been possible.
SNIFFLES and occasional nights of chill on unyielding bunks are small prices to pay for resourcefulness and the dawning realization that mother can't always be on hand to tuck you in bed and tell you what shirt to wear.
City boys, I'm sure, need Scouting more than do lads raised on farms or in small towns. They're further removed from woods and streams and open country. Hiking, camping and the smell of pine aren't so available.
Scouting was slow to catch on in my town when I was a boy. It was in its pioneer phase and the program was comparatively limited. Also, many of its chief attractions were old hat to most of us.
THE ROCKIES were within range of horse and buggy and many families vacationed there, not in plush lodges but in tents. Later, when the Model T came into glory, my brother and George Jackson and I would chug for the high country without benefit of adult supervision--sleeping in the open, hiking over vast and rugged country, and eating what we ourselves prepared, mostly trout.
This was Scouting in the grand manner, and when a town preacher organized a troop he was hard put to teach the boys anything except the Scout law, oath and promise. He made a brave show of woodlore and camping but didn't know as much as did many of his charges. And his ignorance of an elementary health rule brought him ignominy and suffering.
IT HAPPENED on his first--and last--"overnight." These adventures weren't called overnights then, and this one was more than that. We were to be gone a week, but weren't. The campsite was on the river some 12 miles east of town.
We got the tents pitched without incident, ate a supper featuring wieners, beans, fig bars and coffee, and went to sleep after hours of giggling, to the discomfort of Scoutmaster Haley, whose first name escapes me.
Morning broke chill and misty and we breakfasted in glum and soggy silence, wondering by what harsh fate we had consented to this safari.
ALL BUT Scoutmaster Haley. He was as full of phony cheer as a circus barker, whistled a merry tune and exhorted us to rise above the weather like good Scouts. To our amazement, after he had taken on a hefty store of bacon, eggs and flapjacks, he invited us to join him in a morning dip. To the great credit of the Scouts, all emphatically declined.
Undaunted, Scoutmaster Haley peeled off his clothes and, with his undigested breakfast, charged for the river. One dunking was enough. In seconds he was back in the cook tent, the epitome of teeth-chattering misery.
Scoutmaster Haley spent the rest of the day in bed, sick as a dog and sick of Scouting. Many of us feared for his survival. He was on his feet next morning, but only because of his great urge to return to town, where providence seemed more divine. We broke camp and headed homeward.
That was my last experience as a Boy Scout. To be a Scout you need a leader, and Scoutmaster Haley had had it.
Copyright 2015 StarTribune. Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune. No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.
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