As an adult leader in a scout troop, one of the programs I worked towards was week long 50 mile backpack trips. They are tough, demanding, draining, and teach boys self-reliance and build confidence like no other activity.
And they provide the boys room to build their relationships and personalities. One year, as our weekly trip was coming to an end we were actually running ahead of schedule.
The trip plan had called for an end at Thomas Edison Lake where a team of drivers was set to meet up with us the following day for rides homes. The boys hit the trail head at the lake about 10 in the morning and had a head of steam up. They wanted to hike further, not hang out at a Forest Service campground for the rest of the day.
So we all huddled over the maps and decided to continue out to Mono Hot Springs where we would be able to take long hot baths, recuperate, and clean up before being picked up in the morning. It was a wonderful decision. A few more miles and hours, and then the long afternoon soaking in cut-offs in naturally heated sulphur springs out on a sunny hillside.
Relaxation supreme with the song of the wind in the trees and the birds flying back and forth.
Of course, I should a known I was going to be in trouble. When we stumped up next to the country store there at Mono Hot springs there was a Weather Rock. For those of you who have never seen a Weather Rock, it is a locally collected rock, tied up in rope, and hung from a tree branch.
Nearby is a weather prediction guide. It usually starts “if the rock is warm…its sunny”; “if the rock is wet, its raining“; “If the rock is white, its snowing”; and goes on from there.
That night around the campfire the boys asked me to dust off some stories and “Hot Rocks” just naturally popped up.
Early the next morning, the whole team rolled out at first light, ate a quick breakfast and packed up, moving the backpacks up to a parking area near the road. Then four boys were sent up to the road to watch for our rides. You see, there is only one road in to Thomas Edison Lake, and we knew the drivers had to pass Mono Hot Springs to get to where they thought we were. And we didn’t want them to get past, it would mean hiking back up to the lake.
While the Road-watchers were in place, the rest of the troop was busy generally screwing around as teenage boys are want to do. Rocks were thrown, fish were caught, boys were soaked, and snacks were bought.
After a while, boredom set in and their fuzzy little minds started spinning. At first they just slipped along a little, but then they finally lost traction all together.
I watched one of the younger boys walk over to a selected backpack and slip a couple rocks into it. Not really big rocks mind you, but just small fist sized rocks. The backpack he chose belonged to George, a fairly new boy who had volunteered to be one of the Road-watchers. George’d had a tough week being younger than most and a bit homesick and since his mother was one of the drivers he wanted to be sure to see her pull up.
Now, one of the secrets of leading youth groups is knowing that young boys can’t keep a secret. They just have to tell someone when they do something that is funny, outlandish, or wrong. So, I settled down to watch the young rock carrier. Sure enough, before the rocks he had carried had a chance to dry off, he was busy laughing and giggling with a couple other boys about sticking rocks in George’s pack.
The progression was predictable.
At first, a couple of the other younger boys got egged into adding rocks to George’s pack. Then the older boys got to working it over. Small rocks weren’t good enough for them, so they wrestled up a very large rock out of the middle of the creek and carried it, dripping, over to George’s pack. But to fit it in, they had to empty out all the smaller rocks. A bit of repacking of clothes and gear, and they finally got that miniature bolder secured in George’s pack.
I sat back and watched. My first thought being “Don’t overplay your hand guys, too much weight will get you found out”.
But it wasn’t my place to teach them how to play tricks on each other, just to create a climate that allowed them to do so. So I sat and watched what must have been a 40-50 pound rock get stuffed into George’s backpack.
The divers finally showed up and we began organizing to head home. The SPL had all the boys grabbing their packs and hauling them over to the pickup truck. I figured as soon as that pack was moved and handed up to the father loading the truck, the resting rock would be uncovered. So I settled back to watch George move his pack. But George’s Mother told him to put his backpack in her car instead. And along with most of the boys in the troop, I watched George run over to his pack to pick it up.
Funny thing, George gets to his pack, grabs it, yanks, and it doesn’t so much as move. He doesn’t even stop to think about it, just sets himself again and yanks harder, but that darn thing stays “glued” to the tree it is leaning against. George wipes his hands on his pants, and I was sure now that the boys were going to get busted. After all, George had packed that thing just a few hours earlier and carried it a quarter mile to the tree he leaned it against.
But an odd thing happened. While George couldn’t budge it, he just kept trying. His mother became impatient and exasperatedly headed over to help him. I figured, “okay, now it comes“.
I mean after all, George’s mom had helped him get his gear together the previous week, and she knew George had been carrying his pack all week, and of course the pack had to weight less now since George had been eating food out of the pack all week. Logic then dictated that George simply had to be able to pick up his pack, and if he couldn’t, then something fishy was obviously going on.
Instead I watched as George and his mom struggled together to barely lift the pack off the ground and stagger with it over to the car and tumble it, with a resounding thump and sagging compression of car springs, into the back of the SUV.
I was simply stunned.
I didn’t know how it could be, and wasn’t sure what, if anything, I should do.
Glancing at the boys who had stuffed that mini-boulder in the pack it was apparent that they were equally confused. Their whole expectation had to be getting caught so they could joke with George and get a few laughs, and yet, they got nothing for it. Reminded me of slipping the eggs into Mrs. Petersen‘s chicken coop that time.
We all just stood there and stared stupefied at each other. Then everyone piled in a car and we all just simply drove home.
About 20 minutes after getting home, I got my comeuppance.
The phone ran.
I had an angry mother on the other end.
Yelling about rocks and backpacks.
Listening to her tirade, I flashed on a vision of Barry pointing at me and laughing.
© Copyright 2016 Marty Vandermolen
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