Not for faint of heart
Dad goes camping with 600 Cubs
As I lean back in my tent for the first time since 1999, it occurs to me how I’ve missed this authentic, bespoke camping experience: the quiet solitude, the majestic splendour.
Just me, some buzzing dragonflies, the great outdoors and — hey, what’s that sound? A rare Canadian waterfowl, perhaps?
“IF YOU CAN’T FOLLOW THE RULES, I WILL CALL YOUR PARENTS TO COME AND GET YOU!”
I gaze out the tiny mesh window, still groggy with sleep, to discover I’m not deep in the bush on some idyllic Algonquin island.
I’m in a large grassy field with 600 Cubs and their leaders for a tri-city, sesquicentennial, lets-jam-everyoneinto-a-parking lot Cuboree.
As I stare into the horizon I see not majestic sugar maples and eastern hemlocks, but dozens of tents packed in Borg-like formation on plots of land the size of a helicopter landing pads, roped off with orange tape. What am I doing here? That’s what I’ve been asking myself since dragging 300 pounds of camping gear to this makeshift refugee camp, complete with stinky outhouses, rubble-strewn roads and so many black flies it feels like a biblical plague.
“You HAVE to go!’’ insisted my wife when our nine-yearold son indicated the camp’s Pokemon theme demanded his presence. “Max will need one of us there to oversee things.”
It’s his first ever camping trip, but I figured he would probably be OK on his own.
The leaders seem reassuringly stable. And even in this democratic assemblage, it’s not as if Max is the only kid with challenges.
But as the parent of a kid with autism, you’re always torn between pushing independence and running interference. Should I stay or should I go? It was The Clash who posed this timeless question at the tail end of the punk era.
Thirty-something years later, I still don’t know the answer.
“Here’s an idea,” I suggest to Alicia, recoiling at the prospect of intense heat, bug bites and a battalion of screaming kids. “You go.”
No traction on this one, so here I am, trying to keep a low profile while the leaders do their best to quell the kind of “Lord of the Flies” uprising that feels perpetually imminent.
“I’VE TALKED TO YOU ABOUT THIS SEVERAL TIMES!” glowers one scouter at a youthful miscreant hefting a fallen tree branch. “PUT DOWN THAT STICK AND STOP RUNNING AROUND THE TENTS!”
“Hey man, chillax.” That’s my first reaction. “Kids will be kids. Take a Prozac.”
Ha, ha. How little I knew. Experiencing, over the next 39 hours, the litany of bald-faced insurrections, heat-induced meltdowns and inter-tent contretemps among these adrenalin charged mutineers, I find my sympathies, without fail, go to the leaders. Especially Scouter Jack. Tough, intimidating, with an explosive sense of humour that’s both cartoonish and mildly unsettling — like The Joker in “Batman” — Scouter Jack is Supernanny crossed with a less iron-jawed Clint Eastwood: “Do ya feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?”
“Rock and Roll people love Scouter Jack because Scouter Jack has got what we want: swagger and attitude,’’ rock star Bono might have intoned, had he not been talking about Frank Sinatra.
“He’s big on attitude. Serious attitude. Bad attitude. Scouter Jack is the Chairman of the Bad. Rock and Roll plays at being tough but this guy, well, he’s The Boss. The Boss of Bosses. The Man. The Big Bang of Scouting. I’m not gonna mess with him, are you?” Not me. While glammed up celebrities preach empowerment and advise kids to “have a crush on
yourself!,” Scouter Jack tells them: “And while you’re at it, make sure you pick up that crushed pop can on the sidewalk, help that old lady across the street and stop jabbing the kid next to you with your water bottle — OR ELSE!”
After bearing witness to the crowd-calming influence of this eagle-eyed enforcer, I’ve come to believe that where 8-to-10-year-olds are concerned, Scouter Jack is the thin red line between a weekend of fun and adventure and the kind of chaos that ensued when the Yanks dropped a nuclear bomb on Hiroshima.
“PHILLIP AND MICHAEL — WHAT DID I JUST TELL YOU?” he barks at two Cubs in various stages of upset.
“Get yourself under control — NOW! Phillip, that is NOT control! What did I just say? DO IT NOW! Thank you.”
I’m impressed, not because of his staggering confidence, the fact no one argues or that I can picture him on a movie screen, like “Dirty Harry,” snarling “Go ahead — make my day!”
I’m blown away because despite these colourful cinematic beatdowns, every kid, including Max, has a great time.
Come on, it’s crazy. Every time you try to throw a tantrum or snub the rules or whine about some perceived injustice, the hammer comes down — POW!
But because there are no favourites, no negotiation and a clear underpinning of common sense, it creates a stability and structure even the most timid souls, like Max, can feel free to move around in.
Good thing too, because the upside is huge; axe-throwing, crayfish hunting, dunk tank, Pokemon badge collection, running around in the dark with flashlights ... ahem, cookies for breakfast?
“I only had one pillow and the ground was rock hard,” Max informed me a few days later. “But I liked collecting the badges and eating cookies for breakfast. That was really fun.”
The fact these activities are overseen by a guy who wouldn’t have been out of place on Mount Sinai with a stone tablet in one hand (and a .44 Magnum in the other) makes the experience that much sweeter.
Send the kids home? Not if they can help it.