As some know, I’ve spent the past 15 summers at a deep woods camp in Maine called “Flying Moose Lodge.” I’ve also turned it into my doctoral research, made researching its history into a sort of hobby of mine. As such I scanned in Harrie B. Price III’s book A Bad Case of Moosepox. Here’s a chapter (posted with Chris Price’s permission). Contact me (regardingjohn at gmaildotcom) for more.

And send a kid there this summer. The economy is threatening camps all over, and they’re more important for kids than cable, video games, cars, etc.

Trips are the very heart of Flying Moose, and I doubt if any other camp has a trip program that exactly duplicates ours. The program revolves around what I call The Magic Formula. Stated in its briefest terms, The Magic Formula provides that every boy go on a four day camping trip every week he is at Flying Moose. When I say every boy, I mean exactly that, every boy. If you were to drop in for a visit during the middle of a week, you would find an absolutely empty camp. Some friends who have stopped by while trips were away from the base have been surprised to find things so completely deserted, no one in sight at all. This they have found hard to understand, for their concept of a boys’ camp is a place of feverish activity, with boys and counselors bustling about. We do bustle about on weekends between trips, but we put our camping skills to work in the field during the week.

Our Magic Formula has evolved over the years, and when I took over it was well established. One reason that I think it may be a unique program is that its development has obviously been influenced by such factors as the camp’s physical location, the camp’s size, the availability of possible trips in the immediate area, the clientele we seem to have attracted, and the vision of those who saw its possibilities back in the days when Flying Moose was still a part of old Camp Magunticook. Other camps may have overnights or special trips for special campers (all at an extra charge) which are added to an already existing program of crafts and organized athletics. Such programs do not fit The Magic Formula. At Flying Moose the trips come first, and any crafts and athletic contests follow.

In order that you fully appreciate the highlights and memorable moments of the several trips I wish to recall, it is probably necessary that you get a littler better feel for the program and how it works. What immediately follows may sound somewhat like the rules of a complicated board game; and perhaps that is what it really is. Bear with me. Pretend that you are a small camper about to be engulfed by The Magic Formula.

As soon as the camp gathers each summer, we carefully look the group over. We note the growth that has taken place in the returning campers; and likewise we try to find out what skills and abilities the new campers bring with them, and we work hard those opening days on canoeing skills, axe work, swimming, first aid, and woods’ safety. While we are in the process of working on those skills, we can not help but notice which campers get along best with which other campers. They are forming groups, and we are forming groups; and those groups will eventually be the groups of the first week’s trips.

Trips for each week are traditionally announced on Sundays; but assigning boys and counselors to those trips is no catch-as-catch-can procedure. Fortunately, we have the possibility of sending out as many as 25 different trips to 25 different places over the summer. Some of those trips are more difficult than others, and those, naturally, require a certain amount of experience for both boys and counselors.

I well remember my very first trip at Flying Moose as a very inexperienced eleven year old. That was where it all began. Such a camping trip was all new to me, and as the possibilities unfolded, I knew that I had come to the right place. In preparation for that great trip, we five small campers carefully made up our packs, having spent hours consulting the list of requirements which had been posted on the Lodge door. At the appointed hour on that first Tuesday morning, we piled everything into the camp’s large rowboat, and rowed an irregular course to the other end of the lake. There was a tent to put up, firewood to gather, and a delicious supper to prepare and consume, a supper consisting mostly, as I recall, of baked beans and brown bread. I must admit that I don’t remember anything more about that trip except that snakes, somehow, played an important part. How long the trip lasted, or what else we did, have long since faded from my memory. Being out by ourselves, at least over night, was the important thing. Whenever I paddle past that simple campsite, the pangs of Moosepox intensify. Our counselor was one Ed Albers, fondly known as “Doc”, a medical student at The University of Pennsylvania, who was later to set up practice in Illinois. He and I corresponded irregularly until his death some years ago.

One more trip that summer stands out in my memory, three nights on neighboring Long Pond. At one point Fred Curtis and I set out to fetch fresh water from a nearby spring. We were walking along slowly in the woods towards the spring, talking, and probably not paying too much attention to our surroundings, when we all of a sudden heard a loud crashing behind us. Fred didn’t bother to look back, but dropped the bucket and raced for the nearest tall spruce, shouting, “Moose! Moose!” I was not far behind. When we had climbed as far as we could, we looked down to see two inquisitive cows sniffing at our bucket. After they moved on, we came down, filled the bucket, and returned to the campsite. So much for my introduction to the wildlife of Maine.

The youngest boys still spend their first nights away from camp on the shores of Craig Pond, much as we did in 1928. Boys a little older might go to Lake Alamoosook, Hot Hole Pond, or even Long Pond, with or without cows. Boys with more experience in canoeing could tackle Toddy Pond, Tunk Lake, or Donnell Pond. Those with hiking interests would find themselves on one of a number of backpacking trips; and the oldest and the most rugged could spend four days in Acadia National Park, shaping their muscles for a future trip on the Appalachian Trail, or a climb up Mt. Katahdin. Thus, before the first Tuesday morning was half spent, ten or eleven groups would have started out on their separate ways. Some by truck, some on foot, and occasionally, some directly from the canoe dock. The important thing was that everybody went. That was The Magic Formula.

Mention was made earlier of the eating habits of campers and the lengths to which we go to satisfy them. At this point you might question how those various appetites could possibly be satisfied while out on trips. The answer is, that given the materials, the boys do it themselves. They become very accomplished cooks, and all over wood fires.

Supper is always the big meal of the day on trips, a filling meal after many hours of hiking or canoeing. Every supper starts off with hot soup, which could be followed by beef stew or hamburgers (definitely first night meals because of the problem of refrigeration), or perhaps by what we call Tuna Gum Boogie. Don’t be alarmed by our local terminology, for Tuna Gum Boogie is merely our name for a tuna fish casserole which includes not only the tuna, but noodles, vegetables, and mushroom soup; all perhaps served over hot biscuits or toast. Macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meat sauce, ravioli, hot dogs, and baked beans (once in a while), offer other possibilities. Desserts are often simply canned fruit, but are likely to be accompanied by cakes and pies produced in our reflector ovens or our simpler Dutch ovens. Some campers have become very proficient in turning out pineapple upside down cake, hot breads, or even cinnamon buns. Hot tea often adds a finishing touch to supper on a cool evening.

Breakfast starts out with fruit; and always includes hot cereal, as well as bacon and eggs, pan cakes, or French toast If the weather is cool, hot chocolate rounds things off. Lunch, because it is almost always served on the trail or in the process of paddling from one campsite to another, is what we call light, but surely not just a snack. Tuna fish, sardines, spam, corned beef, cheese, jam or jelly, and, of course, ever present peanut butter, can provide a great variety of sandwiches. Five boys and a counselor can pretty well kill a four pound container of peanut butter in only four days.

One main ingredient for all meals is good bread. We found out long ago that regular sliced store bread was less than satisfactory for our needs. If a loaf should be crushed, it became practically useless, and slices had a way of falling out of the wrappers. For many years now we have been sending along loaves and loaves of Vienna bread, baked especially for us. The bread not only has a better taste, it lasts longer. It even lasts up to two weeks on our longer trips, certainly in better shape than would have been the case with regular supermarket loaves. French toast made from thick slices of Vienna bread is a completely different kind of French toast, and a special treat. Most important of all, loaves are more difficult to crush, although it can be done if you try hard. There are other advantages, too. Have you ever played touch football with a loaf of pasty white sliced bread? Every Monday 60 to 70 freshly baked loaves make their appearance, and the Back Room, where the food packing takes place, begins to smell like a bakery. Truly, that bread is the staff of life.

Much as the boys enjoyed their trips, they were always glad to return to camp on Friday for some of the cook’s best chowder and other favorites, but cooking on the trail has made a number of campers critical (in the very best sense of the word) of what we serve at camp. Yes, boys have always gained weight at Flying Moose, in spite of all the energy they exert. Is it any wonder?

Longer trips, especially long backpacking trips, must be very conscious of weight and bulk, and their meals are likely to include considerable quantities of cheese, raisins and other dried fruit, dried soups, sea biscuit, instant breakfasts, and, of course, our own granola.

Counselors are assigned to trips in much the same manner as boys. Returning counselors usually take out more complicated trips than others, for there is a good chance that they have taken part on such trips in previous summers, New counselors from the ranks of old campers bring with them a certain familiarity with a great many trips, and they in turn would be assigned to the trips they knew well. Completely new counselors, and we do have some every summer, might team up with old counselors in order to gain experience in our own peculiar ways; which ways may differ from those of other camps; but those ways have been neatly developed for our own particular situation. We have found that if everybody is operating on the same wave length, things seem to move along more smoothly.

We prefer trip groups of six people, including the counselors. This works out to be a very manageable number, for there is always enough meaningful work to be done so that there is little time for horseplay, and on top of that, it seems to be simpler to feed a group of six than any other number. Two cans of corn, two cans of peaches, or two cans of tuna fish work out to be adequate. If there were an additional person, there might not be enough corn, but an extra can would be too much. Yes, six is a very convenient number.

Trips for the very youngest usually have two counselors, for a counselor must be able to talk to another adult occasionally. Four days in the woods, along with four or five nine year olds, could drive a college man up a wall, or certainly up the nearest white pine. Trips which involve considerable portaging are assigned two counselors, as are trips on salt water where long days of paddling are sometimes necessary.

Each separate trip has several features built into it. There may be a special hike to take, another lake to visit, fish to be caught, another group to be met on a mountain top for lunch, or even a beautiful beach that calls for an all day swim. Each trip is different, and, of course, each group treats each trip differently. Even on consecutive weeks, trips to the same lake or stream vary considerably. The trips in the early part of the summer stay out for three nights and are scheduled to return on Friday afternoon in time for a good swim and a bath. I say, “They are scheduled to return,” for some do not always make it on time. When that happens we try not to look too concerned; but there is always the question, where are they?

In 1957 Rich Rex was put in charge of another trip for younger boys on Craig Pond. Rich had a way with small boys, being in many ways in 1957, a small boy himself. The middle of Friday afternoon came and went. No Rich. Supper came and went; and still no Rich. They were camped right on our own lake so we didn’t worry too much, but after supper I began to feel concerned. Then, safely before campfire, while it was still light, the canoes appeared. What had happened? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Rich had no watch and was convinced that it was still the middle of the afternoon. Hadn’t he just fed the boys lunch? The anxious moments were soon forgotten, for obviously everybody had had a great time.

Departures on Tuesday mornings were one thing; returning on Friday afternoon was quite another, for Flying Moose looked awfully good to us. Swimming on trips could be great, but Craig Pond was Craig Pond. I suspect that the same emotions exist today. From what I have observed as the trucks pull in, and from what I have read between the lines in The Flying Moose, the magic is just as strong today as it was in 1928, and we spend quite a bit of time and energy keeping it so.

The second week of the summer we shift campers, counselors, and trips around; and make up ten or eleven new trip groups. No boy or counselor ever goes on the same trip twice in a given summer, and hopefully he travels with a somewhat different party each week. Sometimes the latter aim is difficult to achieve, for the total pool of our campers is small. However, we try to accommodate as many requests as we can, and over a summer we do remarkably well.

This is, indeed a magic formula. The campers love it, and the counselors wouldn’t come back year after year if they were not happy with it. One aspect of the formula which is not always apparent to campers is that it gives the administration a definite period of free time during the middle of the week, time which is needed for necessary repairs and maintenance. Most important of all, this brief respite gives the camp environment a chance to relax.

I remember as a small camper the urge on Tuesday mornings to get trips under way, and the frustrations of being the last trip out. Somehow, if that happened to you, you felt that you had missed out on your share of trip time; for there was always the anticipation of being off in the woods in a small group, doing your own thing, away from what formalities there were at Flying Moose.

It was Black John Nicholson (John E. Nicholson, that is) who in the 1960s and 1970s brought the drama of trip departures to its highest perfection. John was an organizer, and Tuesday mornings gave him the opportunity to excel at his organizational best. He was a born train dispatcher or air traffic controller, and things hummed as he readied trips for departure. There were reasons enough to get things going, for more often than not, trucks needed to make several trips to get the whole camp moving, and the earlier a truck made its first trip, the earlier it could return for its second load of campers.

Slowly John began to tighten the routine. There was to be no languishing Tuesday mornings. When campers arrived for breakfast, there would be the trucks lined up in the drive, canoes roped on, food packed, and tents aboard. Things got to the point that a camper scheduled for an early trip was not welcomed at breakfast unless his pack, paddle, and life jacket were safely aboard his truck, and on the proper side of the truck if it were to carry two groups. Long before John’s time we had learned the wisdom of keeping two groups separated on a truck, for nothing could be more embarrassing than to arrive at your campsite and discover that your pack had gone off on another trip; and that you were left with someone else’s pack, someone else who was not your size, someone else who didn’t bother to pack as wisely as you. It was equally important that you didn’t leave in such a hurry that you got the wrong food boxes or left some choice bit of the menu in the refrigerator. It is not impossible to exist for four days on a restricted diet because of your forgetfulness, but it is more pleasant to enjoy a well-planned menu. Equally, it isn’t too tragic to be sent off without tents, for there is a certain challenge in devising your own shelters from overturned canoes or spruce bows. On the other hand, it would be very comfortable to be sleeping in a real tent on one of those aggressively rainy nights which invariably materialize when you have been separated from the tents that should have been yours.

Most campers seemed to enjoy the Nicholson hustle bustle. They loved the attention, and they felt important. John had created a weekly situation which in some ways must have been similar to the embarkations on D-Day. However, there were always a few who could not be hurried; and the counselors were just as guilty in that respect as the campers

Throughout the days of the Nicholson program, things were kept in focus by the steadying hand of Stew MacColl, who although he never actually come to blows with John over the matter of organization, he did provide a gentle chiding from the sidelines (with the inevitable cup of coffee in hand), and made us all realize that we were running a boys’ camp and not a major airport. He was right, of course, for some mornings when we rushed excessively to get trips off in a hurry, more than food or tents was left at camp. It takes skill to leave one hiking shoe behind, but it has been done. It takes an equal amount of skill to leave a single vital part of your fishing gear on the Lodge porch. Haste and carelessness have ruined more than one fishing trip.

Things have simmered down a bit since John’s day, and although we do not waste much time of a Tuesday morning in deference to those who want to get going, we approach things a bit more calmly, and haven’t left too much behind for some time now.

The classic misadventure in packing took place in 1959 when Blond John Nicholson (John R. Nicholson, that is) was put in charge of an early trip to Baxter State Park. He was to drive to Roaring Brook and then hike his group to Chimney Pond for three nights. John made a special packing list. He portioned out the food so that the packs would be equitably loaded. He checked each pack for completeness, and even sent some of the more responsible campers scurrying for things they had overlooked. At the appointed hour the trip left in a blaze of well-organized glory.

Later that Tuesday morning, when Stew MacColl and I were taking it easy after having spent most of the day cleaning, mopping, and repairing, a message arrived from John. “Please bring my pack to Roaring Brook. It is on the Lodge porch.” Yes, there it was. Stew and I had a pleasant drive to Roaring book, some l25 miles away, but it didn’t seem diplomatic to say to much to John. I think he got the message.

Even though campers regularly leave important things behind, there have been just as many who have not brought everything back. It is not at all uncommon for one trip to bring back socks, canteens, knives, and other camping gear left by the group of the previous week. Some interesting things have even turned up a year later, having wintered over. We try to keep the Maine Woods clean, but it is an up-hill fight. However, when you consider how many trips have been sent out, and how many people have been involved, it is probably remarkable that we haven’t left more behind.

To someone not involved with sending ten trips out every week, the task must sound very complicated and chaotic, but it was not as difficult as it may seem. Remember, we have been sending trips to the same lakes and streams for over 65 years. After a while you get to know what to expect and what is needed to make a given trip work. To help keep our information on trips up to date, we ask counselors on the evening of their return to fill out a trip report which solicits information which could be helpful to another counselor leading that same trip another week. As you might expect, some of the reports were excellent, while others were merely routine repetition. We keep the best ones on file so that when assigned to a trip he has never taken before, a counselor can know what has taken place in the past. He finds out which Geologic Survey maps are needed. He knows the locations of the campsites. The interesting side trips are noted, as well as the points to be avoided at all costs. The night before trips leave, those who have gone before make further suggestions, some of which concern the features of the trip, and others the boys who will make up the group, for we are dealing with people as well as geography.

I do not mean to suggest that our trips are run with the precision of clockwork, for nothing could be farther from the truth. The variations are what make the program interesting, as long as they stay within bounds. After all, we are dealing with boys and young men on one hand, and on the other hand with a fleet of trucks that have already been passed on to us by others. That is a combination which you might say is pregnant with possibilities.

Of course there are great many rules on trip procedures which have been built up over the years. Some are almost too reasonable to excite much comment; and without too much trouble you can imagine incidents in the past which have necessitated the adoption of others. For instance, there is to be no hitchhiking on trips, unless in a dire emergency, such as getting to a doctor or a hospital with a sick or wounded camper. Trips are not to deviate from the agreed upon itinerary so that we could find a particular group should the need arise. A trip must always stay together unless there happen to be two counselors, in which case splitting up occasionally might be advantageous. No camper is to use a knife or axe unless he has passed the required tests. There are to be no trips to the movies or similar diversions; and glop stops, although tolerated, are limited. We have mentioned glop stops before, but perhaps we should elaborate a bit.

Often in hiking from one point to another, a group will come upon a small store. Need I elaborate? In case you are still not sure, a glop stop is a stop at such a store for the purpose of refreshment. Although we have tried to limit in many ways what campers spend for snacks, it is an uphill battle. In the early days you could do well on 25 cents, but inflation and the Maine sales tax soon put a stop to that. Today campers carry more money than I did when I was hiking the byways of Maine, and there is even one recorded instance of a camper spending close to $5 on portable and not so portable snacks. Yes, times have changed. It all comes down to the counselor in charge. If he is a confirmed snacker, there is little hope; but if he has more regular habits, the situation is well in hand.

I am sure that some hikes are designed by devious counselors to include inviting glop stops, such hikes being preferred over those without the possibility of refreshment. I must admit that in my tripping days an Orange Crush or an ice cream cone tasted very good at just the right moment. I can even recall being introduced to ginger ale at a drug store in Bar Harbor. I well remember the surprise of the bubbles. Even though we legislate against glop stops, there were a few country stores which were definitely in a class by themselves; and we routinely encouraged campers to stop at them for a special treat of their home made ice cream. One such stop was the store in South Brooksville, where they could purchase without a doubt the best ice cream in the world. Varnum’s store in Penobscot ran a very close second. Those stops were not to be bypassed under any circumstances, for they were just as important to the success of the Bagaduce Trip as were many of its natural features. They were definitely many cuts above present-day fast food outlets, and shouldn’t even be considered in the same sentence. But, alas, they have disappeared.

One camper wrote of his summer at Flying Moose, many years after his stay, and admitted that he almost didn’t return a second year because the counselor on his very first trip organized a long hike simply to buy candy at a small gas station. That was not his idea of camping in Maine, nor was it mine. Fortunately, trips improved for David over the summer, and he returned for several seasons. Some glop stops may have their places, but I am not sure that the small storekeepers of Maine really appreciate our patronage. Imagine the arrival of five grubby campers at your tiny store on a wet and muddy afternoon. Deliver me.

Well, those are the rules. That is the framework upon which trips move. It is all part of the magic formula. Trips come and go in rapid succession all summer, and hundreds of successful trips soon seem to be forgotten. Actually, they are not forgotten, for each is carefully chronicled in our weekly newspaper, The Flying Moose. They are there for anyone to dig out, but scarcely anyone does. But surely, each trip lurks somewhere in the memory of each participant, and contributes significantly to the spread of Moosepox.

It was the trips which ran into unexpected snags, the trips on which things did not go by the book, and the trips which called for action out of the ordinary which have stayed in mind. Those trips are the ones we recall over and over again.

Perhaps by this time you have figured out that we spend almost half our time at a wide variety of campsites away from our base in East Orland. That spreads our horizons, but there are risks when you become too attached to a beautiful and very special campsite. On many occasions our campers have paddled long distances anticipating just such a wonderful campsite, only to find, on rounding the last point of land, that another party had the exact same idea and simply got there first. That really isn’t too bad, for on another occasion the spot could be ours. What really hurts is when campers discover a brand new cabin (or ranch house) erected on that special point since the previous summer. When that happens a search for a new campsite begins.

In 1946, when we reopened after the World War II, a group on the Bagaduce River was delayed in getting to one traditional campsite, a lovely sand beach rimmed with tall trees. Perhaps they had spent too many hours shooting the Brooksville Rip. In any case, they had explicit directions on how to reach that campsite; and with the help of their maps they arrived at that little white beach long after dark. Can you see the situation? A moonlit night, a late supper, and a party of six sitting around the dying campfire feeling comfortable with what they had accomplished that day, wondering what the next day would bring? They didn’t have long to wait to find out.

Picture the situation again the next morning, six dew-covered sleeping bags strewn casually around the dead campfire, motionless within. Walter Rossmassler, the counselor, awoke to the sound of footsteps and guessed, or even hoped, that the campers had risen early to build a fire, and were quite possibly planning to feed him breakfast in bed. The footsteps stopped. Rossy opened one eye at ground level to discover several pairs of clean sneakers, not muddy boots. Opening the other eye, he saw clean white stockings, not soiled jeans. A further examination revealed a small circle of young lady campers. A few embarrassed words were exchanged, and finally the truth came out.

Our lovely white sand beach was now the lovely white sand beach of Camp Four Winds, newly established by Grace Hooper McNeal. Rossy excused himself as diplomatically as possible, and the group made a hasty exit. Over the years after our initial introduction, our relations with Camp Four Winds have been excellent. Our younger daughter, Margaret, spent two summers swimming off that same white beach, and our two camps have worked together in such diverse areas as trip counselor training and the pooling of grocery orders. We have since discovered equally fine campsites to keep the Bagaduce Trip a favorite over the years, and at the same time not impose ourselves on Camp Four Winds.

The Bagaduce Trip holds many other memories. On approaching its toughest portage on one such trip in 1939 with Eric Johnson, the campers bargained that if the counselors would carry both canoes, they would carry everything else. When Eric and I reached the highest point on that mile long portage with the first canoe, we put it down beside the narrow dirt road along which we had been walking, and sat in it for a much needed rest. It wasn’t long before a horse and wagon came slowly up the road; and as he passed us the driver nodded a greeting.

We completed that first portage and returned for the second canoe. When we came once more to our resting place, we rested again, sitting inside the canoe once more. Lo and behold, the horse and wagon returned, its mission completed. That time the driver not only nodded, but remarked, “Pretty steep climb boys.” Chagrined, we completed the portage.

The second half of that portage made its descent to Eggemoggin Reach by skirting the grounds of The Oakland House, a small country inn which catered pretty much to the same families year after year. Every year when we made the portage, trying all the while to be as inconspicuous as possible, we couldn’t help but notice that most of the guests rocking on the front porch were considerably older than we were. It was only natural then that the inn was referred to by the campers as The Old Folks Home.

In the late 1940s counselor Bill Zimmermann left us at the end of one season to spend a few days with his family at that same Oakland House. When I saw him again the next summer, somehow mention was made of The Old Folks Home. He was quick to point out that during his stay the previous August the guests often made mention of the boys from the underprivileged camp who portaged their canoes across the grounds every year. They were right. We must certainly have looked like a rag-tailed group, especially on a trip with many portages.

Communications between home base and ten or eleven trips each week has been shaky at best. Having no phone at camp didn’t help in this respect, but there were other compensations for those of us not plugged into the network. Not having to listen to the jangle of the phone in the office is a blessing, as is not having to put up with counselor use of the phone. Early on we made arrangements with a Bucksport taxi company, and later our local country store, to relay us messages, keep us in touch with the outside world, and bring us tidings from trips that had run into trouble. Each counselor carried with him a card listing useful telephone numbers with two dimes taped to the back of it, for it isn’t always easy to locate 20 cents in a crisis.

Before the message routine was established, things were even shakier. Telegrams were sent to us in care of the Jed Prouty Tavern, Bucksport’s hotel; and they ferried them out to us. This seemed like an imposition; and also it was a little difficult to explain to a parent that he could reach us through the Jed Prouty Tavern. It sounded a bit as if the director spent his free time at the village bar. The use of the taxi company was a happy solution.

In 1946 communications between the Allagash Trip and the base camp caused some anxious moments. The trip’s instructions were to send a telegram when they were close to Fort Kent at the end of the trip, so that we could send out the truck to pick them up. The telegram arrived in due course, but, alas, the camp truck was suffering from internal injuries, and would be in Harriman’s Garage for at least another day. So, we sent a return message, “Truck in the clutches of Harriman. Sit tight.” That was not the maximum ten words; however, I thought that it covered the subject rather neatly.

That evening Alice and I were sitting in our cabin reading by the lamp after a busy day. Suddenly there were footsteps on the porch, and two of the Allagash campers appeared out of the darkness. That was not my idea of sitting tight, but when they elaborated, we got the picture. Yes, they had received the telegram, but it had said, “Truck in the clutches of Harriman. Hitchhike.” Where was the rest of the group? They really couldn’t answer that, for they were separated from the others when they were picked up by a lumber truck. I had a mental image of them riding on the top of a load of pulp wood, but I never pressed for details. What about the counselors? “Oh, they are guarding the canoes.”

There wasn’t very much I could do in that situation, but I wanted to do something. Therefore, the two campers and I set out in the camp station wagon and headed north. Miraculously, we spotted two other campers walking towards us not more than four miles from camp, and the others not too much farther on. Alice prepared a much-welcomed supper, and everybody went to bed feeling a lot better. I trusted that the counselors divided the arduous watch that night.

The next day I called Western Union with one of those fully prepared irate speeches. The sweet voice at the other end of the line simply said, “We are not responsible for the correct delivery of any messages. Read the small type at the bottom of the form.” I did, and they weren’t.

It wasn’t always easy to make contact with our Allagash trips once they reached Fort Kent, small as that town may have been. Once when I arrived well after supper time to pick up one group, there were no Flying Moosers to be seen, even after I had cruised the main street several times. Finally, with nothing else to do, I slipped into the local moving picture theater, resolved to make a more careful search the following morning in the daylight. I forget what the feature was, but once my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, it was apparent that there was a small knot of eight people in the very middle of that small theater, with the rest of the audience sitting at what must have been considered a safe distance. The missing had been found, but it was quite obvious that the good people of Fort Kent didn’t relish sitting too close to a group reeking of woods smoke and two weeks of wilderness paddling.

Some summers we find that we use the taxi service more than others. 1978 was an all-time winner. I know that the taxi company made a small fortune that year, and I dreaded to see the car pull in. It was even worse on a trip to Bucksport to pass the taxi on Route 1 headed towards camp. Was there a message for us? Was it worth turning around and chasing the taxi? Would we save time in a big emergency if we caught it, or should we ignore the whole thing and hope for the best?

Parents also use the taxi to ask us to call then back so that they can talk with their sons. A three mile drive to the pay phone is not too bad, but messages invariably came at the worst possible moments. I didn’t usually mind, but I did object when one mother called at a bad time with a message for her son. The message was, “Your dog misses you.”

Not all trips run smoothly, and it is not always the most distant trips that cause the most problems. One strange incident came to light in 1964 some weeks after it happened. That was, perhaps, a good thing, for I don’t know how I would have reacted had I been on the spot at the moment. Steve would have been a good counselor, but besides his responsibilities at camp, he felt that he had additional responsibilities for a young lady in town. It was his lot one week to be assigned by himself to a trip with the smaller boys to be based on Craig Pond directly across the lake from camp. It so happened that the trip coincided with what was, to him at least, a very important local dance. I must say that Steve was resourceful, albeit misguided. The second day out he hiked his charges up and down several mountains and fed them a big supper at the end of the day. He allowed that he was totally exhausted, and had no trouble convincing the others that they were even more done in than he; and everybody went to bed as darkness fell. When all were safely asleep, Steve left for his dance and returned in the wee small hours, this time honestly exhausted. I know that the campers were unaware that they had been abandoned, but when I found out what had happened, Steve and I had a long talk on the subject of responsibility. I made sure that his remaining trips were taken in the company of other counselors who had a better concept of their roles. That is the only case of abandonment that I can remember. Thank goodness for that.

However, on several other occasions counselors have made similar plans which they executed with somewhat more finesse, and with no exposure for their young charges. My friend, Joe Davis, knew a girl working in Bar Harbor in 1938, and since he and Ted McHenry were scheduled to take a trip together to Great Pond on Mt. Desert, it was only natural that he plan a rendezvous. Shortly after supper on the appointed evening, Joe just happened to recall that he had left the keys in the ignition of the camp truck at the other end of the lake. Out of consideration for the truck, for the battery which was probably going down fast, and at great personal risk to himself, he decided that he should paddle back to the truck to retrieve the keys before the battery was completely exhausted, or someone stole the truck. He and Ted agreed that if the wind were too strong for him to paddle back, that he would spend the night with the truck and paddle back in the morning. Off he went waving goodbye to an admiring group of campers. When he arrived at the truck he donned the party clothes which had been secreted behind the seat, and met his social obligations. Sure enough, on the following morning he paddled back down a perfectly calm lake and arrived just in time for breakfast. The campers agreed that he had done the right thing to save the camp truck; and they marveled that a counselor could be so responsible.

If you have boys of your own, I don’t need to tell you how noisy boys can be on a trip. We are reminded of that fact every time we have a group camped not too far away on our small lake. The combination of their enthusiasm, their energy, and their high pitched voices, plus the fact that sound carries so easily over water, multiplies the decibels considerably. I am sure that sometimes in state and national park campgrounds we do not exactly endear ourselves to others camped nearby. However, we try hard. One ranger at Baxter State Park took it upon himself to write the campers about this after a particularly noisy trip; but I am glad to say that we have since received letters complimenting our groups on their excellent behavior. Those letters we cherish.

One memorable trip to Katahdin in the early 1970s allowed us to make amends for any thoughtless behavior we may have exhibited to others in the past. While our group was preparing supper at Chimney Pond after an arduous day of climbing, the park ranger came up and explained that there had been an accident near the peak, and that a woman had broken her leg. Would our boys be able to help carry her down the mountain? Silly question, indeed. Of course they would. So, off they went, carrying the stretcher, the first aid kit, and the short wave radio. The way up was not too difficult, even though they were not exactly fresh; for they weren’t carrying much and it was still light. The novelty of the situation helped speed them on. The trip down was something else again. The way was steep and the stretcher had to be handled with care.

When they reached Chimney Pond they kept right on going another 3.3 miles to Roaring Brook and civilization; and it was well into the night when they got back to their shelters. After supper with the ranger, they slept the sleep of heroes. I was sorry for the woman with the broken leg, but I was proud that our campers were asked to help; and that they acquitted themselves so well. The trip was made for one Jerry Robins who carried the radio up and down the mountain all by himself. Actually, there have been other occasions on which we have helped carry unfortunate climbers back to civilization, but this particular incident crowned them all.

There have been other memorable moments on Katahdin. Torrential rains have sent groups scurrying back to Flying Moose. Snow and sleet have caught campers off guard in August, and there was one special moment for one counselor, whose name escapes me for the moment, who suddenly realized that he was sharing the privy at Chimney Pond with one of his dignified Yale professors. It’s a small world.

You might think that in the course of sending out as many trips with as many boys over as many years as we have, that once in a while a camper would become separated from his party. Indeed, that has happened several times, but they have all been safely reunited. Mr. Domi told of one camper, a practiced sleepwalker, who wandered off into the night on an Allagash trip. A somnambulist suddenly waking up in the Allagash wilderness in the middle of the night could encounter problems, but the situation worked out not to be quite as frightening as it could have been; for that night, of all nights, the group was camped on a small island. When the sleepwalker did wake up standing in the shallow water, he had sense enough to skirt the small island until he came upon his sleeping companions.

Much later in 1953, young Bob Carson set off one Sunday afternoon with the rest of the camp to explore neighboring Fort Knox, across the river from Bucksport. That fort has always been a favorite haunt of ours, and our yearly excursions were always looked forward to by one and all.

When we had exhausted the fort’s possibilities, we all piled into the trucks for the ride back to Craig Pond and an afternoon swim. Shortly after all quiet that evening, Monkey House’s counselor came into the Lodge and asked if anyone had seen Bobby Carson. It suddenly dawned on us that he must still be at the fort, for no one could remember seeing him after our return.

We called the sheriff and he told us where the fort caretaker lived, and we were on our way. When we arrived at his kitchen door, there was Bobby. He was glad to see us, but it almost seemed as if we had barged in on him, interrupting the entertainment he was providing the family.

The caretaker explained that Bobby had showed up long after we had left. It was all he could to dissuade that eager nine year old from hitchhiking back to camp, a possibility he sensed when Bobby asked him which way he should turn to get to East Orland. Supper with the family seemed like a good idea, for Bobby was getting hungry; and the caretaker, knowing that we had no phone, assumed that we would show up to claim our camper when his absence was discovered.

Some campers have taken off on their own, and that is an entirely different ball game. In 1980, one quiet camper who kept very much to himself, and only gave weak signals that he might possibly be homesick, was no where to be seen when his second trip of the season was ready to leave on Tuesday morning. We searched the camp from top to bottom, but no John. Finally, the trip left without him, and Pete Lane and I continued our search. We gradually became convinced that he had started to hitchhike home, and feared the worst. No one had seen a camper at the public phone. No one had seen a camper at the Post Office or at the country store. I then called his mother in Philadelphia to see if he had made contact with home. He hadn’t; and because of my call a worried mother waited in Philadelphia for further word. Finally, we called the State Police, and they sent out a three state alarm for a tall blond, fourteen year old headed towards Philadelphia.

Some time later, after I had done all that I thought I could do, I drove slowly back to camp, wondering what was in store. Whom should I meet about a mile from camp, walking along as if nothing had happened, but John himself. His explanation was that he just didn’t feel like going on a trip that day, and had climbed the mountain instead. Together we drove back to the phone and relieved his mother’s fears. Then we called the State Police and they called off the man hunt. Later that afternoon, John joined his scheduled trip at their first campsite, and reports coming back at the end of the trip indicated that he had had a wonderful time. How do you account for that?

On another occasion, that time in the middle of a Moose River trip, Tim Jones was awakened by one of his campers shortly after everyone had gone to sleep. The news was that another camper, also named Tim, had just walked off into the woods. Tim Jones, leaving his fellow counselor in charge, set off with camper Tim’s friend to find the veritable needle in the haystack. They walked through the woods until they came to the Canadian Pacific tracks, at which point they had to make a decision. Which way, if any had camper Tim turned? Tim Jones turned along the tracks (right now it doesn’t matter which way) and continued walking. Shortly, a lonely road crossed the tracks and Tim turned again and soon came to a small restaurant under a large neon sign. On the chance that camper Tim might have stopped to ask directions, they stepped in. There sat Tim eating a pizza. Yes, he was headed home, but the proprietress had sensed what was going on, and had made it easy for him to stay until the help she knew would be on the way, actually arrived. The whole incident didn’t seem to phase camper Tim one bit, and may sound small to you; but the questioned remained: what would have happened if he had turned the other way at the railroad tracks? The next civilization in that direction was deep in the Canadian wilderness.

Other amazing things have happened, and although Jon Fox’s experience does not involve becoming separated from the group, it does involve separation in a manner of speaking. In 1959 Jon arrived at camp with a prized pair of contact lenses. In discussing the potential hazards of such lenses on canoe trips, he asked his doctor what he should do if he encountered rough water. There seemed to be no great problem in the doctor’s mind about that, and he presented Jon with a small box marked left and right, so that he would have something in which to place the lenses should the going get rough.

Later that summer, Jon set out on the Union River, and the water eventually did roughen. John saw the white water ahead, and remembering the advice given such a short time before, removed the lenses and placed them appropriately in the small box, which in turn he placed on his pack directly in front of him in the canoe. On he paddled. Somehow or other the canoe swamped in the fast water, and sank lower and lower in the river. Jon and his companion jumped out to lighten the load, and just as they did so, Jon saw the topless box containing the lenses float off his pack and start on its own way down the river towards Penobscot Bay and beyond. I don’t think that was exactly what the doctor had in mind.

When a counselor is too indisposed to leave on a trip of a Tuesday morning, it is usually easy to substitute another, for we generally have enough to spare. It is quite a different matter when a single counselor gets sick in the course of a trip, for then we have to locate a replacement in the woods and use him to replace the ailing one. Although this has happened only rarely, it can be complicated.

In 1958 Black John Nicholson (John E. Nicholson, that is) and returned leisurely late one day from a meeting of the then Main Camp Directors’ Association. When we arrived, Alice greeted us with fire in her eyes. Earlier in the afternoon, the entire Toddy Pond Trip (remember, keep the group together at all costs) had brought their very sick counselor, Laird Simons, back to camp Laird had not mentioned that he was feeling badly on Tuesday when it was time to leave, for that was not like Laird. It was quite obvious to Alice when they all arrived back at camp that Laird was in no condition to even think of leading a trip. To make matters worse, or simply to add insult to injury, Laird had had to walk the last two miles to his sickbed on a dusty dirt road.

It just so happened that we had another counselor in camp that week, himself not exactly in the pink of condition. Jack Taussig had not been sent out because of a leg injury; but Alice was able to persuade him to go back with the boys to East Orland, then on up Toddy Pond to the abandoned campsite, assuring him that John and I would take care of things when we got back.

Here we were, two down, and the only trip in the near vicinity which had an extra counselor to spare was camped on Branch Lake about 20 miles away. There were two problems associated with borrowing one of those counselors to replace Jack who had replaced Laird. First, it was getting dark; and second, that particular trip to Branch Lake had been sent out with specific instructions to find a new campsite.

With John’s brother-in-law in tow as a reserve paddler, we set out with a canoe tied to the top of the station wagon. Little did Roy know when he came with his family for a quiet week on Craig Pond that he would be pressed into service on a search and rescue mission.

Branch Lake is about six miles long and a mile wide with an irregular shoreline. We put in at one end of the lake and paddled briskly up the western shore, keeping a modest 15 feet away from the rocks. The lake may only be six miles long, but the shoreline is considerably longer. We were well past the half waypoint, with flashlights in hand when we discovered the campsite behind a sandy beach. How did we know that we had found the campsite we were looking for on a lonely lake in the middle of the night? It wasn’t easy, but a little luck played into our hands. Anyone else paddling along that beach in the dead of night would never have stopped. However, knowing our campers well, we found the evidence that could only mean that a Flying Moose bivouac was not far away. There on a sapling overhanging the sand, we spotted a lone pair of jockey shorts hanging up to dry. You don’t just find a lone pair of jockey shorts hanging up to dry on any tree on any old beach. One camper, unwittingly, had left us a sign, just the sign we were looking for.

Sure enough we found the campsite, well hidden in the trees a short distance from the lake. There were the six sleeping forms, the upturned canoes, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. We had no trouble in picking out the counselor we were looking for, and after he was wide enough awake to understand what we wanted, he packed up and the four of us left as quietly as we had come. We did tell the other counselor what was going on, but left it to him to explain the missing counselor to the campers in the morning. In all probability he cooked up some tale involving a runaway counselor, or perhaps a complicated kidnapping. That would have been too good an opportunity to let slip by. In any case, we now had our relief for poor Jack.

Back to the car. It seemed as if the job were half done, but we still had to find Jack, and it was getting later, or earlier, depending on how you looked at it

We had an idea where the group on Toddy Pond was camped, but we had no intention of paddling the entire eight miles as the campers had done on Tuesday and twice on Wednesday. If they were where they were supposed to be, they were camped almost directly across the lake from a cabin belonging to our friends, the Emlen Joneses. I had never actually been to their cabin, but by following what signs there were, we arrived at what we thought was the correct spot, and John, Roy, and the substitute counselor set off as quietly as possible to avoid waking the Joneses. The mosquitoes and I waited in the car. Finally, the canoe returned, the swap having been completed. We left as noiselessly as possible, and arrived back at camp in the neighborhood of 3 a.m.

The next morning was a good one to sleep late. Jack and Laird Improved as time went on, but John and I were logy for days. I later found out that for all our efforts to be quiet near what we thought was the Jones cabin (which in fact it was) they were not in residence at the time.

After all this you may well ask, “Why didn’t you wait until the next morning to play hide and seek?” The answer is quite simple. If we had waited, the group on Branch Lake, and the dried off Jockey shorts as well, would have been off on an all day hike long before we could have arrived, and we would never have found them. But, then again, John and I had been cooped up all day in meetings, and this looked like an opportunity to do something a little out of the ordinary.

Over the years counselors have been resourceful on trips in varying ways, and one special situation comes to mind. Don Casey, a wilily woodsman of the first order, once took a group of younger campers on a ten mile hike without moving more than a quarter mile from his campsite. All he did was to lead them in an ever-widening circle through the woods. The campers, in order not to fall behind Don, apparently did not use their camping and scouting skills as they passed and re-passed potentially recognizable landmarks. However, a good time was had by all, and that was Don’s intention.

Don will be remembered by some for the unique way in which he protected his watch on one or more Allagash trips in the 1940s when white water loomed ahead. Perhaps you would have pocketed a valuable watch, but that would hardly protected it if an upset took place. Don simply placed his in his mouth until danger passed. Try that the next time you encounter rapids. It works, and it beats leaving the watch at home.

The Allagash, St Croix, and the Appalachian Trail Trips are surely fitting rewards for campers who have done well throughout their stays at Flying Moose. Those trips are spectacular in every sense of the word, but it is on the lesser trips that precede those big ones, where the real learning takes place. It is on those trips that we spend a great deal of energy energies lest they become mere routine, and therefore uninspired.

I have discovered that one sure way to determine whether trips were inspired or mere routine was to be on hand when the campers returned. Were the boys singing when the truck climbed the final hill into camp, or were they riding quietly with their baggage? Did they bounce out of the truck, bubbling with enthusiasm, or did they merely disembark? The best reward of all was when a group returned from a trip that had not been particularly well managed the week before, with such remarks as, “Gee, that was the best trip I have ever been on!” When that happened, I knew we were back on the track, and that the germs of Moosepox had been replanted.

Even when gas cost a piddling 19 cents a gallon, long before we ever thought of fuel shortages, we began to realize that Craig Pond and the camp were ideally located on the edge of a wilderness area about ten miles square. There were no roads, no farms, no summer cottages, and very few people other than an occasional woodcutter. Mountains, including Flying Moose Mountain, awaited us. If we could develop challenging trips in such an area, we could eliminate some of our transportation problems, to say nothing of costs.

It was in the early 1950s when Don Stokes, ever adventurous Don, got caught not only by Moosepox but by trail blazing fever as well. Of he went with a compass in one hand and a large ball of bag string in the other, leaving behind him a straight, or nearly straight trail, in the direction of Flying Moose Mountain. In previous years we had often set out for the elusive Flying Moose Mountain, only to stray from our course and end up atop some neighboring peak where all we could do was to look at our intended goal. Don established a forward base along a small stream on his trail, and Flying Moose Mountain was no longer unobtainable. The string trail was later marked with red paint, and a new trip was born. As long as Don pumped enthusiasm into it, all went well. When Don left for bigger things and more distant trails, the trip which he had called Trails began to wane, and soon joined the ranks of the less exciting.

Back in the days when Don and the Trails Trip were going great guns, he and a few campers encountered several woodcutters in the process of clearing a large area that straddled the red blazed trail. Striking out across the cut area, somewhat like a string of telephone poles along a highway, stood a somewhat wavering line of trees, each with a red blaze upon it. Timidly, Don asked one of the woodsmen why those particular trees had been left standing. “Oh, that there is a fire trail. Never cut trees on a fire trail.” Don had blazed better than he had planned.

Don’s trip is no longer referred to as the Trails Trip, for since those early days that isolated campsite has acquired the new name of Mitchville. It owes its name to one Mitchell Lichtenberg, who in 1955 did much to increase the trips popularity. That small campsite and the trail are basically the same as those left by Don, but much work has been done on additional trails. Now, by incorporating abandoned woods roads left by the loggers, we are able to backpack to several other mountains and neighboring lakes. There is new life in Mitchville today

Mitchville has gained a few amenities in recent years, all of which must look strange to anyone who comes upon them in the middle of the wilderness. Engineer Bob Hamilton had one crew construct the only shower stall within miles. The boys put together a tower of saplings on which was placed a fifty pound peanut butter can with a perforated bottom. For a hot shower after a rainy hike, you stand under the can while your buddy carries a bucket of water up the ladder and empties it. The shower stands there in all its functional beauty, but you would have a hard time convincing some campers that such a convenience awaits them at a small campsite called Mitchville; but more of that later.

Bob was not to rest his case on a shower. The following summer he and another crew built a bridge across the stream. The bridge stands today, a backwoods achievement of poles and Nylon cord. Bob went out of his way to make that trip a memorable one for his five campers, and they came back full of enthusiasm, all talking at once. You might have thought that they had built the Bridge Over The River Quai, or at least the Brooklyn Bridge. Bob, a civil engineer, is building real bridges today in Tennessee.

I could go on, but by now you must have a bit of a feeling for trips at Flying Moose. Just remember, what I have recounted is just the tip of the tip of the iceberg. Ten trips a week for 65 years (even making allowances for the depression) amounts to quite a few individual trips. I am sure that I have omitted many memorable ones that stand out in other’s memories, but there are more things to tell about that small camp on Craig Pond.