The Crash

Survey the scene.

Airway.

Breathing.

Circulation.

Excessive blood loss?  No.

Major deformities or tender abdomen?  No.

Surely, there’s head or spine trauma.  But again, no.

Even as my disoriented brain ran through the checklist, I stared blankly at a stand of white birches sitting about 2 inches from my driver side window. 

Everywhere I looked there was snow and tree limbs. 

Through the falling flakes, I could make out freshly churned up snow leading vaguely in the direction of the road.

I was facing the wrong direction – looking back toward the Canadian border, which I had just passed through on my way home.

As more of my senses came back to me, I realized there was liquid pouring from my brow. 

Blood?  No.  Unless my poor health habits had finally turned my blood to Coca-Cola, it was just my drink.  A vacant cup holder confirmed my suspicion. 

The twisted engine of my SUV sounded like a craigslist lawnmower, but it was still running – still pushing warm air into my battered vehicle.

I ran my hands over my feet, my legs, my torso, and finally each arm and my head.  How could I not be hurt? 

I repeated the process just to be sure. 

Smoke was rising in the glow of the headlights in front of me.  It was -15 degrees outside.  Did I dare turn off the engine, my only heat source?  Not yet. 

Gear Review: Rab Microlight Jacket

I’m too old to be trendy.  

My thinning hair taught me that a long time ago.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but notice how cool all those small-baffle down jackets I’ve been seeing on my friends look.

 

"No," I told myself, I can just layer up under my fleece. 

"No again," I can just allow my blubber layer to grow thicker.

I stood strong for over a year, but then M picked one up and I took the time to try one on.  I was hooked.  They’re so… squishy…so…toasty.  After all, I live in northern Maine.  If I’m going to overspend on anything it should be either blaze orange suspenders or winter jackets. 

Having chosen the latter, my search began.

As always, I was completely unwilling to pay anywhere near full price.  Likewise, I knew I needed to be careful because even with the small baffling of today’s uber-technical down jackets, they can easily make my 5’8” frame look like a stack of tires or an overcooked artisan bread. 

Sometimes It's Perfect

The noise in this coffee shop has risen to the place where you can no longer distinguish individual sounds, but instead the clanking of cups and desperate attempts at communication around me have melded into to a confused white-noise sound.  Not white like fine china.  White like the swirling of aerated water at the base of an Atlantic breaker. 

But here, on the road, one thousand miles from home, I’m remembering a time this fall when it was perfect.

M and I are sweaty, and yet we’re layering on fleeces because the desert sun has just dipped below the horizon and the shadows it has left behind are already raising goose-bumps on our arms.  We’ve hiked all day through sandy washes and now we’ve placed our lonely tent in a canyon surrounded by imposing Navajo sandstone towers that look like immense stacks of red and cream-colored pancakes.

As we settle in for a quiet night of sweet boredom, we find the perfect rock.  It is huge and flat as a board.  Its sandstone surface faces west and leans back at a 45-degree angle reminiscent of one of those adjustable beds for retirees. 

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.