Conceived or Contrived. . .
Sometimes in our reflections we rediscover those moments in our lives that have helped shape our character, personality, faith and relationships. One such incident for me was the following experience during the 60's.
America was engaged in a war and a host of battles. George, Paul, John and Ringo had arrived. Peace signs and VW vans covered the land from the Redwood forest to the country roads taking us home. Youthfulness, clothing and music were being liberated. Amidst the turmoil and trials, a young boy experienced a rite of passage...a week of boy scout camp in Tishomingo, Oklahoma. . .Slippery Falls.
There is horrible humidity and sunburn., spoiling food and dysentery, the dares and the double dares. But all of that is incomparable to the snipe hunting, armadillo chases and the initiation into the raw world of nature. I discover throughout the week that most of what we experience and achieve has little to do with the receiving of a merit badge. Most of the camping in scouting is the coming to terms with the raw understanding of nature and life...and the subsequent fear or acceptance of the rawness you discover.
Thursday evening toward dusk, a small band of us set out for the river. The premise set forth was that we were going fishing; noodling, I believe the term was. You wade into the darkness of the swirling river and feel around for holes. These holes supposedly are home to the largest monster sized fish on earth. The idea is once a hole is discovered you feel around for these big, lazy lunkers and grab the gills and hoist the big hog out. Trouble was that my friends had left out two little bits of information. One was that you weren't always sure what you were going to find in the holes; snakes, dead animals, the scout master in scuba gear, etc...Secondly, this was a new order; the skinny dipping society of troop 362. Somehow this image of fishing with no clothes on with a bunch of guys at night and reaching my hand down into unchartered ruts of the river went against my basic scouting instinct. What was that snipe thing again?!
Nevertheless, the pressure of peers and the excitement of the moment, we noodled on....something akin to a Norman Rockwell drawing. We weren't actually the pioneers of this river ritual, nor probably would we be the last. But we bore our own chapter. I remember the chill, I remember the first couple of holes and I remember most, the blood curling scream when someone finally discovered something at home. I don't think we actually thought we would find something. The next images are blurred by thrashing water, a fight over underwear and the tearing through the underbrush to the camp sight and a dive into the tents. The jumbled conversation was mixed with images of a head beyond proportions, savage teeth, glaring eyes from the depths of the waters and a staggering length of torso and tail. A legend had been conceived...or contrived.
It was the news of the camp. We had consummated with the rivers of nature and had come away with a new understanding and appreciation for its bold rawness. Years later, one of them fessed up that he had gotten hold of an old inner tube but was too embarrassed to ever tell us the truth. You never quite let go of those moments. They become etched; clearly seen but never clearly communicated. They build character and make you a character. They create bonds and bond you to creation. Most of all it lets you know in a small, simple way that life is fun and filled with laughter. It's ours for the taking.