Living Long Enough to Become the Villain -- Then Overstaying That Welcome Too.

Even out here in the land of red flannel hats, two-stroke engines, and perfect starlit skies, occasionally the influence of popular culture reaches us.  It penetrates the miles of forest like a drop of ink in a mountain stream; shocking in its initial contrast, but eventually washing into oblivion. 

Our most recent drop of ink has been The Hunger Games, and yes, I recognize that that fad came and went last year in the rest of the world, but try to think of my world as one of those cool $2 theaters where they play the movies 6 months late so college students can afford them.

In The Hunger Games, the character Peeta Mellark turns a corner, both in the eyes of Katniss Eberdeen, and in the eyes of the viewer, when he insightfully comments that he hopes the games, “Won’t change him.”  Under the duress of impending doom, would his morals flex?  Break?  Disappear altogether? 

The answer, of course, is “no.” 

Peeta is a noble fantasy character and his role is to fit the needs of the story he inhabits – he is adequately just, kind, and needy at every point in the movie. 

Unfortunately, I am not a fantasy character and my nobility is not a fixed trait.  Lets face it.  “adequacy” might still be something to shoot for as far as my own personal journey goes.  But in the face of my own challenge – the long, continually frustrating existence of summer at a camp insistent on breaking down, burning up, falling apart and/or stalling out – I sometimes fear the changes it may cause in my character.  Will I remain patient?  Will I hold my head up high, always working hard and never letting down the staff members that look to me for leadership?  Will I find a way to shower and shave at least once a week?

The answer to all of these things turned out to be “no.” 

Finding The Fountain

I hadn’t felt anything like this in years.  

I stood on the dock, feeling small and exposed.  I wore only a pair of swim trunks as I squinted at the dark water without my glasses.  It was 6:30 AM, and only 10 minutes ago, I was warm and insulated from the world by a down comforter.  The ignorance imposed by my heavy eyelids was bliss. 

Now I was shivering, standing in a slight breeze, trying to act like a leader by joining our lifeguards on their morning distance swim. 

I hate the water.  Always have.

One by one, the lifeguards dropped into the water and began wriggling their way toward another dock; a quarter of a mile away, still screened by the morning mist.

Now it was my turn.  I held my arms folded tightly across my chest.  Did I mention that I hate the water?  I plunged in, clawing at the air as I did, hoping to find some invisible ladder that might lead me back to bed. 

Dropped Calls

As best as I can recall, I’ve owned 8 different cell phones.  Not all of them died horrible, unnecessary deaths, but most of them did.  Let me give you a brief summary to bring you up to date on some of the worst incidents:

Incident #1 – C sees a group of campers, cautiously dipping their toes in the pool.  In a burst of inspired goofiness, he takes off at a sprint in the direction of the pool, hoping to show these feeble campers that they had nothing to fear.  Without breaking stride he hurdles the fence surrounding the pool and in two more steps launches himself over the watery surface of the deep end. 

Suddenly the realization grips him that this was a terrible idea, and not just because of the 15 camp rules to which he just laid waste.  He claws at the air and instinctively tries to dodge the frigid waters that now have him in their grasp.  Finally as his toes hit the water he helplessly scrapes at his back pocket in an effort to retrieve his cell phone and throw it to safety.  Its too late.  All is lost.  There is only the smell of chlorine, the penetrating cold of the water, and the long walk home wearing wet jeans.

The Monkeyman Confronts the Gorilla.

It can smell your fear.  That’s what I’ve learned about summer time.  As a camp director, summer looms over the rest of my year and threatens to fill every season with either the malaise of fearful anticipation, or the relief of yet another narrow escape.  It’s like a gorilla in a room full of monkeys.  There are some basic similarities between all seasons as a camp director, but instead of the playfulness of fall, winter, and spring, summer brings a dangerous propensity to pound things into a pulp, or throw them against a wall. 

Summer is terrifying.  Our camp is a relatively small, simple operation and yet in June we suddenly grow from a staff of 6 to a staff of 45.  In the space of a single property we operate a commercial kitchen, a white-water rafting outfitter, a mentoring ministry, a paintball course, two waterfronts, a ski boat, 28 buildings, and 7000 acres of trails, fields, and headaches.  Between now and September 1^st, we will host 1500 guests at our camp, and we’ll guide 2500 customers in white water rafts.

As a romantic teenager I dreamed of the day I would proudly take the reigns of a camp ministry and calmly steer it to prosperity with the confidence and self-assuredness of the Marlboro man.  Years later, when I actually took those reigns, I realized that I was more likely to steer this bronco from the perspective of a rodeo clown.  I traded in my dignity for a pair of floppy shoes and a bag of ice strapped to my rump. 

Gear Review: Mountain Hardwear Monkey Man Jacket

Two years ago I began a search for something that didn’t exist.  I wanted a fleece that would meet all of the following criteria:

1. It had to be warm.  No microfleece or powerstretch here.  This thing had to be my excuse for leaving the parka at home for everything short of a full-blown arctic expedition.

2.  It had to make me look like I had just skied Tuckermans’s Ravine backwards.  The Chris Sharmas, Eric Jacksons, Ed Veisteurs, and Bear Grylls of the world don’t wear Reebok or even Columbia.  They wear outdoor-elitist brands with arcane names like Arcteryx, Patagonia, Wild Things, and Marmot.  I wanted something that would fly under the radar for most people, but would shine like a beacon to the outdoor nerds around me and make them say, “he’s one of us.”  Incidentally, this would mask the fact that I lacked anything in the way of real elite outdoor skills.  

3.  It had to be discounted by at least 30%.  I’ve lived almost all of my income-bearing life in a post 9/11 world and as such I have developed a complex about discounts.  I can’t buy without them.  Seriously, what do shopping malls even exist for anymore?  I enter boutiques only to duck my way past the well-lit displays to find the dreary corner where they keep the clearance products.  10% off?  That’s only for the people that don’t care about how they spend their money.  20% off?  Oh please.  That’s the 2012 equivalent of full price.  30% off?  Now I’ll consider it, but I’m going to walk out of here feeling like I got hosed.  At 40% off, I’ll look hard, and debate for a while how likely this product is to show up on Steep&Cheap.com, Woot.com, or Craigslist, and then walk away empty-handed with a determination to wait until it gets discounted just one more time.  You guessed it.  I don’t successfully buy much.

This Bud's For You (but not for me)

Spring is arriving and the trees are beginning to bud.  Likwise, so are the ears of many a jogger, many a cyclist, and pretty much everyone under the age of 25.  Since the arrival of the iPod and its powerhouse marketing department, earbuds have become not only a hip way of listening to music on the run, but even a mode of fashion expression.  Wasn’t it just a few years ago that it was cooler to just walk with a fake limp and carry an entire stereo on your shoulder?  We’ve come a long way since Run DMC, but I’m concerned that by plugging our ears, we might be missing out on a lot of what happens between our temples. 

I visited an apple store last week, and after my eyes had adjusted to the glistening light of 1000 stainless steel products and packages, I made my way to the earphone racks.  There were the usual array of options – everything from low-profile ear buds to the weighty “Beats by Dre,” which I’m pretty sure are just repurposed chopper pilot headsets from the Vietnam War. 

What really got my attention, though, was that an entire rack was dedicated to earphones for “athletic use.”  I’m not surprised that manufacturers have caught on. Some of us want earphones that match our cute running outfits and that the rest of us think those iPod armbands make us look dangerous in a hip, tribal kind of way.  But a whole rack of athletic earbuds? 

Outdoor Sports: A Musical Review

No, I won’t be singing for you (you can put the earmuffs down).  Instead, since we’re still in the get-to-know-you period of this particular blog-lationship, I wanted to tell you a little about myself by combining two of my favorite things.   Nothing gets me more pumped up for having some fun in the outdoors than listening to just the right tunes as I lace up my boots.

For each of my outdoor interests listed below, I have chosen a musical artist to help me convey what the sport means to me.  Crank up the stereo and limber up, because here we go.

Road Biking – The Eagles

To borrow a line from Geo, the dear friend who introduced me to the world of spandex and saddle sores, “I hope that cycling can be my golf.”  Cycling is a blast right now, but my hope is that it will still be fun for me in another 30 years too.  After the cockpit of my kayak becomes to small for me to climb into without 3 assistants and a jar of mayonnaise…  after “climbing” becomes my term for going upstairs…  after the technology in my synthetic knees becomes more sophisticated than the technology in my mountain bike…  after all of my dearest hobbies have left me, I hope I can still get out on the bike.   

The Eagles are the same way.  The first CD that I ever owned was an Eagles CD that my big brother gave me for my 12^th birthday.  There’s something about a classic.  It just doesn’t wear out.  I still love the Eagles, and I probably always will. 

Road biking has a Zen quality – the silence of a perfectly tuned machine; the sensation of the wind, heavy with the aromas of the season, the concentration as your peripheral vision dims and you push yourself just a little harder…  Zen. 

At least until you pass some eviscerated forest creature on the side of the road.

Kayaking – Of Monsters and Men

It’s the flavor of the week.  I know.  But I desperately hope for it to be something that lasts.  How long will my shoulders put up with what it takes to roll in white water?  I’m not sure.  Will I ever learn to start down the river without forgetting the keys to the takeout vehicle?  Again, no promises.  But I hope so. 

Wilderness Worst Responder

If I do the math I think I’ve spent about a year of my life on the trail.  I’ve hiked the 46 high peaks in New York.  I’ve been on canoe trips in the lonely lakes of Canada’s Algonquin National Park.  I’ve paddled the Allagash, the Kennebec, the Dead, the Sacandaga, and the Hudson.  I’ve had pack sores, I’ve had blisters, I’ve had hypothermia, I’ve been lost in the dark, I’ve been dehydrated, I’ve been lost in broad daylight, and I’ve even had an axe wound – all in the middle of nowhere.  I’ve always come out ok.  Suffice it to say, this is not my first rodeo. 

It turns out though, that I’m one stupid cowboy. 

This spring, I have been learning to kayak.  Did you know these things can actually roll all the way over and then roll back up again?  I can’t say enough how satisfying it is roll upside down, end up in the dark world of gooey wet things and then flick your paddle and suddenly arrive back in the fresh air world we know so well.  This is not to say that that happens often.  Most of the time my experience involves a lot of flailing around under water followed by a farty kind of sound as I release my kayak skirt and wriggle back up to the surface, sans boat. 

It’s still pretty cold in this part of the country.  It snowed this morning.  The last three times I’ve paddled, it’s been about 40 degrees.  For kayakers, I guess this is no big deal, but I will say that it’s not what I had thought of as swimmy weather before getting into the kayak thing.  But snow-melt means big water, which, if you know how to kayak is awesome.  If you are just learning…  well on with the story:

Why Young People (like me) are Stupid

This week I had the privilege to attend a conference in my field – Christian Camping.  I’ve been doing this for years.  By my count, this was my 5^th time at this regional event, and my 8^th conference over all.  Here’s the sad truth that lingered at the back of my mind (somewhere between my collar and my bald spot) as I hustled through vendor halls, workshops, and as many snack tables as my conscience would allow:  Youth often goes along with arrogance, and the two make a dangerous pair.

As a young camp leader, I thought I was the stuff.  I actually went to these conferences asking myself, “How can I teach this dying industry about my brilliant approach to camp ministry?”  Once, at age 25 no less, a workshop instructor called in sick, and I rushed in at the last second and volunteered to teach his session.  I got up in front of a group of camp leaders who were, on average, 15-20 years more experienced than I was, and tried to let them know what was wrong with all of our ministries.  Why they didn’t walk out, I’ll never know.  Maybe they did, and I was just too blinded by my own “creative vision” to notice. 

At 22, I remember hearing an older presenter say something like, “Everything I know, I learned by making a mistake.”  I thought it was a cute line.  What a great way to parry away a compliment with humility. 

I now know that it was a simple fact – completely devoid of sarcasm or exaggeration. 

I am on pace to make every possible mistake in my field by the year 2020.  That may seem like a long time, but let me remind you that I’m not even learning how to hang a photo properly without screwing it up a few times first, so in the grand scheme of things, I’m flying.