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,
Greg
