Upon my return to Iowa and law school at summer’s end, I indulged in the annual opportunity of catching up with my school friends after a summer of “disconnect” on a Northern MN lake. I got to hear all about their summer jobs such as judicial clerking and research assistantships, classes such as Wills & Trusts and Secured Transactions, and travel to places like India, France, and even Wisconsin. Jealous was I? Not a chance. In-fact I tempered my summer update so they wouldn’t be jealous of my experience. I usually kept it short and sweet simply saying, “my summer was great, sure can’t beat the cool weather up on the lake.”
Besides, I reasoned, they wouldn’t have fully appreciated the stories describing the beautiful sunrises from the dock and sunsets from the rock. They wouldn’t have been able to smell the fresh baked cookies and homemade bread like I still can. They wouldn’t have been brave enough to attempt the Cedar Island Swim and certainly wouldn’t have had the endurance to withstand the ticks, mosquitoes, poison ivy, and occasional swimmer’s itch. They wouldn’t have believed that one of our pontoons sank while tied to the dock (oops) or the descriptions of the brilliant nighttime stars. They wouldn’t have recognized the pleasure in watching the CP children skit or heard the relaxing sounds of music from the talent show. They wouldn’t have felt the intensity of the staff-camper volleyball game nor would they have understood what it is that makes a week at UniStar the best week of the year (or 14 of them in my case). I know from past experience they just wouldn’t have gotten it.
But you guys do. You guys understand what I mean when I describe the above sights, sounds, smells, and experiences. You’ve lived it firsthand and if you’re anything like me, those memories remain vibrant despite the diming of the days with the inevitable changing of seasons.
For me, both summers of memories are good, but this summer’s stand out for a few reasons. Most notable is because of the good folks I got to share it with, the ones we call “the staff.” Hardly a day went by where I didn’t hear campers comment on how great they thought the staff was. Evaluations told the same story. Professional, friendly, and helpful include just a few of the adjectives used weekly. Time and again they impressed me, and many others, with their attitude, work ethic, sense of community, and sense of humor. If you see any of these folks in the coming months, tell them you want to see them at camp again next summer! They have proven themselves great caretakers of camp, the youth and children who pass through, and that magical spirit that makes the place unique.
Secondly, I should not fail to mention the 37 volunteers that contributed well over 1250 hours helping keep those dishes washed, those cabins freshly painted brown, and the kitchen mopped. Without their aid, camp would not look or function nearly as well. Encourage folks you know, especially eligible youth, to consider volunteering next summer.
Though still short of our goal, we were successful in raising a sum of donations that surpassed last year’s contributions and drew from a wide base of supporters. Thank you for supporting us in ways that go above and beyond the required minimum. During a time when other investments can be uncertain, Camp continues to fulfill its mission as a place of personal growth, reflection, and community. In next spring’s registration materials (note, or change to “in this newsletter” if wishlist is included), look for a copy of the camp “wishlist” for other unique ways you can contribute.
By summer’s end many noticed the hours invested down on the waterfront. We either sold or removed much of the unused, unneeded, or defunct equipment hogging room in the boathouse, life jacket house, or along the shoreline, making what we do have more accessible and better maintained. Look for a few more improvements to happen next year.
This summer we hosted a very well received fellowship service each week. If interested in seeing that tradition continue, consider how you might be able to contribute next year to either aid a staff member in its preparation or lead it yourself in the absence of an available staff member.
Finally, it is you, the campers, who really made the summer as spectacular as it was. It would be a lonely and depressing Saturday night orientation meeting if it were just us staff each week. Like the closing credits of the 50th Anniversary Slide show pronounced, “thank you campers, for making camp what it is by bringing it with you.” I hope you are already considering a return next summer to help us begin the next 50 years. Word of mouth is our most effective means of marketing, so don’t fail as I did when describing the finer points of Camp UniStar to your friends and family, and help us fill it full so more can share this experience.
As I contently reflect on the summer beneath the dim glow of the desk lamp in my quiet corner of the library where I write this, I realize I could have tried to explain all of that to my friends, but regretfully there is not enough time in between classes and homework. Which reminds me, it’s probably time I pull my head out of the clouds and get back to that homework, and this other life, until the next time thoughts of summer seduce me back to Star Island again.
Happy Trails,
Greg
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Star Island Summer 2010, 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.
Greg
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.
Greg
Star Island Summer 2010, 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,
Greg
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,
Greg
Star Island Summer 2010, Week6
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,
Greg
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,
Greg
Star Island Summer 2010, 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
Greg
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
Greg
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