...Is Reverent

What does it mean to be reverent in a society with multiple mutually incompatible religions? One can't believe everything about all of them. Even if one does "mix 'n' match", as it were, some core idea is going to be central to your beliefs; and in a multi-culti environment, some cross-fertilization is inevitable.

Reverence starts first with respect for the beliefs of your family and community. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as your personal beliefs. This environment, nonetheless, for good or ill, affects your world view. You should strive to understand what your religion believes, no matter how bizarre it may seem to you, because without understanding you may falter on the next step. It is unlikely that everybody in your community believes exactly the same thing, and you should learn about religions and ideologies other than your own. (A book on world religions is handy at this juncture). You may find wisdom in unexpected sources. You will learn that often two people can reach the same conclusion from different premises, and different conclusions from the same premise, all while maintaining a human level of rationality. The key here is to understand that some people in your community sincerely believe and have reasons for their belief.

So after you've read up, ingested, and ruminated, what next?

Searchers of the Flower Moon

 A piece of trivia easily passed over in the grim Killers of the Flower Moon is the reference to a Scout troop aiding in the search for the missing woman. This is not a Boy Scouts of America troop, because the incident occurred in 1909, far away from New York City. Instead, the group must have used Baden-Powell's Scouting for Boys. The Osage reservation was not near any major cities, but the book had been around for five years, so there is no difficulty in believing that someone had brought the book to Oklahoma. Furthermore, youth organizations such the Sons of Daniel Boone and the Woodcraft Indians already existed. The former organization's very name suggests that it would not have found purchase on the reservation; the latter organization would be more likely, as both it and the YMCA's Indian Guides appropriated - with the aid of the white founders' indigenous friends - local cultures. 

Yet the sociopolitical situation of the Osage indicates why Scouting for Boys rather than The Birch Bark Roll would be the book adopted. The Osage, through the carelessness of the Oklahomans and a touch of serendipity, had come int money and had begun to adopt the white man's sedentary ways. Such a change always risks the loss of traditional skills and knowledge, an abandonment of historical manliness. The potential loss of manly virtue was a driving force in the growth of youth organizations among the white and increasingly urban population of the United States. Although the racist element of this concern could have been absent among the Osage, the use of a book about Scouting and woodcraft written by white man would have been a socially acceptable way of preserving indigenous tradition. The history of Scouting may have an official reason to pass over this Osage troop, but its existence should be included in the greater history of the movement within the United States. Perhaps other indigenous nations or overlooked minorities have more tales to tell of Scouts in action!

Flamer

 This is my review of Flamer, a graphic novel by Eagle Scout Mike Curato about being a closeted gay Scout at summer camp in the '90s. What qualifies me to assess this book? I was there as a little nerdy kid. The non-spoiler part of the review - it is an accurate portrayal of one kid's experience. I recommend this book to modern middle schoolers and lowly high school freshmen.

Now for the spoiler review. Our protagonist is Aiden, a pudgy rising freshman at Scout camp whose hormones are awakening. He loves the X-Men, but especially Jean Grey, the sole girl of the original lineup who evolves from the Girl to the cosmically powerful and iconically flaming Phoenix.  Aiden's patrol is the Flaming Arrows. This is, or at least was, a fairly common name for a Scout patrol. The name matches the flame theme and the reference to the slur of the title, but that nobody in Aiden's patrol chose the name - they are, in fact, quite unhappy about it - is a telling detail. Some Troops have ever-changing patrol names; but some long-established Troops have a stock of patrol names which are recycled. The patrol name Flaming Arrows would have lacked the potentially provocative connotation of Aiden's generation's slang and serves as a callback to the heavier influence of Native American customs in the Scouting tradition.

An important detail to note is that Aiden is enjoying Scout camp. Many accounts of summer camp for graphic novels and  YA books present camp as a universally awful experience except for the supportive best friend. Aiden participates in all the expected activities of that era, both the Scouting ones and the ones which are more questionable but unsurprising among boys of that age. Aidan is good at some of them and not at others, and he enjoys the camaraderie.

This positive background, however, is just that, and the conflict of the story cannot lack challenges. Just as if this were set at CYO camp, there would be a heterosexual crush, here, in the all-male environment, there is a homosexual one. Teenage hormones are indeed merciless! Aiden develops a crush on his fellow patrol member, who handles it as poorly as one would expect in that time and place - but he does not take the opportunity to get Aiden expelled from Scouts. None of the Flaming Arrows do - and they ultimately back their fellow patrol member in his verse of Boom-Chick-A-Boom. The same cannot be said of Aiden's mentor and archery instructor, who suffers the fate of so many gay counselors closeted at camp - he is expelled after someone read his letters home.

Here is why I use the phrase "closeted at camp." At the time when this book is set, the Mormon church (their preferred name at the time) and other conservative organizations held an outsized influence on the BSA. There was also more lingering military influence than at present. The military of that time had a policy known as "don't ask, don't tell." This meant that  the authorities would only remove a member from service if they outed themselves, intentionally or accidentally. Thus there were counselors at Scout camp whom many knew were gay but said nothing. Why betray the best connselor you have? I don't know what the policy at the author's camp was, but reading somebody else's mail seems like a violation of privacy.

Flamer is one man's portrayal of this time and place but I would urge any readers to take away two lessons from this graphic novel. The first is that the change in attitude towards gay Scouts has been exponential. The second is that the program, despite its glaring flaws, had positive aspects - the author, after all, remained in the program long enough to become an Eagle Scout!

Scout Sunday 2024

 On the first Sunday of February, a large contingent of the Troop attended Scout Sunday at our sponsor, a church. Unit Commissioner D. H. played the prelude, a work of his own creation dedicated to a late friend in Scouting. The hymn after the Call to Worship, Hymn 351, "All Who Love and Serve This City," was labeled in the genre of 'urban hymn', a genre hitherto unknown to yours truly. Some of the verses, however, though no doubt well-intentioned, could be misinterpreted in a less than Christian spirit. The scripture was Mark 1:35-45, the tale of Jesus and the leper who did not follow protocol and could not keep his mouth shut. The sermon, "Change of Plans," was well delivered with an ending that provoked further thought. Growing up, I thought that when in this passage Jesus could no longer work openly in these towns, it was due to his fame, rather than his infamy. This is not the case! The leper's failure to go to the priestly authorities was bad enough, since Jesus' healing would be widely known soon, but his indiscretion spread it faster. Jesus could no longer operate within the system. The leper's failure established Jesus as a challenger rather than an ally to the authorities on a time table he did not choose.

The service extended longer than usual because the church was ordaining its new elders and deacons. All church terms are subject to change in meaning, both subtle and gross, depending on denomination, and this was no different. In the language of the writer's home church, ordination is permanent status, but in the sponsoring church ordination, while confirming a sacred duty, is temporary. Nor are their elders young men on mission! The Scouts served the congregation coffee and pastries in the main hall and overall charmed those who had little to no interaction with Scouts or Scouting.

Be Prepared: A Brief Personal Review of Vera Brosgol's Russian Scouts in Exile Graphic Novel

 In her semi-biographical graphic novel Be Prepared, Vera Brosgol epitomizes many of the experiences of going to summer camp for the first time. The manipulations of younger Scouts by specific older Scouts, the cruel mockery of teens, and the heightened drama of young hormones all ring true, as does the hoarding of candy. Someday the tale of the Boar of Pioneer Campsite will be told! The integration of boys and girls was not familiar from Boy Scout camp (until recently), but was indeed familiar from Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) and various programs put on by the Episcopal Diocese of California (BREAD - "Boy-Related Education After Dark!) The CYO experience seems most relevant in the context of not quite fitting. Vera's protagonist Vera thinks that attending Russian Scout camp will allow her to find a place where she fits in, but she is not Russian enough there just as she is too Russian in New York with her (perceived as?) rich friends and their fancy dolls and summer camps. The organization itself seems a bit out of place, a piece of Russia in America, exemplified by the Russian and American flags flying side by side. Many Scouts have been all the roles in the book: the lost new kid, the best friend, the best friend betrayed and bitter, the unexpected friend, the cool counselor, the manipulator and the manipulated. Growing up is hard. Be Prepared is terrific.

Back to the Brigade?

Written on June 19, 2018. A follow-up post will arrive after sufficient research.

In recent years, there have been numerous groups that have claimed that the Boy Scouts of America have lost their claim to be "morally straight" and formed their own organizations. This is, of course, their right. The phenomenon is fascinating, but scarcely new. One feature I have noted that these organizations share are that they are implicitly or explicitly religious-based, specifically Christian, if not even more narrowly denominational. These groups are, in fact, correct in claiming that they hearken back to the early days of youth organizations, but they are wrong (for the most part) in claiming that this Christian youth group mentality was the purpose of the BSA.

Many of the original troops were groups of boys from the YMCA, which at that time was a Protestant organization, but the primary motivator here was threefold: first, that's where the boys were; second, that's where pre-built facilities were; third, the YMCA was already an organization committed to the moral improvement of young men. This was functionally no different than the current reasoning that encourages troops and crews to use church basements and social halls as meeting spaces. The perceived Protestant element was so strong, however, that the Catholic Church forbade its boys from joining until 1913.

The Scouting movement already established in England had addressed this issue: although the initial testing ground for the Scouting movement had been the resolutely Presbyterian Boys' Brigade, of which there were Anglican, Catholic, Jewish, and Pacifist iterations, the Scouting method was designed as a religiously neutral method of training boys, and the Boy Scouts, once founded, maintained that neutrality. The self-organizing principle ensured that many groups were religiously homogeneous, often because they were also units of the Boys' Brigade or equivalents. This was also a reflection of the more segregated religion of the day, except in the military, from which Baden-Powell came. Baden-Powell and Brigadier Smith, the founder of Boys' Brigade worked together for many years, but the split, one of many among the promoters of the booming youth program movement, was on the relatively passive role of religion with the Boy Scout organization. Baden-Powell was adamant that duty to God was a matter of individual conscience and therefore could not and should not be administered by external forces within the Boy Scout organization. Smith, whose initial inspiration to form the Boys' Brigade had come from the union of Sunday school and military drill, could not countenance such sloppiness. This was hardly the only ideological rift among youth leaders, but the military and political aspects are topics to be discussed another time.

It is worth noting that neither of the predecessor organizations in the United States, the Sons of Daniel Boone and the Woodcraft Indians, placed explicitly denominational requirements on their members. This ecumenicism (for non-denominational, sadly, has now come to mean "very specific denomination") carried over to the BSA, although it seems that many people could not wrap their minds around the concept except in terms of military training.

Nowadays there is an organization called the Troops of St George. It is Catholic, somewhat military ( partly through expediency of Army/Navy store supplies in Texas), and incorporates father-son elements similar to the YMCA's long-defunct Indian Guide program. The truly distinguishing paraphernalia, however, is the Rosary. Although the organization is not linked to the military, nor are troops within the organization required to practice drill, the assumption of a military rank system and the explicit religious element are a return to the days of the Boys' Brigade, or in this case, the Catholic Lads' Brigade.

https://troopsofsaintgeorge.org/troops/

https://boys-brigade.org.uk/

http://www.bgbrigade.com/

http://www.thefullwiki.org/Sons_of_Daniel_Boone

http://history.oa-bsa.org/node/3039

http://vintagekidstuff.com/yguides/yguides.html

Right Place, Right Time

After a disastrous evening, full of painful walking through the dark of an unfamiliar town, in which so far the only bright light had been a pleasant surprise encounter with Grayson, I made it back to the San Leandro BART station. A man approached me from an angle I could not see well, and addressed me. I responded with the prudent reaction when a stranger approaches on BART - cautious hostility - but when I saw him, I realized that he was a Kaiser employee. He had recognized my Scout uniform. He wanted to know if the council office was still there, and if so, when it was open. I sympathized; it is nearly impossible to tell when the council office is open from an occasional glance from the street. Some buildings look open in all circumstance; others appear closed when they are not. He had been s Scout in Troops 313 and 247, an Arrowman, and a camper at Royaneh, but had lost his insignia in a house fire. I encouraged him to talk to the council about replacements, at least for 247 and Order of the Arrow insignia, and to see if any of his old friends were in the Royaneh volunteer corps.

If my evening had not gone sideways, I would not have been there; but if I had not been there, I would not have been able to help a man who truly valued his Scouting experience. I cannot prove it, of course, but I am inclined to believe the Great Master of All Scouts wanted me there at that time.

Boy Scouts of the Apocalypse

The apocalyptic genre has resonated with audiences for generations, despite the disapproval of parents and ecclesiastical potentates, but its star has been ascendant in our media-saturated culture for many years now. The Walking Dead has lasted (too many?) seasons, and my good friend Beth roped me into watching iZombie. The week before I headed off to Latin boot camp, I was picking up Spider-Titles at Mission Comics and Arts (now moved around the corner, not closed!), when a book caught my eye: Junior Braves of the Apocalypse, Vol. 1: A Brave is Brave by Greg Smith and Michael Tanner (authors) and Zach Lehner (artist). The proprietor, Leef, agreed that this graphic novel was right up my alley. But I would have to wait before I could read it.

When I did buy it, I was glad I did. I'm not much for zombie books or horror in general. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the setting that made me more comfortable with the premise. Perhaps it was the nostalgic freedoms denied to today's generation. But this graphic novel is now part of my BSA-themed collection.

The initial cast, especially the tribe, of the graphic novel displays the diversity one would expect of an ensemble cast with a high expected death rate. The organization itself is lawyer-proofed BSA, although many of the elements are more reminiscent of Campfire Girls (long since renamed something far less memorable) and Woodcraft Indians. The old school Scoutmaster, harsh but well-intentioned, and his assistant, who prefers a softer touch, take the tribe on a week-long camp in the woods. When they return, civilization has collapsed - there may be order somewhere, but nowhere near the location of the plot. The tribe uses its skills to avoid capture and infection, but of course there are losses along the way. One character's unconventional use of trail markings was particularly gratifying. The mix of ages within the tribe is a bit of a stretch, but these lawyer-friendly versions of Boy Scouts, often mix Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts indiscriminately, and, it must be admitted, the mixture allows a greater range of reactions.

Many reviews would focus on the boys, who are indeed well-written. But I am more interested in the dynamic between the tribe leader and assistant. Their styles are initially antagonistic, but their devotion to the welfare of the boys, despite their quite different definitions, is a refreshing change to the usual portrayals of adults in youth-focused apocalyptic tales as crazy at worst, incompetent at best - in the case of the school staff, both. The tribe is split at a crucial moment, leaving the assistant with the main group. As much as I dislike the notion that one can only relate to a character who is like oneself, it is an effective technique. The frustration and dedication of the assistant tribe leader was portrayed clearly and effectively. 

The Junior Braves' manual provides gaps between the action, in which the authors can provide the infodumps that the characters would not discuss (either because they are under attack, or already know it, or both). Various pages from the manual inform the reader of the Junior Brave philosophy, a cross between the Boy Scout Law and the Outdoor Code, the taxonomy of trail signs, knots, and first aid. It certainly seems to be more readable than the current edition of the Handbook!

The first volume ends on a positive note (well, as positive as one can be during a zombie apocalypse) and the promise of adventures in the woods of the northwest.

I would recommend this graphic novel to anybody who enjoys zombie stories and anybody who was Boy Scout. It's less graphic than the current shows, has plenty of action, and displays positive relationships, even if the ever-present threat of zombification introduces tension into those relationships. Go forth and read!

Names and Numbers

For years, our cabins (ours in the sense that we live there, not that we own them or are able to deny access to them in other sessions at Royaneh) at Pioneers had number only, one to seven,  although cabin seven was the most desirable, being easier to clean although farthest from the fall-ins at the junction of the road and the campsite. This has changed; although the numbers have remained, each cabin has a name, according to the donors who funded the construction of newer, better cabins, although in the same basic form as the old cabins. This pouring of money into the cabins was an expansion of a long tradition of maintaining the cabins lest they be replaced with the abominations that are more friendly to non-Scout populations but reduce the outdoorsy nature of the summer camp experience. Traditionally, these repairs were done during the Good Turn weekend, but the aggressive promotion of Camporee has thrown off that custom.

Giving something a name is a momentous occasion; it is not a coincidence that the naming of the beasts by Adam occupies a prominent position. Names give an identity that numbers cannot. Although the cabins have retained their numbers, the use of the new names - Weber, Callendar, Skewes-Cox, Ehrman, Applegarth, Morrissey, and the one I'm forgetting - has begun to rise. Will the numbers cease to be used? What will happen when a Scout who shares a name with the cabin dwells therein?

The Last Days of Forty-Niner

One summer, when I was in college and helping at Royaneh with Troop 14, a camp commissioner, whose son was in the troop, approached. He said that Troop 347 was coming to camp in the third week and urgently needed extra adult leaders. He asked me if I would help him with the leadership of that troop. I said yes. I had no summer job to which to return, and I have always believed in the Scout Law. So I was present at the third opening campfire of the year as a provisional leader, a leader on loan, as it were, from another troop. Troop 347 had a much smaller contingent than Troop 14, and camped in Forty-Niner, which lay below the chapel and the horseshoe pit. Once this campsite had contained four cabins in the same style as that of the Pioneer campsite, but erosion and weathering had reduced it from four to two plus a fire pit. The 347 contingent was small enough to fit, even though one of the cabins had a gaping hole at the back which made the building only half-usable. This 347 had disabilities - but with aid, they could attend Scout camp. It may seem strange that the council would put Scouts in a campsite with hazards for even non-disabled persons, but I am no expert in the difficulties of ADA compliance and fundamentally physical spaces such as summer camps. Every time I stepped into the cabin, I felt a twinge of fear lest someone, disabled or not, should fall through or lacerate themselves, There were many enjoyable times that session, but when I returned next summer and found Forty-Niner had been torn down, I shed no tears. Forty-Niner is now a toy-sized climbing wall to provide an extra merit badge area.

The Gilded Lily and the Golden As

[Note: Yes, I am using man meaning male; yes, it is a deliberate choice given the assumed audience.]

The Roman empire was built on military might and sound infrastructure, but monetary policy was not an area in which the Romans excelled (they probably farmed it out to the Greeks).. The Emperors had no budget - even if your idea of acquiring money is to take it at sword point from peasants, it is useful to know how much you can extract this year without having your sources dry up the next. The Empire did not understand this. When the Emperors needed more money, they made more money. The result was what one would expect from a basic knowledge of economic theory: inflation. When the Emperors discovered that make more money had not made them richer, and after they had failed to learn this lesson multiple times, they debased the currency: they used their dwindling supplies of the metals from which the coins had been wholly made in earlier eras and substituted a cheaper metal for the interior while coating the outside with the more precious metal. These later coins, although they looked the same, were not the same: gilded is not the same as golden, brazen not the same as bronze.

We use the word currency not only in reference to money, but to the qualities of men as well. An unearned award is like the gilding over the lead inside; rather than reflecting the accomplishments of the man who wears it, it deceives the world and misleads the public to believe that there is something of value where there is mostly dross. But coins and individuals do not exist in isolation. Once there are gilded coins mixed in with the golden ones, shrewd individuals will soon suspect that even the golden ones might be gilded. Once that suspicion has found fertile soil in the minds of men, the value of all the coins are reduced in the markets. It is likewise with virtue or character: it is hard won, but easily lost. The corruption of the individual, though it may often be invisible from the outside or to the unpracticed eye, once known, raises suspicions that other individuals who are in fact golden may be in truth gilded. And while in some cases this may be true, it is a human weakness to generalize from the worst to the entire group.

Thus a group which openly proclaims that its awards reflect moral values and are testaments of character must be vigilant against the debasement of its highest awards. It is far easier for the value of a coin or a medallion to be tarnished than for it to recover its former value. The latter may not be possible; then something which was bright and glorious has become sordid and stained, and the sublime reduced to the profane.

Navel of the World

On a bright Saturday morning, a hardy few Scouts and parents gathered at the Blue and Gold Ferry Building in order to seek by boat, albeit not a swift one, the island now called Angel but to many trapped therein after a long voyage to these domains hardly angelic. Across the foam-flecked waters we crossed to the harbor where the vessel lay anchor and we debarked. Our leader, though still yet a youth, spake unto the rangers and discovered that the path we had chosen was no longer passable. He sought, therefore, another path whereby we might attain the summit of the isle. After we had trod but a short while, we came to a place of rest and refreshment whose roof was made of leaves and whose seats were made of the fallen brethren of the trees. In this place we shed our vestments and donned the garments more meet for journeying.

The ascent led the faithful company through copses and fields full of those flowers whose virtue allows them to grow in this soil unto the summit. From that giddy height, thronged by many who had come to that isle, a man or boy could see all the shores that surround the mighty bay. The ground beneath was made of greywacke, a stone that is born grey but changes to tan upon exposure to the relentless air, and serpentinite, a greenish compound whose poisons forbid all but the hardiest plants to grow. Some in error call it serpentine, a more harmonious word, but those to whom more wisdom has been granted know that serpentine is but a part of the whole from which serpentinite takes its name.

The company descended to the far side of the isle, where they supped on the food which they had brought them. It was a fair spot to enjoy the fare, but that long grey isle wherein some many suffered,, perhaps justly, in part lay between the isle upon which the company sat and the fair city of tall towers and mighty hills whence we had fared that morn. Nigh unto the place of merriment were three grooves dug deep into the earth, that those warriors who once stood guard upon the isle might better aim their weapons in defense of the realm.

When the company had eaten their fill, they journeyed once more. They found a building, long abandoned, ruined but not yet wholly fallen down, wherein they played, imagining the adventures that boys do dream of according to their nature. Some, not tall enough though slender, wished that they had wings or mighty thews that they might reach the levels above forever out of reach of ordinary men. A marvelous mechanical device might have aided in the accomplishment of their desire, but the company lacked such wonders.

The company returned too early to the place where they had arrived upon the isle and from which the vessel would depart at the appointed time (or so it was hoped). Now the converse of men is good for the strengthening of brotherhood, but it would have been better if our youthful leader had used the time he had created for something other than idle games. I with another went to the house nearby, once the residence of the governor of the isle but now a place of remembrance for all that had passed upon that isle since the first Europeans set foot thereon. It may be that my enthusiasm made the sights within that building greater than they might have been, and that another more critical eye assessed the sights more truthfully.

The vessel which was to bear the company back to the city wherein they dwelt tarried in its coming, so that the number that desired to leave the isle, fair as it was, was vastly greater than the number which the ship could hold. All of the company made the first journey (the masters of the Blue and Gold had summoned a second vessel to rescue the sad remnant upon the isle). The boat itself was filled with merriment, of which much derived from the overconsumption of alcohol by those whose idea of pleasure is to eat and drink until judgment fades and impulse rules the limbs. Once the vessel neared the port of the Blue and Gold, a man in their service who fancied himself a wit warned the passengers to ensure that their vehicles, two-wheeled and painted with garish colors, not be taken by thieves and scoundrels.

Then the company landed and this tale is ended.

MLK Hike 2015

On Saturday morning, a horde of red neckerchiefs assembled in the Bear Valley parking lot of Point Reyes National Seashore, ready for the Martin Luther King Jr. weekend backpacking trip. Three days and two nights is not a very long trip, but it's the best one can manage during the school year with a miscellany of 'winter vacations'. Sometimes the diversity of the Troop is also a liability. At this point, everyone was clean and energetic. The two Philmont crews had decided that this trip was mandatory in order to test their gear and skills for the summer; this decision considerably swelled our numbers. The smaller Scouts were there also, with all the enthusiasm and boundless energy of the truly young; inexperience in backpacking would dampen this, but not extinguish it.

When the First Emperor ordered maps to be made of all the great roads of his realm, he commanded that the distance in li (imperial miles) be measured in time spent travelling rather than absolute distance, and that the roads be measured both uphill and downhill. On the first day of this trip, the intrepid Red Horde learned the truth and wisdom in this approach. The distance to Sky Camp was not far, but the journey was entirely onwards and upwards (with apologies to C.S. Lewis). The first stop involved a good deal of pack adjustment, as the contents that were still in the city were moved by the rhythm of the trail. When the group crested and then descended, albeit briefly, into camp, everybody set up camp. The wind of the last time the Troop camped here was absent, greatly aiding the speed of setting up. But the gnats, o the gnats, the gnats swarmed around anything breathing out carbon dioxide.

The first event of the afternoon was a round robin of skills. These included orienteering, outdoor safety, proper packing, and of course knots - it wouldn't be a Scout outing without knots. The stories of outdoor safety seemed to become more gruesome and exciting as the groups rotated. After the learning came the fun: the troop divided into two teams and played a game of Capture the Flag which proved to be more hotly contested than most. In light of this dispute, a rematch was scheduled for Sunday night.

Saturday's campfire was (sadly) a Nalgene (c) campfire, since Saturday had been declared a Spare the Air Day. It is annoying, but probably not accidental, that many Spare the Air Days are the same days a group like this might go camping and want to build a fire. For those who do not know what a Nalgene campfire is, I shall explain. Concern for fire safety sometimes, and more and more frequently often, trumps the traditional focus ("hearth" in Latin) of a roaring fire with Scouts around it singing and entertaining each other. Although the heat of the fire on a cold January night is the most noticeable feature of the traditional fire, the way it provides light is a second important role. The third function is the designation of the stage on which the skits are performed. Without a true fire, the heat is absent, but the other two roles can be supplied by a "fire" consisting of flashlights and Nalgene bottles of different colors. The effect is a cold rainbow that illuminates the performances.

The actual performance at Saturday's campfire was no better and no worse than other recent campfires. The food group skits were undercooked, and one was raw - the players were arguing on stages about the skit so long that they ran out of time! I would say more, but I suspect that my dissatisfaction with the skits, although justified, is somewhat colored by my own unreliable memories of my days as a patrol leader. The food group songs were enthusiastic, but the singers often did not know some of the key lyrics. The Troop songs and yells, however, were enthusiastic, and my traditional song worked almost perfectly. The Troop heard some stories about the San Francisco Giants.

That night, around half past nine, the fog rolled in, making everything unprotected extremely wet. For many, this was not a problem: I, however, was sleeping outside. The important parts of my equipment remained dry, and the exterior of my camping pillow (which was now outside my sleeping bag, as I was resting my head on a sweater) proved its durability and usefulness.



Sunday morning was cool and wet, very unlike the dry weather of the previous trip. Even with the unintentional late start, squarely blamed on the boy leadership, there was no chance of truly drying anything, and a few insects were packed with the boys' gear. Everybody filled their water bottles before we left because there would be no opportunity for resupply between Sky Camp and Wildcat, our final destination. The group left Sky Camp at a brisk pace. The woods were cool and the path was easy, but then the group reached the first fork in the road, and the leadership determined that they had led the group a half-mile the wrong way! There was nothing to do other than turn around and dismiss the mistake (unconvincingly) as a "warm-up". It's better to make such mistakes on a trip such as this and learn from them rather than on a trip where there are higher consequences for errors!

The morning was all downhill through the fog, thick enough to cool but thin enough to see clearly - ideal hiking weather. A steady downhill, even in these conditions, begins to weary the legs, but cool weather may not last, so one must take advantage of it when one can. This fog lasted a surprisingly long time.

As the group was approaching the descent to Arch Rock, the sole of my boots detached. I was forced to changed into my camp shoes. which fortunately were tennis shoes rather than sandals. Nor was I the only one whose boots failed - one of the fathers suffered a similar loss. I do not recommend the trail to Wildcat in tennis shoes, certainly not with a backpack.

When the group reached Arch Rock, the Troop ate lunch amidst the day hikers.  Arch Rock is a knob that sticks out into the Pacific. Its top is bare and sandy, with a few scattered rocks. Its edges gradually curve into the surrounding abyss. It is a scenic spot, but somewhat disconcerting. The remaining water supply was considerably greater than that of last time, since the fog had had provided cool weather almost the entire descent.

After lunch, we ascended the hill that was the first barrier on the journey to Wildcat. The initial climb is clear and then gives way to a forest track with many side-tracks, probably deer trails, descending into the brush. Near the first crest was a viewing station, although few members of the Troop took advantage of it, preferring to get as much rest as they could. Past that point, the trail was easy but deceptively long - several cool, covered stretches were nearly identical and planted false hope in the weary soul. The descent into Wildcat appeared at last, and the group lost all the altitude that it had gained since leaving Arch Rock.

We pitched our tents and set up our food areas as soon as we reached Wildcat. This time we did not discover a field mouse nest in one of the food boxes. Wildcat was more crowded than last time, so playing Capture the Flag in the campsite was not feasible. The boys headed to the beach, where they played the second round of the MLK Capture the Flag series and soaked their feet, swollen from the long day's march, in the Pacific Ocean. One food group had split the duties of grubmaster and had a failure of communication; this group was coping admirably with a skimpier meal, but the other groups had enough food to share, whether that was the result of Scout spirit or a practical desire to dispense of food before the next day's hike.

The campfire was once again a Nalgene campfire. The skits were more creative than Saturday night, but I could hardly believe my eyes when one group performed the very same skit as a different group had performed the night before. The song were once again enthusiastic, and the fathers who had come on the trip performed a medley as their contribution to the campfire. There were, of course, more Giants stories.

After the campfire, there was a conference of the leadership, both boys and adults, for debriefing, discussing any disciplinary issues, and planning the next day's route. The Senior Patrol Leader had not been the previous MLK hike on which we traversed this route, so there was much discussion on which route back to the Bear Valley parking lot would quickest, most efficient, and involve the least backtracking.

This night, many Scouts, especially younger ones, decided to sleep under the stars. The weather was drier and windier in Wildcat than Sky Camp, but I was a bit concerned that the little Scouts would not be warm enough. Fortunately, that concern proved unwarranted - some had friends' tents to which they could retreat, while others had the latest, warmest sleeping bags and the ability of all small things to burrow.


On Monday morning, the Troop rose early, although not as early as last time, when the Troop had risen before dawn and ascended the first hill home in the half-light. Further delay, but a necessary delay, came from breakfast. Scout's Own, the non-denominational service which normally takes place on Sunday morning, took place on Monday - given the nature of the long weekend, Monday was an appropriate time for serious contemplation. Scout's Own took place on a knob overlooking the Pacific. The waves crashing behind the emcee and the speakers were so loud it was sometimes difficult to hear.

Once the other adult whose shoes had dissolved had an adequate (though not ideal0 pair of shoes and a large portion of the pack of the struggling little Scout had been redistributed, the Troop headed up the trail. The ascent looked less intimidating in full light. The first crest, indicated by the presence of a water tank was encouraging, but it proved that my memories of this trail from two years ago were rosier than warranted on the matter of the amount of uphill and fire road. It was cool while we traveled. As usual on the last day of a trip, part of the route was trudging steadily onward in anticipation of civilization and a visit to In 'N' Out. The Troop made good time and reached the Bear Valley parking lot an hour later than the last trip.

It's always hard to end these accounts, since a good trip often lacks a dramatic ending - if real-life adventures ended the way stories and movies do,  life would be exhausting and terrifying. The MLK 2015 hike had its ups and downs (both literally and figuratively). It will be remembered well by those who were there, and the unpleasantries will fade away soon, leaving only the recollection of an exciting weekend hike.

Window of the Soul

Recently, I was reflecting on the idea of cleanliness - clean in body and mind. An unclean mind is a bit like a dirty window - when the window was clean, someone could look out and see the world and other people clearly, but now that it is dirty there are spots where all you can see is the dirty and muck adhering to the window. In those spots, unlike the clean areas, the scene never changes. If you allow the window through which you see the world to become begrimed by these specific forms of filth, every time you look out you will see that grime imposed on the otherwise changeable scene. Even worse is gunk on your side of the window, which you could remove more easily than the grime on the outside. Thus, if you have some interior blemish of soul or mind, you will see that blemish in others and treat it as a normal part of the human condition. So perhaps if you see a fault in all men, you should check that your own window doesn't have some gum stuck to it!

Canoe Trip 2014

We gathered on an early Saturday morning in a place from which we could see Angel Island and sites across the Bay. The exercisers arrived before the boys did. A prompt departure was a challenge - military efficiency is not expected, but we still failed to leave before the arrival of the legendary Late Scout. The trip up to Burke's Canoe Trips was uneventful, with some delaying on the road longer than others for their cappucinos. In previous years, a Troop father had generously allowed us to camp on his riverine estate with an apple tree much beloved by small Scouts, but in this year the house was undergoing renovation, so we could not stay there. I could not find the cord which I had bought for this trip and with which I had intended to secure my drybag, so I had to use my shoe laces. Part of being prepared is knowing secondary uses of objects! The supply boat carried our extra water, which our leader had managed to acquire. The first challenge of the river was a choice between a portage and a particularly swift and bushy curve. Many of the Scouts chose to portage, but with skill we avoided the worst traps of the curve.

When we had passed this, we saw a cormorant gliding along the river, heedless of the canoers invading his realm; there were many revelers this weekend, since those who sought adventure had adapted their expectations to current drought conditions. We also saw ducks in a row - I had thought this an image drawn from the repetitive targets of carnival hucksters, but it is a real phenomenon. Six or seven duck were perched on log in an eddy, craving the algal growth below them.

The Troop dad, who had gone home to fetch his kayak, now joined us for a stretch. He was good company and he left before the journey back up-river became too long. The cormorant appeared again, this time on the stump of a high tree, with its wings spread out. Majestic and serene!

The campsite which we had found in lieu of the apple orchard was a RV campground, so we held out  few hopes for it, but our site was surprisingly pleasant and large. It was much better than the land on which we used to camp, the land of the Pomo tribe, which held a large dirt patch and an over-priced convenience store. One Scouts had forgotten his kit, so I lent him one of my two bowls on the promise of a thorough cleaning and remembering to bring his supplies next time.

There was a proper fire pit, so our campfires had actual fires, a nice change from the creatively arranged but hardly warming translucent Nalgene bottles illuminated by flashlights.The skits were in the low moderate range, not bad for the beginning of the year. The yells were reasonably creative, and all the songs were off-key. I spoke on the history of canoes, a rough, unpolished speech, but most works start as uncut diamond.

The Troop settled down quickly after the campfire ended. I had forgetten my warm top for sleeping outside, but the second, interior drawstring of my sleeping bag provided a more than adequate cocoon. The spot which I had selected was ideal, as far as dirt patches go - flat, no sharp rocks or tree roots, no overhanging tree branch to drip on me in the morning. That last proved not be a concern, since the place was too dry for dew. The older boys had decamped to a lower grassy field, but around midnight they returned from the mosquito-laden mere that adjoined the grassy area.

In the morning, the adult group had no breakfast, but a combination of personal rations and an overflow of apples from one of the Scout groups solved the problem. There was a brief Scout's Own, done sufficiently and briefly. By this point, there was only one parent to choose as the speaker.  We returned home early, but everybody had had a good time.

Royaneh 2012

This year at Royaneh saw a lot of action up on Pioneer Hill. The new flush toilet had some starting difficulties – as unattractive as a kybo can be, it cannot be jammed up. The migration to Big Egypt has not ebbed. Speaking of Egypt, the international Scout this year, Sharif, was from Cairo, and many of the neat things in the Trading Post were Egyptian-themed. It's a testament to the power of Scouting that Mubarak, the former ruler of Egypt, banned Scouting in his country. Opening campfire was a bit rough, as it always is, and some of the first years became confused on Monday about which classes they were taking. Gladiators was restored to a semblance of its rodeo days glory, complete with a rodeo-style opening ceremony. Horsemanship was popular with the Scouts this year, as was Astronomy/SpaceEx merit badge. Scouting heritage appears to have joined the regular stable, rather than remaining a centenary phenomenon. A lot of merit badge classes at Royaneh are doubled, so that you can get two badges at once. It's great to have more badges for your sash, especially at a traditional Fourteener color guard, but part of me does wonder whether the doubling diminishes the information content of each badge.


There was a touch of the plague at camp, but it passed over Fourteen with one unfortunate exception. Other troops, however, were not so lucky – one lost nine kids, half its contingent. The good side effect of the reports of sickness was cooperation with the shower patrol for the dirty little first years. The troop skit was well-executed, thanks to preparation by one of the older Scouts. I missed the first closing campfire because I had whacked my shin, but I did have the pleasure of chasing away some miscreants from a different troop who (believe it or not) wanted to steal the 14 and transport it to the top of camp. Saturday, of course, contained a game of Capture the Flag and some very cold and wet, but poison oak-free Scouts. The Scout leading Sunday's Scout's Own is the descendant of a rabbi and it showed. I do not know where the parent who was scheduled to speak was during the Scout's Own, so I spoke instead.

Monday, of course, brought classes. Beck and I were the uniformed leadership for week 2. Fourteeners were more active during this week, and one of our own designed an Advanced Riflery class. All the first years did the Trail of the Thunderbird. I held my own in the Scoutmaster dance-off on Tuesday, but I did not win. On Wednesday, Gladiators both went long and had a snarled schedule. I'm sure that by next year the staff will have the format streamlined. The skit for the second week was the same as the first, but with a slightly different cast, although all the actors were once again first years. Friday night, of course, was the Troop Feed, which lasted into the wee hours of the morning. Those Scouts who had brought guitars, ukuleles, and other instruments entertained the group, but I didn't get to bed until 3 because I was out with the fire crew cooling the fire.

Earth Days

It was a busy weekend, but that's normal for Earth Day. Although our merry band pioneered (pun intentional) the Good Turn, its adoption by the District and Council is a mixed blessing. The powers that be decreed that the Good Turn should take place on the weekend of Earth Day, so we went down to Milagra Ridge between South San Francisco and Linda Mar to remove Scotch broom. There were fewer of us than I had hoped, but I assume the absent contributed to Earth Day elsewhere. Scotch broom has vivid yellow flowers and is much prettier than the bane of my early service project days, ice plant, but it grows quickly and the native animals and insects do not recognize Scotch broom as a suitable habitat. The natural enemy of Scotch broom, sheep (Scottish or otherwise), are not a good solution, since they would eat much more than the Scotch broom. I remember when I first saw Scotch broom in its native Caledonian habitat - it took a moment to remember that in these lands it was not a weed to be exterminated. The sheep, with their heavy wool coats and tendency to block the road, were a much greater threat to humanity.

The ridge was steep, although not forbiddingly so, and covered in both Scotch broom and poison oak. Certain members of our party, being more sensitive to poison oak, were not eager to charge into the thicket, much less rig a hammock and nap there. I'm not terribly sensitive to poison oak, so I was not greatly worried, but the GGNRA volunteers had magic outerwear called TYVEK suits. These suits reminded of hazmat suits without helmets, but they were made of paper, albeit a sturdy kind. The clearing took more energy than I had anticipated, but the results of our labor were satisfyingly visible.

After we had finished our share of weeding, we hiked to the cliff edge and ate lunch. We could see Linda Mar, the controversial golf course, and Pacifica in the distance. The tunnel through the hill below us was not yet open, but its presence prompted much conversation. Our return to the city ended a simple outing, but one that has inspired the attendees.

On Sunday, I went to church, where one of our own, rather than the absent pastor, preached the Word. Apparently I am more comfortable than she with Atonement theology, but the ability to disagree is a wonderful feature of my home church. The one thing that really bothered me, however, and this is not the fault of the church per se, since the words were Bob Marley's, was the reference to "the Daughter" in the communion hymn. I have no problem with emphasizing the maternal qualities of the Godhead - it serves as a reminder that God "the Father" is way of describing God's behavior so that our finite minds can grasp it - nor do I object to the nurturing, maternal qualities of Jesus, who, after all, compared himself to a mother hen, and the Holy Ghost always seems too abstract (for lack of a better term) to cause gender-bending chaos, but I cannot understand why anyone would describe Jesus as "Daughter." Provocation? Perhaps I am looking at this through a prescriptivist lens, when it is meant as a stimulation to discussion.

After church, I went downtown for a concert at Notre Dame des Victoires (I had forgotten about the plural article). I stopped at the church, but not to pray - I could not see the crowd thronging into the church for the concert. As it turned out, the concert was in the school auditorium, not the church proper. I had never been inside NDV before, and never before had I realized how cramped the facilities were for jocks (I was a bookish child and would have been fine).

Troop Fourteen:Rainy Day Hike

On Saturday, March 24, a small but intrepid band of Fourteeners braved the rain to attend a hike. The weather was bad and would get worse as the day passed. Since so few had dared the weather, the acting Senior Patrol Leader decided to change the hike from Mount Tamalpais to the Presidio; this way, the hike could serve as a test for the rain-worthiness of each Scout's equipment. Most of us ditched our lunches in cars at the beginning of the hike, but some hungry Scouts were unwilling to abandon food, even for a few hours. We walked down Lovers' Lane to the waterline. Then we headed to Fort Point, where the waves were crashing against the rocks. At first it seemed that the fort was closed, and none of us had planned to buy entrance tickets, but Bruce McKleroy spoke with the attendant . The fort opened ten minutes later and the group explored the fort. I had not visited Fort Point since sophomore year in high school, and had forgotten how Spartan the living conditions had been. The struts of the Golden Gate Bridge loomed overhead like a red metallic spiderweb. We left too early for my taste - I suppose I shall return soon on a better day when I can take proper pictures. The Senior Patrol Leader then led us up the hill and along the Ridge Trail past Camp Rob, where one of the first place patrols camped a year or so ago. The Presidio is within the Scout district, so permits are much easier to obtain than for trips beyond (which, sadly, includes Pacifica, which has some nice trails). If anyone plans to camp there, prepare for wind, but even a night at Camp Rob would count as a night for Camping Merit Badge. Bruce McKleroy explained that only the military had access to the area of the Ridge Trail when the military controlled the Presidio. Now it is a pleasant hike, even though the yellow mud along it was extremely slippery. We passed Julius Kahn Playground, a locus for stories of childhood injuries, and returned to Broadway and Lyon before noon. The total distance covered was 6.7 miles, not too challenging for a patrol outing and a breeze for the Troop.

Pinnacles Trip

On March 4 and 5, the troop traveled to Pinnacles National Monument, which it had not visited for more than twenty years. The Scoutmaster could not attend, so Beck Diefenbach and I were the uniformed leaders. We left the city early, since the trip to Pinnacles National Monument was far away compared to other trail heads. The campsite lay between a broad parking lot and stream well-hidden by vegetation, so no hiking was required.

When we had struck camp and eaten lunch, we went up to Bear Gulch Day Use Area to meet the rock climbing instructors who would help us in the afternoon. Alas, we disembarked too early and therefore hiked up to the proper site. After the climbing instructors had given a brief orientation, they handed off the climbing gear to the Scouts. We hiked the Moses Spring Trail and Bear Gulch Cave trail, where the instructors split the Scouts into two groups. The less experienced Scouts went to the closer and easier climbing site, while the more ambitious went to a wall above Bear Gulch Reservoir. Some of the Scouts had climbed before and were naturals, one so much so that I compared him a spider monkey (apparently so did my colleague), while others were new to the sport but willing to challenge themselves - one of the latter group accomplished the highest-rated ascent of the day. The Scouts were having an enormous amount of fun, but soon it was time to leave and return to camp.

 
The campfire that night was short but lively.  The requisite skits and yells were done by food groups rather than patrols,  since there were not enough members of some patrols to sustain a skit. Each patrol within a food group received the full amount of points for the group, rather than the insane proportional distribution system briefly used during my Scout career. The skits were short, but I have to give credit for an effort to include as many of the group as possible within the skit. The Troop Staff began the acclimatization of the younger Scouts to the traditions of summer camp and Royaneh by teaching Gazalla. My contribution, The Chickens Get Into The Tomatos, was more frivolous, and the timing of the round was off. That round sometimes works and sometimes does not. The campfire closed rather early. Some Scouts went to their tents, but others remained around the fire for another hour. I told them about the importance of Venus, which was shining brightly that night, and regaled them with the story of how Orion ended up in the night sky.

On Sunday morning we woke up early; some of the Scouts woke up especially early and exercised. The energy of teenagers never ceases to amaze me. On a lighter note, one of the fathers who had set up his tent under a tree discovered that the quail roosting in the tree for the night had expelled their waste upon it. When I saw this, I was glad that I had moved my sleeping bag out from under the same tree!

After a short and inspirational Scout's Own, we traveled to the trail head for the Old Pinnacles Trail. There was a portable latrine, but I was worried (unnecessarily, as it turned out) about the possibilities for changing into uniform for traveling back to San Francisco. We hiked along West Fork Chalone Creek to Balconies Cave, where the trail passes through the cave. We ascended through the cave – the Scouts loved it! When I visited the caves many years ago, I had descended through the cave rather than ascended. It was a slippery experience, especially with the backpacks of the time, which were nowhere near as compact as those of today. Fortunately, all the Scouts helped each other with the backpacks. There were a few wet spots in the cave this time, but nothing that adequate footwear could not handle. When we had almost reached the end of the cave, one of the Scouts, who had experience climbing, could not stay away from the walls. Perhaps he has some gecko in his ancestry!

Here are some more photos taken by my colleague, Beck Diefenbach:

We exited the cave and walked beneath the Balconies Cliff, a massive rock formation with a vertical green channels from the spring rains. Several Scouts spotted people, tiny in perspective, perched upon the rocks above the caves through which we had come. They must have climbed there. One Scout expressed a desire to live atop the rock, while others made the morbid jokes so typical of youth and Classicists. The walk back to the cars felt much longer than the way in, but dreams of In N Out spurred the tired troop onward!

Flashlight Hike 2011

No photos this time. I was in a dark corner supervising the carries group, and then it was too dark. We followed the customary route above Rodeo Lagoon, near which some of the participants had gone to environmental awareness camp. One of my earliest maps was drawn at that camp for my journal entries of that year. I believe I also said something uncomplimentary about Jonathan Vordermark and criticized the camp's treatment of the flag.  We went up the hill to the bunker and split into a round robin of five groups to complete various requirements. As I said, I was supervising the carries group. The test was a race, which would have been much more hazardous if the giant gun emplacement pit had not been filled. We continued up the hill and up the stairs. I was a bit worried when we were passing the collapsed wooden ruins on the top of the head, since some of the younger kids were itching to descend into the splintery abyss. Several of the turns were not clearly marked, but we did not lose anybody. We ascended to Hill 88 and supped there. The Urban Astronomer, who was with us, provided guidance to navigating the stars, although the moon was bright. We headed down from the summit of Hill 88 and walked along the backside of the ridge.

At the crossroads, where a wrong choice would lead to the Long March of that infamous year, the Urban Astronomer provided more guidance on celestial gazing, but fell short on myth. Cepheus was the king of Ethiopia, and Cassiopeia was his queen, and Andromeda was his daughter. Cassiopeia bragged that Andromeda was more beautiful than the gods. This boast angered the gods and Poseidon demanded that Andromeda be chained to a cliff and consumed by a sea monster. Andromeda did not die, because Perseus (not Pegasus) rescued her. Upon reflection, the confusion might have arisen because Perseus did have the sandals of Hermes, which had wings and allowed him to fly, thus fulfilling the same role as Pegasus. Such errors do makes me wonder whether I should start a mythology blog.

We descended from the decision of Hercules into the always-chilly hollow and out towards the road. We were behind schedule, but I was less discombobulated than some of the impatient teenagers. We walked along the north side of Rodeo Lagoon, and I recalled the swampy path on the south side and the crossing of the bar. We reached the parking lot, consumed doughnuts and hot chocolates, and the Urban Astronomer allowed the boys to look through his telescope at the Galilean moons.