for chopping out a totem pole from a railroad tie.
“Now, you guys over on this end go first.” The counselor pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes. “Two to a canoe–but put them life jackets on first.”
Mine was already on; I leaped forward eagerly. The next thirtyseconds were a blur. I remember stepping into the front of the canoe from the little pier, with Schwartz right behind me in the back, then shoving off into the water just the way he had told us. A split second later, I found myself deep underwater, having caught a brief glimpse of the gleaming bottom of our canoe flashing in the sunlight. Wildly afraid that the thing with suckers would get me, I flailed to the surface, my life jacket jabbing me in the armpits. Weeds streamed from my hair. A frog and a small bullhead skittered out of my path. Schwartz, blowing frantically, arms flapping like a windmill, stood hip-deep in the mud a few feet away. Waves of raucous horselaughs rolled out over the water.
I struggled up onto the pier, scraping my knee as I did. Schwartz continued to flounder helplessly in the weeds. The counselor paddled his canoe expertly to the wreckage.
“All you guys just saw how not to do it, right?” More catcalls. “Now, let’s try it again.”
This time I clung desperately to the pier while I put first one foot, then the other, and finally my whole weight into the canoe. Schwartz, who had sworn off canoes for the rest of his life, had retired to the shore and was hiding behind a stump. Flick eased himself into the stern, his face looking like poured concrete. We were in and still upright.
“Now, push off and paddle like I showed you.”
I gave the pier a tiny shove, and immediately the canoe, seemingly propelled by hidden forces, glided across the water, heading rapidly for the opposite shore, two miles away. I dug my paddle into the waves to keep from cracking up on the other side. We spun rapidly counterclockwise.
“Hey, Flick, paddle, willya?” I hollered, looking back over my shoulder and seeing that Flick was sitting low in the stern, his hands clamped like vises on both sides of the canoe. His paddle floated some thirty or forty feet behind us.
“I don’t like this,” he squeaked. We were drifting out to sea. My life started flashing before my eyes. I dug in again. We spun faster.We probably would have spent the next week corkscrewing around the lake if the counselor hadn’t paddled out and towed us to shore.
“All right, you guys. Give somebody else a chance.”
We joined Schwartz behind his stump.
“Boy, I never knew paddling a canoe was so hard,” said Flick as we watched two other Chipmunks flip over, their paddles flying high in the air.
“Whaddaya mean, paddle?” I answered. “You didn’t do nothin’ but sit there.”
Flick thought about this for a bit, then answered, sounding bugged: “Whaddaya expect. This was the first time I was out. You were out with Schwartz before.” That was true, so there was no point arguing.
The gulf between the Chipmunks and the Beavers widened as the weeks went by. Rumors swept the mess hall that five Beavers, led by Jake, had pulled off a daring panty raid in the night on the girls’ camp across the lake, that Jake and his mob were planning to burn down Eagle Lodge and Jaguar Lodge, and would mop up Mole Lodge just for laughs. One Chipmunk had fled screaming into the night when he discovered that he was sleeping with a woodchuck. Jake and his cronies immediately claimed credit and threatened reprisals against any Chipmunk who reported the incident to Crabtree. It was even rumored that Crabtree himself was an undercover agent working for Jake’s mob. Morale among the green-beanie wearers sank rapidly. Even Cliffie, in self-defense, was trying to curry favor with Jake and his truculent toady Dan Baxter, the short, broad Beaver with the red neck who had bedeviled us on the bus ride to camp, ten years ago.
One quiet Tuesday, Mole Lodge was struggling fruitlessly
“Now, you guys over on this end go first.” The counselor pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes. “Two to a canoe–but put them life jackets on first.”
Mine was already on; I leaped forward eagerly. The next thirtyseconds were a blur. I remember stepping into the front of the canoe from the little pier, with Schwartz right behind me in the back, then shoving off into the water just the way he had told us. A split second later, I found myself deep underwater, having caught a brief glimpse of the gleaming bottom of our canoe flashing in the sunlight. Wildly afraid that the thing with suckers would get me, I flailed to the surface, my life jacket jabbing me in the armpits. Weeds streamed from my hair. A frog and a small bullhead skittered out of my path. Schwartz, blowing frantically, arms flapping like a windmill, stood hip-deep in the mud a few feet away. Waves of raucous horselaughs rolled out over the water.
I struggled up onto the pier, scraping my knee as I did. Schwartz continued to flounder helplessly in the weeds. The counselor paddled his canoe expertly to the wreckage.
“All you guys just saw how not to do it, right?” More catcalls. “Now, let’s try it again.”
This time I clung desperately to the pier while I put first one foot, then the other, and finally my whole weight into the canoe. Schwartz, who had sworn off canoes for the rest of his life, had retired to the shore and was hiding behind a stump. Flick eased himself into the stern, his face looking like poured concrete. We were in and still upright.
“Now, push off and paddle like I showed you.”
I gave the pier a tiny shove, and immediately the canoe, seemingly propelled by hidden forces, glided across the water, heading rapidly for the opposite shore, two miles away. I dug my paddle into the waves to keep from cracking up on the other side. We spun rapidly counterclockwise.
“Hey, Flick, paddle, willya?” I hollered, looking back over my shoulder and seeing that Flick was sitting low in the stern, his hands clamped like vises on both sides of the canoe. His paddle floated some thirty or forty feet behind us.
“I don’t like this,” he squeaked. We were drifting out to sea. My life started flashing before my eyes. I dug in again. We spun faster.We probably would have spent the next week corkscrewing around the lake if the counselor hadn’t paddled out and towed us to shore.
“All right, you guys. Give somebody else a chance.”
We joined Schwartz behind his stump.
“Boy, I never knew paddling a canoe was so hard,” said Flick as we watched two other Chipmunks flip over, their paddles flying high in the air.
“Whaddaya mean, paddle?” I answered. “You didn’t do nothin’ but sit there.”
Flick thought about this for a bit, then answered, sounding bugged: “Whaddaya expect. This was the first time I was out. You were out with Schwartz before.” That was true, so there was no point arguing.
The gulf between the Chipmunks and the Beavers widened as the weeks went by. Rumors swept the mess hall that five Beavers, led by Jake, had pulled off a daring panty raid in the night on the girls’ camp across the lake, that Jake and his mob were planning to burn down Eagle Lodge and Jaguar Lodge, and would mop up Mole Lodge just for laughs. One Chipmunk had fled screaming into the night when he discovered that he was sleeping with a woodchuck. Jake and his cronies immediately claimed credit and threatened reprisals against any Chipmunk who reported the incident to Crabtree. It was even rumored that Crabtree himself was an undercover agent working for Jake’s mob. Morale among the green-beanie wearers sank rapidly. Even Cliffie, in self-defense, was trying to curry favor with Jake and his truculent toady Dan Baxter, the short, broad Beaver with the red neck who had bedeviled us on the bus ride to camp, ten years ago.
One quiet Tuesday, Mole Lodge was struggling fruitlessly
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