Be Prepared

Everyone has some unresolved issues.

Perhaps mine have been a little more pronounced; or maybe I have just been more committed (or committable), but some of my issues have been handled rather abruptly.

One of my “hot buttons” was bullying.  Now bullying comes in many forms, and my parentage provided me with tools to combat most of those forms.  My maternal grandfather’s chest was as wide as a plow horse’s, with arms and legs that evoked tree trunks.  My mother was quick, sharp, humorous, and persistent.  My father was strong, tall, quick, sharp, opinionated, and resilient.

Yep, I grew to a rather formidable force, able to hold my own against bullies of the physical or mental persuasion.

 

To me, elitism was one of the more insidious forms of bullying around. Elitism was a “we’re special, and you’re not”, down-the-nose focused, you are beneath us way of bullying people.

 

In the Boy Scout organization, there is a sub group called “The Order of the Arrow” or OA for short.  The  OA was a group that held tremendous promise, but one that I never saw live up to that promise.  Once a year, every Boy Scout troop could elect a candidate to the OA.  That boy had to represent the best of Scouting.  And universally, I would say that each of those boys did.

On gathering into a group however, instead of becoming a force for learning and experience within Scouting; elitism would kick in, and the boys in the OA began to believe their own publicity.  They believed that they were smarter, more capable, and stronger than other scouts.  They believed that they were due specific allowances that others weren’t due.  They began to ignore the remaining troop members in favor of their new exalted association.

I made it my mission to prove to them that they were wrong.

 

One winter, high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California at a Boy Scout camp named “Diamond-O Scout Reservation” close to Hetch Hetchy and Yosemite valleys, the San Francisco Bay Area Council of the Boy Scouts of America held a winter jamboree. 

A jamboree is an event attended by many Troops, who come together to compete in Scouting and outdoor skills.

As a winter location, Diamond-O was among the best.  High enough for a good layer of snow, broad meadows, steep hills, vast acres of forest, and bounded by Forest Service land on three sides.  A small river ran through the property, ending in a slat damn that created a large swimming hole, the camp during the summer served as a base for forestry and equine activities.

 

The winter I was 17 and the Junior Assistant Scoutmaster of Troop 939, my troop arrived at Diamond-O early Saturday morning.  When we checked in, we asked the OA (they were in charge of the activity) where to set up, they told us to pick out a spot and set up.  After looking over the grounds, we picked a nice level area set back just inside of the tree line that would get good sun during the day, and be reasonably protected from wind during the night.  We began pitching camp.  Half way through one of the OA guys came by to tell us that we had to move because that was where the OA was going to set up. 

 

Some words were exchanged.

 

My Scoutmaster convinced me that we should pull up stakes and move, but on leaving I couldn’t pass up digging at the OA that had gathered.  Being seventeen, that naturally came down to questioning their manhood.  That of course prompted an immediate and vociferous response; one thing led to another until I dropped the challenge for them prove their manliness by meeting the troop down by the swimming hole after the event competitions were over.

During the day, while contending with fire starting, archery, cooking, map and compass and other competitions, the various OA members running each event were busy “trash talking” all of our patrols as they came through the event.  In so doing, the OA effectively spread the word that there had been a challenge to their manliness through the entire camporee.

After the events were over, the entire camp came down to the stream by the waterhole for the entertainment value.

The full OA group showed up.

So did our full troop, from the youngest 11 year old to the oldest boy.  Even the Scoutmaster joined us.  And while I have to believe his interest was to keep us out of a fight, my hat is off to him, he was Troop 939 tried and true.

 

At 17 I stood over 6 foot, tipping the scales at a solid 185 pounds.  The leader of the OA group was equally as big.

He stomped right up to me, shoved this nose right up to mine and said: “You called us out, what are you going to do now, huh?”

Without flinching I smiled sweetly and said: “We’re gonna take a bath, thought you ladies might like to join us”.  At which point every last boy in the troop stripped down buck naked in the snow and jumped into the ice rimmed creek, singing and scrubbing away. 

There were a number of insults thrown from the stream up to the OA, and plenty of laughter from the other campers.

The OA boys turned a pleasing shade of red.

 

Since they wouldn’t join us, I called the troop to be attention. 

Rather a sight, 28 boys ranging from 11 through 17 (and one Scoutmaster) standing at attention, saluting, buck naked in a river in the middle of a snowy field. 

I mustered my most disdainful look and said; “Well, since you don’t even have the balls of our 11 year olds…maybe you would be willing to have a snowball fight instead.  Tomorrow morning, over at the far end of the field, 8 am.  If you think you’re up to that.”

The OA beat a hasty retreat, vociferously telling us how they were going to kick our asses in the morning.

 

In truth, our teeth had barely quit chattering by the time the campfire program got started that night at 8 pm.  But there is no doubt, the talk of the gathering was that our troop had showed up the OA once and had challenged them again.

There was no way the OA wasn’t going to show for the snowball fight.  And since there were 35 of them, and all of them were 16 to 20 (Explorer Scouts stay around longer).  We were going to have our work cut out for us.

But the Boy Scouts have a motto: “Be Prepared”, and I for one had taken it to heart.

So, after the campfire, we packed the younger boys in bed and the older boys in the troop and I headed out to the war game location to scope the area out and make plans.  The area consisted of a flat space about the length and width of a football field, with one “end” close to the camp proper, and the other “end” abutting a long slope that lead up to the highway.  We figured to meet the OA on the “50 yard line” as it were.

I do believe that we worked until well neigh one in the morning in preparation, but on slipping into my down bag that early morning, I was confident we had the OA once again.

 

Promptly at 8 am the 35 boys of the OA came strolling out to the field, followed closely by most of the rest of the campers.  Each OA member was carrying a couple of snowballs (proving that they had at least heard of the Boy Scout motto I suppose).  The sight that met them was my good friend Eric and myself; standing alone just shy of the middle for the field calmly tossing snowballs up into the air and catching them right-handed.

Our mouths were working too I should admit.  Challenges and taunts, things like “well, it’s about time” and “we figured we had best keep the numbers on our side fair for you” floated across the field to their ears as they approached.

To this day I can see the light leap up in their eyes and remember watching the “group decision” click as they began to rush us.  We stood our ground, for a while, then Eric and I each chucked a snowball at the racing OA crowd, turned tail, and ran for the hill.

If you have never run in show before, believe me when I tell you it is tougher than dry sand.  The boys of the OA group rapidly spread out, from a solid cohesive group into a line of individuals struggling to be in on the kill.

Eric and I struggled through the snow and right up the hill through an open pathway between the trees towards the highway.  One of the OA boys yelled: “Get ‘em before they get to the road” and all increased their efforts.  Further separating their members, and incidentally, keeping them focused straight ahead.

Just as Eric and I were about to reach the road bank, we dropped to our knees, scooped up large armloads of snow balls previously piled there, spun to our feet, and launched ourselves downhill, directly at the loose line of “hounds” that had been baying at our heels, rapidly throwing snowball after snowball.

Surprised?

Yeah, you could say that.  Some of the OA boys stopped dead in their tracks mouths agape; some fell to their knees panting; while the remainder threw their remaining snowballs in our direction, uphill. 

And that was the signal.

All that “Be Prepared” time spent the night before was spent digging fortifications and making snowballs, lining both sides of the gauntlet that Eric and I had just run.  The troop boys popped up behind short protective walls, and started lobbing snowball after snowball after snowball, while the exhausted OA boys either rolled into fetal balls to protect themselves, or futilely tried to scrape up snowballs where they were. 

The rate of fire was entirely lopsided in our troop’s favor.

Eric and I along with two other older boys ran in among the OA crowd, using gravity and speed to knock them off of their feet, heads downhill, vulnerable to the onslaught.

 

Looking back at it nowadays, I suppose a case could be made that we were bullying the OA, but, they were older on average, were stronger on average, there were more of them, and in our minds at least, they had started it by kicking us out of our camp.

 

Copyright © 2013 Marty K Vandermolen