Stories from my first summer spent as a Camp Director at a family camp in Northern, MN
Week 8
This summer contained its fair share of challenges and triumphs. I found it challenging to dive head first into a position in which I had very little preparation, oversight and instruction. It was a challenge to keep campers satisfied and safe, staff happy, and my superiors pleased all at the same time with each decision I made. It was challenging finding the endurance to make each week as successful as the previous and to develop the respect and admiration of a staff of 14 people who initially each knew more about the camp and its day to day functions than I did as the new director.
Triumphs included the weekly collection of camper evaluations that highlighted and affirmed our efforts in making camp a fun place, getting boats to start when others failed, keeping trips to the emergency room to a minimum, staying under budget, successfully rescuing stranded boaters, passing inspections, and perhaps most importantly, fishing the old mixer out of the lake and making it work again.
Each day this summer I was reminded of what a terrific staff I had working for me. I had to encourage them to slow down and relax more often than I ever needed to prod them to get some work done. Things happened on a daily basis that I had no part of. From day one returning staff knew what to do and they just did it, did it well, and showed the new people how to do it, too. All summer long I heard accolades from guests about how great camp looked and operated from their perspective. Time and again I simply tipped my hat to the amazing crew that made it happen week after week.
The morning of my last full day at camp I walked into my dark, shade-drawn room midmorning. As I untied my shoe I noticed a post-it note on the floor reading, “there’s a chipmunk in cabin five.” Puzzled as to where it came from but without enough focus to care, I ignored it. As I finished untying my shoe and stood upright I saw before me dozens of post-it notes plastering the walls of the room. A few of them highlighted some complaints that occurred during the summer. “There have been some complaints about staff hygiene, we stink” and “too much sand in the cabins” and “there’s a leak in cabin four’s roof.”
Other notes highlighted potential problems that thankfully didn’t occur such as “I lost a child” written by the children’s program director, and “the new mixer fell in the lake” written by the baker. Still others highlighted favorite moments from the summer, reminding me of the cookies I would always sneak from the kitchen, the music played with my friends, and some of the inside jokes shared amongst the staff.
Even more post-its were hidden in the pages of my book, my fiddle case, under my pillows, and nearly everywhere I looked. The staff was quite aware of my dislike of post-it notes. I hated nothing more at camp than coming in my office during a frustrating day and discovering half a dozen new post-it notes stuck all over my desks with more problems that needed attention. While I was in town for the morning they snuck in and decorated. To see the post it notes on my wall, highlighting many of the challenges we had overcome, noting challenges we thankfully avoided, and reminding me of all of the memorable moments was about as good of an end-of-the-summer salute as I could imagine.
After 13 weeks living on an island, you might think a person would be ready for a change of scenery. I thought that would be the case three months ago when I moved to the island. In hindsight, however, I think I would have been quite content staying another 13 weeks.
My summer ended early this year, as I packed up my belongings once again and moved to Des Moines, IA where I am returning to school. I am thankful for the opportunities I have had with different jobs in different locations, however, loading up the car and moving someplace new every three months begins to wear on a person after a while. Camp Olson, Yellowstone National Park, Caledonia, dude ranch, St Paul, Cass Lake, and now Des Moines reads the litany of locations I’ve lived in the past two years. Don’t misinterpret this utterance as dissatisfaction with the things I’ve done, but rather as contemplation about the age old paradox of trying to get out and experience the world but wanting to put down roots at the same time.
“Will you be back again next summer?” was the question I fielded the most each week from campers. I got good at dodging the question and giving a noncommittal answer, leaving open the possibility of giving it one more shot or taking advantage of another new adventure. I’ve been only a few days gone and I already miss the socialization, the isolation, the homemade food, and the simple lifestyle inherent in living on the island. In air conditioned classrooms the daily forecast holds little value to me. My sandals and camp t-shirts don’t blend in with the collared shirts and dress pants. Camp was a nice escape from the realities of oil spills, flooding, a struggling economy, and a fast approaching Election Day.
Despite the nuisance of moving yet again, I imagine packing up the car for one more summer at camp won’t be the last thing on my mind during spring finals.
There ends another chapter. Thanks for sharing it with me and as always, happy trails.
Week 7
Rumors of spectacular northern light displays circled through camp last week. I have yet to notice anything myself, but a nighttime sky watcher will not be disappointed even if the lights don’t make their expected appearance. After living in the Twin Cities for 9 months, the brilliant nighttime sky is even more impressive than I ever noticed back home. Being in the middle of a lake cuts back on localized light pollution. Being mid-August, the meteor showers add an extra spark.
Perhaps my most favorite thing from this summer’s experience is the occasional trip back to the island late into the night. On a few occasions, I’ve made an escape to visit Camp Olson, the YMCA summer camp I worked at previously. Coming back to the island after an evening off requires a dark boat ride on the calm nighttime lake. The full throttle smooth passage into the dark abyss of the lake is a calming way to end a day. Navigating by the stars and a well-placed buoy, the 15-minute trip is 15 minutes of forced, but welcomed, relaxation and reflection.
Skimming across the lake near distant shores I can often see the glow of the bow and stern lights of small fishing boats. Others congregate near the best walleye fishing holes on the lake. They move about like little spaceships; glowing lights in a globe of dark sky and water where it is difficult to distinguish where the land ends and the sky begins.
The health inspector came and went and after my experience with the water inspector, I knew to prepare ahead of time. As we walked through the cabins he tested the water temperature as expected. It was as we approached the shower house that I remembered that I forgot to turn down the settings on that water heater. He pulled out his thermometer but paused before turning on the shower. After successful readings at our first two stops he decided it wasn’t worth his time and put his thermometer away. When all was said and done we only got cited for one infraction, which isn’t bad at all.
We’ve had some pretty talented guests pass through camp this summer. I got a haircut from one in particular in exchange for some computer usage. That may sound like a lame bargain for her, but at camp Internet accessibility is restricted to staff. For some campers, it is quite a challenge to go an entire week without email. New phones with Internet access are circumventing that challenge for more and more people, but those without remain cut off.
Every week we have at least one or two doctors in camp, a handful of nurses, a couple of lawyers, a professor or two, and a bunch of other highly educated professionals. Unitarians have a significantly high percentage of folks who are educated beyond a four-year degree. Those without fancy degrees and titles attached to their name are often highly skilled in a technical trade or art. This job provides excellent network opportunities in a world where it’s not what you know but who you know.
Any fine summer camp requires a tradition of pranks. During staff training earlier in the summer I pulled out a trick learned from another friend. I offered to make dessert for an evening meal. Caramel apples sounded appealing to me. I spent an hour unwrapping and melting caramels and finally drizzling it over a dozen apples. Into the mix, I included a few raw onions. You can see where this is going.
A caramel onion looks the same as a caramel apple. Folks were excited for the dessert as I presented the tray. The first staff member to grab one, my assistant director, Ben, got one of the hidden onions as planned, but as he pulled it off the tray enough caramel came off to reveal the white outer skin. My prank failed, but provided a good laugh, nonetheless.
This past week I had my opportunity to try again. Every Monday morning we have a trash and food run. We take a boatload of trash to the mainland and pick up a boatload of food from a delivery truck. Each week the assigned staff member sleeps with the phone and the truck driver calls camp when he is 45 minutes away so we have enough time to get to shore.
Saturday night I snuck the phone into Ben’s room after he went to sleep. Under the cover of night I loaded the garbage and recycling. I set my alarm for 5:45. When I awoke I went to the camp’s second phone line and placed a call. After four rings Ben answered in a groggy voice. “This is Tom from FSA,” I said while attempting to disguise my voice. “I’m 45 minutes out.” Without missing a beat Ben responded, “Alright we’ll be there.” I snuck back to bed and wondered how long it would be before he’d figure out it was the wrong day. I later learned he spent 5-10 minutes trying to determine if it was actually Sunday or Monday despite his roommate assuring him that he didn’t in fact sleep through an entire day of the week. He even checked the date on the computer and called the food service company to verify in his confused state.
When he was finally reassured that it was a prank, Ben and his roommate decided to get even. From my slumber the phone rang and it was Ben calling from his cell phone saying the boat had died on the way to the marina. Without hesitation I told him I’d be right there and ran down to the waterfront and sped off in his direction. As I skimmed across the lake without any stranded boats in sight I began to fear I had received a taste of my own medicine.
After a careful search, I turned back toward camp. The pontoon with the garbage was still gone. I docked and searched camp for someone who might know more but as I got to my bedroom I found the recycling and garbage bins where my bed and dresser once lived. While I was out in search for the stranded boat he had driven it around to the other side of our peninsula, unloaded the garbage, hauled it down the trail, and taken some of my stuff back to the boat. It was a prank done so well that I couldn’t do anything but laugh at the situation. I walked into that one.
The cool air is a reminder that autumn is already on the way. I’m down to my last week at camp and as director before I shake the responsibilities and get back to something I’m a little more familiar with, school and homework.
Happy Trails
Week 6
One might think a job like this might get routine and boring as the summer wears on. Some days start out like they might be just that, but I have yet to see one to completion. Last week I was in my office when a camper entered and explained that while he was sailing, he saw a boat sink, leaving the passengers stranded on the water. It went against my intuition to believe him, but I didn’t waste any time arguing or digging for details. I ran down to the waterfront and the length of the dock, grabbed the binoculars from the lifeguards and zeroed in on five swimmers bobbing in the waves a quarter mile away.
I radioed for another staff member, lowered the pontoon, and within a minute we were speeding their way. As we approached, we lowered the ladder and one by one scooped each dripping body onto the deck of the boat. Around us floated a pair of sandals, a dry box, and a few other items identifying the spot where the ship went down. Exhausted, and still shook up from the wreck, the five were uninjured and thankful for the rescue.
Somehow one of them rescued the captain’s chair and thought it important enough to hang onto. The rest of the boat lay at least 20 feet down, out of sight. They didn’t even know how the wreck occurred. It was an old boat and likely they were traveling too fast for the wave conditions. In its final moments the boat’s nose dipped down and didn’t come back up.
Back on shore they called their parents who were staying at a nearby resort. I have never done it myself, but I imagine it a hard phone call to make to tell your dad you sank his boat. I gave them a ride back to a resort across the lake. We were greeted on the dock by a tearful, but grateful, mother, not sure if she should be relieved or angry. After politely refusing any form of payment, I finally gave in and accepted a few gallons of gas.
There are 50-60 cabins on the island. Most of the cabins sit on National Forest leases and have been in the same family since the settling of the island in the early 1900’s. To celebrate the 90th birthday of an old wooden boat that originally shuttled many of the island’s first residents back and forth, The Roamer, a party was thrown on the south shore. I felt like a fish out of water mingling with the old rich people in a scene better fit for a movie. Pictures, music, cake, a keg, and a lot of smiling people crowded the beach as kids played in the water and others admired the old wooden boats gathered for the occasion.
One of the island’s most notable inhabitants passed away this past winter. John Mosedale was his name. It might not sound familiar, but if you have ever watched the CBS evening news with Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite, you’re familiar with his work. He was one of the primary writers for the show for decades. Each summer his family would come to the island and he would join them for a couple weeks at a time while he could sneak away from New York.
Other island residents come from the Twin Cities, Iowa, and even further reaches of the country as kids and grandkids have dispersed. The camp cook showed me around and introduced me to a dozen folks or so before we returned to the familiarity of our side of the island.
My efforts to clean this place are finally starting to reap dividends. A garbage can full of old copper wire and pipefittings netted camp $143. The true payoff will be the assessment given by the health inspector, due to arrive any day now.
Being the camp director requires a little bit of law enforcement. Each week we host at least a few volunteers, many of which are young and aspiring staff members and under the age of 21. I have made great efforts to make clear the expectations but last week two young gentlemen decided to push the limits. It was during a maintenance project in the volunteer bunkhouse that I opened the fridge to find a twelve pack of beer and a couple of bottles of liquor. I replaced the alcohol with a note that read, “I have it. If you want it back, come see me.”
I didn’t expect any response from the note, and so was taken aback when these two young men approached me later that day. They confessed the alcohol was theirs not out of guilt, but expecting to get it returned to them. This new generation gives “entitlement” a new meaning. I told them they were already lucky I didn’t buy them a bus ticket home.
After being gone from SE Minnesota for three months I’ve started to miss the agriculture that defines home. Up here it’s nothing but pine trees and scrub brush in a “wasteland” of bogs, swamps, and forests. Soon enough, however, I’ll find myself back amidst the corn and the hay. Until then, it’s off to the lake for a cool retreat from this humid air.
Happy Trails
Week 5
The rains keep coming at regular intervals here on the island. I find it challenging to make it through a day without getting some item of clothing soaked from either the skies above or the lake itself.
This past week I finally got myself on a sailboat for the first time of the summer. Camp owns a few boats considered trimarans. They have a cockpit in which the passenger sits with a pontoon extended on each side. A simple boat, they are supposedly impossible to tip over. They make sailing easy for even an amateur like myself. Growing up in the land of 10,000 lakes, but about as far away from any lakes that a person can be, I viewed sailing as a leisurely activity of those better off than I. Lately, however, I have grown to greatly respect the sport.
Moving fast on a mechanized machine burning gas can be a thrill, but slicing through the water harnessing the primitive technology of the wind adds a new dimension of excitement and accomplishment. Furthermore, sailing requires an added element of knowledge and skill-leaving room for improvement as one becomes better acquainted with the sport.
Recently a camper found a bald eagle nest on the ground near camp. Scattered nearby, were two eaglets. After a couple of days of observation, he called the raptor center at the U of M and sent pictures of one of the eaglets with an injured wing. With no trained raptor handler near camp, we were asked to “box up the bird” and send it to the twin cities in the next vehicle heading south. With some cardboard and duct tape we construed a container big enough for the giant eaglet. Wearing welding gloves he scooped it up without much resistance. Even a young eaglet is a big bird and quite impressive to study from so close, however, it didn’t quite top the grizzly bear we captured at the ranch last summer.
Traditions run deep here at camp. Perhaps the most important tradition is the greeting of campers on the dock when they arrive, and the departing chorus of “Happy Trails” as a sendoff one week later. After a fun and exhausting week and the hugs and handshakes goodbye we line up at the end of the dock in a kick-line and sing the aforementioned song in about as many different keys as there are people.
Afterwards, a staff member or two are traditionally thrown in the lake, much to the enjoyment of the departing guests. For six week’s I’ve avoided the plummet. I hypothesize my staff were too scared of the consequences pushing their boss in the water might inspire. This week their fear was overridden, however, as two of them ganged up against me and threw me in the drink.
Camp relies heavily on volunteer labor in an effort to keep fees as low as possible. For years a do-it-yourself culture has built up a roster of campers eager to fix the leaky faucet, the broken pipe, or an old water heater. One might consider it fortunate that so much help abounds; however, it comes with its drawbacks. A walk around camp and a quick study of some of these do-it-yourself projects makes a person shake their head in frustration and bewilderment. Pipes beneath cabins go from plastic PVC to steel pipe to rubber fittings and back to PVC. Scrap pieces of sheet rock where puzzled together in one instance, to sheet rock a wall in our staff housing. Behind some light switches in camp can be found a rat’s nest of electrical wires. A careful look at some of the carpentry will reveal some boards cut too short, others left too wide.
We had a local well driller stop by the island to examine our backup well. He conveniently flew in on his personal floatplane and beached it on the island. The plane is one he assembled from a kit years ago, and is a small two-seater. Up here floatplanes aren’t that uncommon. With most towns located on the shores of a lake, they provide a convenient and fun way to travel.
After studying our well we learned of a corroded pipe that is gradually filling the well with sand. This piece of bad news explained why the pump burnt up earlier in the week as I tried to flush it out after a year of disuse. Luckily, the bad well is a problem I don’t have to deal with this summer. Once the lake freezes to a safe thickness they well company will drive one of their rigs to the island and drop a new well 135 feet.
A shoreline restoration specialist from the Minnesota DNR also paid us a visit. With a few hundred feet of shoreline under our management, I invited her to come and assess what we were doing right and how we could improve our stewardship of the land. We were happy to learn that they variety and quantity of natives found on our property is almost unprecedented for inhabited shoreline. Arial photos of many of the lakes up here with significant development around their shores makes obvious the dangers of having a nicely mown lawn up to the water’s edge. Erosion and sedimentation are big problems around some lakes. Reeds are removed from coveted boating and swimming areas and with them go the buffer of protection from erosion causing waves.
A shoreline bill currently sits on Governor Pawlenty’s desk. The bill would change the type of shoreline development that is allowed and provide better protection for our lakes, wildlife, and water supplies. Unfortunately, it sits in the veto pile. In recent years the science community has highlighted these problems and finally attracted the attention of many shoreline owners who have chosen to take corrective action. Many, however, retain old habits and continue to turn native lakeshore to mimic the aesthetic of their suburban yards.
In our case the less we do to our shoreline the better off it is. Now that’s the kind of advice a busy camp director likes to hear.
Happy Trails
Week 4
Amateur firework displays from around the perimeter of Cass Lake saluted the 4th of July in this neck of the woods. Boat traffic increased from the occasional fisherman to speedboats towing tubes and water skiers and the frequent party barge slowly motoring along, in no hurry to get anywhere. At camp it was just another day. My budget doesn’t include much room for fireworks, snow cone machines, or fancy carnival rides.
I gave the rest of the staff the evening off and they loaded up the boat and headed to Bemidji. I took a hike across the island to a quiet place called sunset rock and watched nearby fireworks as sunset turned to dusk and eventually to nightfall. On an island this small it’s difficult to find those moments of solitude. I’ve come to the conclusion that if I’m on the island, I’m working. Even my bedroom is no escape. Occasionally I try to catch a short catnap after lunch but eight times out of ten the phone on my nightstand rings just as I’m kicking off my shoes. Then it’s back to the office to check on an upcoming reservation, or any of the other requests that might result.
Myself and a few of my staff made our debut as the “Star Island String Band” the other night at the local bar’s open mic night. Everybody in town must have been there, including a couple of local bands playing obnoxiously loud rock/pop music. In our flannel shirts, shaggy hair, scruffy beards, and with our acoustic instruments in hand we stood in stark contrast to the regulars lined up at the bar and punk rockers on stage. A bunch of hippies from the island was undoubtedly the image we conveyed.
We pulled together a half hour set of folk and old time music that captured the attention of the audience for long enough to get a pretty enthusiastic round of applause following each song. At one point, even the guys playing poker around the pool table stopped what they were doing and gave us their undivided attention. Banjo, guitar, fiddle, bass and washboard accompanied the lyrics about hard luck, aimless travels, and being friends with the devil. The bar owner, Larry, was beaming the entire time, if not from the music, probably the money rolling in from the patrons. I justified the whole event and our absence from camp as “building community relations” with the locals. I wish all of my responsibilities as director were that easy and fun to execute.
We get quite a few colorful characters coming through camp. If you don’t know much about the Unitarian crowd, Garrison Keillor likes to poke fun at them and can provide some humorous insight into their quirks. It’s a pretty loosely based religion, focused around seven principles relating to respect and dignity of every human person and the democratic process. One of my biggest mentors for this new job, Mr. Blackstone, told me on the day we met, “you get four Unitarians in a room and you get 16 different opinions.” From my observations, he hit the nail right on the head.
Decisions come slow around here, as everyone takes careful efforts to make sure all angles are examined closely before resting on any one conclusion. I think part of that culture of indecisiveness is what makes an outsider like myself a good candidate for the main leadership position.
I’ve noticed that same indecisiveness leads the accumulation of crap. The island is full of it. Nobody throws anything away. I can understand what it means to be thrifty and pack staff away for a rainy day, but I don’t believe it efficient to keep coils of cotton wrapped electrical wire from 1920 lying around. Or old plastic table clothes. I found a whole box of them stashed away under another pile of junk. Vacuum cleaners, broken lamps, leaky gas cans, rusty pipes, burnt out light bulbs, torn screen doors, ancient computer monitors, and the list goes on. I even had to dispose of an old sailboat with an irreparable crack in the hull. I’ve hauled nearly half a dozen pontoon loads of junk off the island and I still feel like I’m just getting started.
We have enough scrap wood to rebuild Noah’s ark. I began restocking our firewood piles with odd ends of 2x4’s. We have so many scraps I figure it’s cheaper to burn that stuff and buy new boards than to spend the fuel on running the chainsaw and gathering real firewood.
The purging of junk also involves a lot of cleaning up and organizing the stuff that is deemed salvageable. I have come to the conclusion this camp has just about any tool a person could need. You simply have to know where to find it, how to use it, and how to fix it should the tool itself be broken. We have a weed trimmer, but without the appropriate pieces on the end to hold the string in. Our power washer is out of commission because someone left water in the nozzle over the winter and the connector fitting cracked.
I guess if I always knew where to find the fully functional tool on my first attempt maintenance work around here would be too easy, leaving me too much time to accomplish those “few” other tasks I must do as director. The challenges are many up here, but the rewards of success are even more.
Happy Trails
Week 3
As the summer begins to settle in, my daily routine is quickly becoming established. Each morning begins with a sleepy walk 20 yards to the director’s office, followed by a quick email and weather check (if the internet is functional). Afterwards it’s to the breakfast line. The weekly rotation covers just about every breakfast imaginable, beginning with oatmeal Sundays, poached eggs on Monday, pancakes on Tuesday, scrambled eggs on Wednesday, French toast on Thursday, Omelets on Friday, and finally baked fresh cinnamon roles on Saturday. Around here oatmeal Sunday’s traditionally includes a scoop of ice cream and some chocolate chips mixed in. On Tuesday I get the “director’s special,” banana pancakes made specifically for me.
Before I began the job, I heard two pieces of advice repeated by numerous individuals. First, I was to stay out of the way of the cook of 15 years, Mary Ellen. She knew what she was doing and all I had to do was get the food and propane to the island. She would take it from there. Secondly, I had to make Darryl, the marina owner, my best friend. I’ve been working hard at both goals and eagerly jump at any opportunity to win their favor.
The other day I received word of one of the dish washing sinks not draining properly. With the aid of my assistant director we twisted a snake down the drain as far as possible. With no success we opened up the grease trap. Anyone who has ever worked in a commercial kitchen will appreciate the dread of such a task. It isn’t a job for those with a weak stomach. After my assistant director scooped out the slimy layer of junk off the top into a 5-gallon bucket I shop vacuumed the rest of the trap dry. In an hour we had the sink functioning once again and more importantly, a happy Mary Ellen.
Later in the week the switch for the walk in freezer light broke. She informed me she was about to call the repairman to get it fixed. Unwilling to pay a repairman for an extra boat ride to the island for such a simple problem, I bought a new switch at the hardware store and decided to do it myself. I flipped off the appropriate circuit breaker and unscrewed all of the wires, making a mental picture of how to reassemble the new one in a functional fashion. My memory failed me as evident by the shower of sparks that flew from the switch after I reconnected the circuit. On the second try I was met with success and an ice-cream treat for a job well done.
One perk of living on an island includes the limited access outsiders have to our property, most important being the health and water inspectors. If they want to check out our facilities they first must call for a boat ride, leaving us plenty of time to prepare. I got my first phone call this past week from the water inspector. He came by with his cooler full of sterilized water bottles. I took him to the wellhead, enclosed by a small shack. I popped open the door as I had been taught to do. Inside was a gas can, both empty and full oil containers, a gallon of bleach, and an assortment of other plastic bottles of unlabeled substances. His head shook with disappointment as he scribbled some notes as he politely recommended we remove those toxins from such proximity to our water supply.
Next we traveled toward the lodge so he could survey our water softener system. I opened the door to the water softener closet only to reveal a 5-gallon bucket of the foulest smelling, vomit-like substance I have ever seen. “What the heck is that,” proclaimed the inspector as he turned away in disgust. It was hard to play dumb when I knew exactly what it was. I quickly realized my assistant found the closest out-of-the-way place to stash the remains from the grease trap. Embarrassed, I removed the bucket and diverted the conversation to the topic of water softening salts.
Not all of my time has been spent on the island. On a couple of occasions I’ve found a small window of opportunity to escape and enjoy some free time. I’ve begun to make friends with one of the local bar owners, Larry. He runs a simple place on the south side of town serving bar food and your choice of three different brews on tap. It’s the unfortunate truth but living on a Native American Reservation Larry knows when payday comes and notices a steady drop in business as the money runs out. Likewise, one of the most prominent businessmen in the area owns the local liquor store.
Alcoholism is at epidemic proportions in some spots up here. Perhaps as a result, crime is also a problem. One dare not leave any valuables in their car and expect to see them again. I’ve been told windows will be broken just to take a survey of what might be in the car.
A person like myself never really notices the wealth in a modest town like Caledonia until you drive through a place like Cass Lake. Most seasonal cabins on the lake are nicer than the year round houses that comprise the town. Up here finishing high school is quite a commendable achievement while in places such as Caledonia, it’s safely assumed to be a minimum standard of achievement. These differences are often expected to exist between other geographic regions, but many don’t recognize the struggles within our own state border.
Larry invited a contingent from our staff to come and play a bar gig next week. On staff we have two banjo players, two guitarist, and two fiddles. What we lack is the time to devote toward practice. As the end of each day roles around, sleep is often the forefront of our mind. Luckily expectations will be low as we take the stage. Larry’s bar isn’t exactly the hotspot for big entertainment in the area. In the meantime, I had better go practice.
Happy Trails
Week 2
Already my folly of dunking the kitchen mixer in the marina has become a part of camp lore. I take it as a compliment; that people are able to laugh off my silly mistake rather than hold a grudge. When we finally plugged the mixer in to see how it fared the near drowning my stomach tied in knots when it remained motionless. A handy camper got out the tool belt and proceeded to drain the water out of the casing and dry it out using a couple of fans. After a little TLC it was back in service.
As we prepared the grounds for the first week of campers, one of my staffers set about mowing the lawns. After an hour or so he found me and reported that the mower was no longer starting like it used to. The engine was dead. With nobody else to pass the buck to, I went to take a look myself, remembering the dozens of similar scenarios I found myself in throughout middle school and high school, unable to start a stubborn small engine. I fiddled with the choke and in three pulls had it roaring again. It felt good to be on the starting side of a motor after years of similar frustration.
As I’ve been told will happen multiple times throughout the summer, I got a phone call from a staff member in the middle of the lake with a small fishing boat stranded by a 25 horse engine that wouldn’t start. I fired up the engine of the brand new Boston Whaler, our rescue boat and by far the nicest piece of equipment this camp owns, and set out in search of the stranded vessel. I caught up to them drifting a hundred yards from shore and towed them back to our dock.
My water front director, befuddled at the motionless hunk of aluminum, said it best when he commented, “ the only thing worse than a boat that won’t start is an unreliable one.” Before making the call to tow it to the marina for a real mechanic to work on it, I had to give it a try myself.
Time and time again the engine would fire and then immediately sputter to a stop. I switched gas tanks. Same thing happened. I pumped gas through the fuel line. Still didn’t start. In a last ditch effort after ten minutes of fruitless attempts I disconnected the fuel line from the engine and drained some fuel from the end of the line. With the next turn of the key the motor fired and roared into a fast idle as my water front director looked on from shore amazed. He claims he did the same things with no success. Two for two starting engines others had given up on!
Living on an island, boats are our most important tools. They shuttle people back and forth, deliver our food and equipment, and in an emergency, serve as our only means of evacuation. In addition to our small fishing boat and Boston Whaler, we have two pontoons and another small boat built in the 50’s, still as solid as the day it was set in the lake. Donated to camp after sitting for decades in storage, it is easily our fastest boat with its 60-horse engine. A trip across the lake on a windy day, however, can feel like riding a bull as it flies from one wave crest to the next.
The smaller pontoon of the two has a series of leaks in the pontoon that the careful spark of a welder time and time again failed to fully plug. A trip across the lake has become a game of beat the clock. Just this past week I loaded it down with 1600 pounds of fresh topsoil for our rhubarb garden and some other cargo totaling one ton. With the top of the pontoons only inches out of the water, it took twice as long but we made it to the dock before the bottom of the lake.
The bigger pontoon is our workhorse. On any given week it carries two tons of food, a couple dozen people, and any lumber and equipment needed on the island. With a 115-horse engine, it also serves as our emergency boat.
This past week it was used for that purpose for the first time under my watch. A young girl, complaining of stomach pains, was taken to the hospital in Bemidji after a choppy ride across the wind swept lake. As suspected, she was immediately diagnosed with appendicitis. As the camp director it is comforting to see things go right in a bad situation and I remain hopeful that when needed most, the boats will always meet our needs.
Off the water I’ve embarked on a campaign to eradicate mice from my living quarters. The first day I moved in and noticed a wolf spider occupying my bed. I don’t consider myself to have arachnophobia, but wolf spiders are big, ugly, and have the appearance of something deadly. I took care of the spider problem before I turned out the light for the evening, only to hear the scurrying of tiny feet across the floor.
Out of laziness I chose to ignore the sounds and continued to do so for a couple of weeks. One night, however, I could ignore it no longer. One of the darn things jumped into bed with me and ran across my back. It didn’t take me long to figure out what was going on as I awoke and turned on the light only to see its two beady eyes starring at me from the headboard of my bed, frozen in fear. I started swinging with my pillow, out of anger from the late night disturbance rather than fear of the pesky rodent.
It turns out the mouse problem was worse than I thought. I dug out four traps, baited them with raisins, and strategically placed them around the room. Five days later I’ve captured twice as many mice. I never imagined I might say this of my summer job but emptying the traps has become a part of my morning routine, bookended by brushing my teeth and checking the weather.
Happy Trails
Week 1
When I last left off, I was typing my final words under the dim lighting of a full moon shining through my 12” by 6” inch wagon window after a summer of (runaway) horses, (snow covered) mountains, living in a (leaky) sheep wagon, and occasional visits from a (pig hungry) grizzly bear. A summer as a ranch hand was in many ways a dream come true if one forgets about the painstaking chores such as mowing the lawn, hauling firewood, and vacuuming the always-dirty ranch vehicles. Unless you’re a country music superstar, not often does one get to put on cowboy boots and pearl snap shirts when dressing for work. The view from my office (the shop) yielded an 11,000-foot snow capped peak, the views from which made a climber feel like they’d left earth and risen to the heavens. Coyotes howling on the prairie, boots stomping in line to the rhythm of the “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and trout slapping the surface of the river characterized the soundtrack from that western adventure. And the food, do you remember how delicious that was? I can still taste it. On the ranch bacon held condiment status and the cookie jar always had something tempting my self-restraint.
Many of my friends were envious of the summer I was having. Time and time again I defended my good fortune and fulfilling job working on the ranch as my last hurrah before finding a “real” job. I postponed the search for a fulltime, year round job just long enough to squeeze in one more summer of seasonal work. Afterwards I would get down to it, put my nose to the grindstone, and find that decent paying, respectable career. At least that was the plan.
When a part-time job working at a liquor store was the only gainful employment I could find I turned to plan B; go back to school next fall and in the meantime, find one more adventurous summer job!
Nearly one year after I first pulled into the ranch, I find myself serenaded by crickets on the shores of a northern Minnesota lake. No neighing horses in the pasture, but instead the sounds of water lapping up against the sandy shore. No sheep wagon to retreat to, but instead a nice small cabin with a screened in porch. Not a single grizzly bear within over 500 miles, but at least two loons for nearly every lake. The leather cowboy boots are stashed away while Chaco sandals and floral printed swimming trunks become essential components of the wardrobe. Spin casting rods are favored over the fly rod and rather than a dinner bell sounds a trumpet like conch shell, beaconing guests toward a table full of home cooked food.
This summer I find myself at a northern Minnesota summer camp. To be more specific, it’s a Unitarian/Universalist family camp located on an island in Cass Lake near Bemidji. Life on an island is inherently challenging I am already discovering. A trip to town requires a twenty-minute boat ride and depending on the weather and waves, that trip isn’t always feasible. Garbage requires an extra effort and to cook all of that food requires a collection of propane tanks large enough to run a state fair booth all summer.
Carrying in the groceries isn’t as simple as a short walk from the garage to the kitchen. Instead we load a 25-foot pontoon with a few thousand dollars of goods each week and proceed to carry them off the dock, up the hill, and into the kitchen. Our cook claims she could cook a five-course meal with the food that has been lost to the bottom of the lake and I believe her. On a related note, just the other day I docked the pontoon and proceeded to assist the repairman with loading up our 50 year old 300 lb industrial sized mixer onto the boat. With a heave and a stretch I straddled the dock and the pontoon trying to plop the chunk of metal on the deck. As the repairman proceeded to do the same the pontoon began to drift away from the dock due to an excess of slack in the lines tying the boat to the dock. With panic we tried to heave it on the boat but were too slow as we gave up and watched the mixer splash and sink to the bottom of the marina. Astonished, we starred at the rippling water without saying a word. After our surprised stupor wore off, we hatched a plan to snag one of the mixer arms with a submerged rope and drag the mixer up the boat ramp. With coordinated heaves on the rope we brought it back to the surface, tied the boat tighter, and set the mixer down like nothing had ever happened. nfortunately the secret would have to be revealed when we explained to the cook why she couldn't plug it in for a few days.
The camp consists of five rustic cabins, a lodge with an attached dining hall and kitchen, a bunk house, staff housing, tent camping sites, and a couple of bath houses. Originally the property of a Texan cotton king who used the property as a summer retreat from the Texas heat, it was later donated to the Prairie Star District Unitarian Universalist Association for use as a summer camp in 1961. For the past 49 years families have come to the island for a week at a time to relax, sail, socialize, discuss current issues, and share in the magic of living on a lake in northern Minnesota. Each week has a different theme. Some examples include sailing, basket weaving, the compatibility of religion and science, dancing, the life of Henry David Thoreau, and others.
I was hired as the camp director. It’s a sharp learning curve, being thrust into a brand new job in a new setting and expecting to know more than the people working under you, (some of which are significantly older) but I’ve managed all right so far thanks to the help of some very generous and knowledgeable folks.
Last year’s adventure on the dude ranch yielded some interesting stories and experiences, and I suspect this summer will be no different. I intend to write the occasional update since so many have expressed interest in receiving them. If you are not one of these people let me know and I’ll take you off my list!
Happy Trails
