Week seven: a week of old friends

Life takes some interesting turns sometimes. Of course, some might argue that my life in particular has taken an interesting straightaway by leaving me at Philmont for the last ten years, but this is simply semantic nonsense and means that I have spent too much time reading lately. However you look at it, my plan for the last few weeks had been to go to Fish Camp between weeks six and seven. I abandoned this plan to visit a friend at Head of Dean. I've visited the camp more times than I care to count on back country tours in the Fall season; it has some of the largest ponderosa pines on the ranch, an open field and a decent view of some of the closer mountains in Colorado. To tell the truth, this trip helped me to realize two things: first, that Head of Dean and the trail to it are truly beautiful, and second, that I have spent far too little time alone in recent weeks.

Don't get me wrong, I love being around people. Being around others reminds me what it is to be a human being, something that I wish more people in this world would realize. The problem is that when you spend all of your time around other people you lose touch with your own emotions. You start to think of yourself as a piece of someone else's machine, without an individual identity. People aren't meant to be exclusively alone or entirely part of a group - we live somewhere in between.

The four hours I spent woodcarving at Head of Dean were therefore very therapeutic. I chatted with a few advisers (adult hikers) and the camp staff (who were very friendly, by the way) but there was no sense of obligation to it. At three o'clock I went to leave, my friend still unseen, when, in accordance with Murphy's law, my friend and her crew finally arrived. I stayed and talked with her for about an hour and a half, then regretfully returned to my car and my camp.

The week itself was... interesting. I had the trailblazers (my least favorite group) with Lindsay and Warren (two of my favorite group leaders). Within the first few minutes I renamed a twelve year old "Sarge" since he seemed to want to take command from the beginning. He was actually quite helpful; he ran games for me when I had to deal with issues elsewhere, which was fairly often with twenty four boys. There was also an autistic boy in the group who shifted back and forth between being almost normal and screaming at no one because he was in the back of the line.

Fortunately, the little fellow didn't come along for the all day hike. It started out wonderfully: we made good time for the first two miles, we met the roving prospectors at Cathedral Rock camp and got some impromptu program, and we even made it to Window Rock in reasonable time for lunch (granted, I literally had to push one boy up the mountain, but we made it). Then I joined up with the Silverados to come back down the mountain.

And then the hail started. It was marble sized and covered the ground like snow. It took the better part of an hour to seep through my rain gear and destroy my camera. I was the lucky one; all of our crew gear was soaked through by the time they arrived at Hunting Lodge and a thousand other little things turned heaven on earth into a sodden, frozen hell.

I, on the other hand, went back to California for Kurt and Emily's wedding. It was a bit odd being back; hearing my real name always throws me off a bit. The ceremony was elegant and tasteful, and it gave me the chance to see Justin and Vince - old friends that I miss dearly. The reception was a great chance to catch up though I mostly absented myself from the dance portion of it. I haven't decided if I never learned to dance to hip hop of if I simply can't believe that all it takes is stepping from side to side and vaguely swinging your arms.

I'm afraid all I have to tell of the party are very short stories. Jeff threw up on me from across the table. Val got drunk and insisted that I take her to a bar after the reception, then passed out in the car on the way there (I drove her home and Dana took care of her). Kurt was truly overjoyed to see me there and while I'm honored, he should know by now that when he needs me somewhere, I'm there.

When I returned to the ranch, people acted as if they hadn't seen me in weeks. The Philmont time warp is pretty strong, especially when you miss the Philfiesta. But it wasn't all happy stories when I got there: a camper died on Friday. Obviously the rumor mill is working overtime on this one, but we are sure that it was quick and painless and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. It's been nine years since our last fatality. I'll try to keep you posted.