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
Greg
