Boys, Mud and Song

Friday evening was campsite set-up. It was the early 1980s, and my 12-year-old son, his Boy Scout Troop and I had joined a spring campout at West Point Military Academy. It was “by invitation only”, so both boys and leaders were excited to have been chosen.From the grassy parking lot, we hauled all the troop and personal gear a considerable distance, up a moderate hill, to a huge field for the tent city. The boys were experienced by monthly campouts, and made short work of it.

Saturday was gray, raw, and threatening. We were prepared for bad weather and nothing could dampen the boy’s spirits. They threw themselves into the competitive events, doing quite well, and toured every available inch of the Academy open to them. There was neither a hint of sun, nor rain all day, just a lead gray New England winter sky. The thawing ground took abuse from hundreds of pairs of feet and got muddier and muddier. Fortunately the boys had sturdy lace-up insulated boots; anything less would have been sucked right off their feet. The evening ended with a fine stinging cold mist and 40 degree temperature. We gathered around a great campfire, with songs and skits. The tired boys crawled into their sleeping bags without fuss, with we adults close behind. During the night the mist turned to a full-fledged downpour and the temperature rose.

We woke to torrential rain and a sea of mud. The adults realized instantly that there was no way to keep the boys dry or cook. We weren’t quitters, but this was a serious health issue. There was nothing to do but strike camp and head home early. Striking camp was miserable. All of the equipment was wet, muddy and cold. The rain beat down mercilessly, driven by a cold winter wind. I gathered my personal gear, slogged through the mud, stowed it in the van and went back for troop gear. By then some buses and vans in the parking lot had sunk to their axles in mud. Troops of youngsters were sliding down the hill, wrestling with bulky heavy equipment, and slogging across the field to their vehicles. Their mood reflected the gray skies as cold water streamed off their ponchos.

On my third trip back to the camp field, I saw my son with a large equipment box perched on his shoulders, slipping and sliding down the slope. He was bellowing the Mr. Rogers theme song, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” at the top of his lungs and grinning from ear to ear. Everyone turned to stare at him, then broke into mud-smeared grins, smiles, and laughter. Soon the song echoed across the field. My 12-year-old son had single-handedly turned drudgery into fun for the entire group. That was 20 years ago and I remember it as though it were yesterday. Thank you, Boo, I’ve learned so much from you.

~Peter Wyckoff