Summer Camp

Summer Camp

Mark Johnson 141 East Third St. #8E New York, NY 10009 Home: 212-777-0094 Copyright 1995 2940 words

I wake up at dawn on a cool mid-August morning and the first thing I notice is the dew. It covers everything--my sleeping bag, our packs, the smooth, tooled leather of our saddles and the long grass of the open field where we slept, where moments before, it seems, we looked up at the stars and dodged the smoke from our campfire and sang "Follow the Drinking Gourd." I don't want to leave the dreamy warmth of my sleeping bag. I'm sixteen, a junior counselor or J.C. and therefore responsible. Besides, Uges is already moving around the camp, rousing the younger campers and sending them on small errands. I also don't want Gerri, another J.C. about my age, to think I'm soft or lazy. She's blond and beautiful and I'm infatuated with her, but I know she'll tease me if I lie here too long. I unzip my bag and sit up. There is a lot of ground fog, mist really, that clings and rolls over the field as the huge sun rises. I know what I must do. This is my fourth pack trip and by now I am a veteran. I slide into my damp, clammy clothes, grab a can full of grain and a length of rope and head out to round up the horses. We let them roam free at night and though there are fences, they still have two or three acres over which to graze and to avoid my coaxing calls, my rope and the western saddles they never seem to enjoy wearing. By now two or three other J.C.'s are awake and we begin working as a group, offering grain as enticement, swinging ropes, whistling, shouting and slowly herding the reluctant animals back toward camp. The kids, meanwhile, have been scrounging for dry wood and, under Uges' supervision, are trying to light a fire and boil some water for our

freeze-dried breakfast. I have found that some groups of campers are better at this than others, and sometimes breakfast is ready before we have the horses saddled. Today's bunch, I can soon tell, is not one of the better ones and we have the horses ready long before the water is even warm. I had suspected this since these kids are Indians, the youngest of the three categories of campers we lead. Gerri approaches and smiles wryly. "Wonder how long before Uges flips out on them?" "You watch the horses. I'll go try to help. Somebody's got to save their sorry butts." I walk toward the fire, offering advice. Uges Pinka is in no way cut out to be a senior counselor at a Y.M.C.A. summer camp in southern Michigan. First of all, he is Latvian and doesn't speak English very well. Also he is well over thirty and dresses, in 1963, like a lounge lizard in a disco from circa 1978. Furthermore, he is extremely short-tempered and has very little patience or understanding. Lastly he hates kids. On the plus side, he knows and loves horses and is full of the carefree bravado and handsome charm that inspires cult followings among teenage girls. Hence our wise and knowing camp director has placed Uges in charge of the horse barns. Lots of lovely young junior counselors in tight jeans; lots of long, lonely overnight pack trips; very little direct contact with the rest of the camp. It would be a perfect situation for Uges if it weren't for the tender little impressionable campers who always seemed to be interrupting him. I soon get the fire stoked up and the water boiling, drop in a few plastic bags of freeze-dried scrambled eggs, and start passing out mess kits of the stuff along with Tang and Wonder Bread to the sleepy, hungry Indians. Uges, muttering Latvian curses under his breath, has stalked off to see to the horses. Gerri and I squat by the fire and sip coffee from our steel mess kit cups. "Where we gonna take 'em today?" she asks me. "Same as always, I guess. Two hour trail ride and then back to the barn--that is if we ever get cleaned up and out of here." "It's beautiful out here, isn't it," she says, watching the mist rise and the sun come up, big and orange, behind it. "Yeah. Beats hell out of sleeping back in camp. I couldn't take this dried food for long, though. You like it?" "You gotta be kidding." She stands up and I marvel silently at her face and form. Gerri Featherstone is, I know, what people would call a tomboy. Her blond hair is worn short and she dresses in jeans and a blue work shirt. Small-breasted and good at sports, she spends a lot of time on the camp tractor, mowing the many acres of farmland upon which the camp is situated. Her last name seems exotically beautiful to me, perhaps Native American,

which adds to my fascination. I watch her constantly on my way to and from the horsebarn or in the mess hall during meals. She is very independent and a bit of a loner, but I like that. So am I. My desire for her is complete and much of my free time is spent in rapturous fantasy about her. Thus far I have kept the true extent of my feelings secret from her, and I achingly await the proper time to reveal my love. Later that morning Gerri and I are chosen to take the Indians on a trail ride. I lead the way on Sargent, a large, chestnut stallion, while Gerri brings up the rear on Maverick, a dappled gelding of considerably more years and quieter temperament. I mostly follow the beaten trails, occasionally taking a shortcut across a dewy field, usually keeping to a steady walk. Once in a while I yell back. "OK, hang on! We're going to canter!" With that I let Sargent out a bit and immediately feel his coiled spirit strain against the reins. I try to hold him to a slow canter but finally give up and give him his head, racing far and fast up the trail until at last I pull him in and wait for the squealing, bouncing stragglers. Gerri always berates me for these episodes, but there's nothing much she can do and Maverick is certainly no match for Sargent. This morning, while I'm waiting for them, I notice a small field covered in dew-soaked spider webs that catch the early sunlight in ghostly, shimmering nets. The field is caught and illuminated by this shining fleet of arachnids fishing for other insects and I am momentarily transfixed. Sargent snorts and shivers, heaving his great head up and down, impatient to be off again. Eventually the others catch up and we resume our plodding progress. Once in a while a camper falls off his horse or forgets to duck as we pass under a low branch and Gerri or I have to help him back into the saddle. The ride lasts about two hours and most of it is monotonous for the J.C.'s who do this every day. The kids, on the other hand, can't get enough of it and never want it to end. Sometimes we'll tell jokes or lead songs, and every so often I'll take off on Sargent just to keep him and myself happy and sane. This morning I can tell that it's going to be hot, so I'm wearing only shorts, a tee-shirt and my work boots. Gerri has on her blue jean cut-offs which are torn up the sides revealing firm brown legs with no tan line. Whenever she catches me staring at her she kind of cocks her head and just grins back at me. I love it when she does this and hence take every chance I get to stare at her. This is usually the extent of our interaction during trail rides except the chiding she gives me when I gallop Sargent. I sense my horse is especially restless this morning and, pulling him up, I wait for Gerri to come alongside me. "You think you can take them back to the barn by yourself?" I ask, knowing what she'll say. Gerri wants more than anything to be "one of the guys" and will do almost anything to prove it. "Sure," she smiles. "Where are you going?" "I want to run Sargent for a while. I think he needs it. You don't mind, do you?"

"Course not. Just don't let Uges find out about it. You know how he loves that horse." Gerri cocks her head again. "I won't tell if you won't." I give her a sidelong look. "OK." She grins that broad yet suggestive grin of hers and neck-reins Maverick back toward the barn. The Indians file in behind her while I hold Sargent back. I have not saddled him and already I can feel his sweat on my bare legs. Soon Gerri and the campers are gone and Sargent and I are free. I walk him for a while at first just to remind him that I am the boss and he can't just run away with me any time he wants. The sense of his strength and will to run is nearly overwhelming and I fight to keep him at a walk. A horse will always walk or run faster when headed toward the barn and we are headed that way. I finally hit an open stretch and let him out a little. Riding bareback is somewhat difficult on a horse as large as Sargent, especially when your legs are as short as mine, but I have been doing it since I was a kid. You hardly hear the hooves beat the ground. You seem to float and all you hear is the wind. You grip with your knees and you grab the mane and you hold on. You don't have to urge a horse like Sargent to go faster. You just stop holding him back and let him go. After a few seconds I stop worrying how I will stop him. He will stop when he gets back to the barn or he will stop when he feels like it. I don't care. I lean forward with both hands in his mane and become as much a part of him as I can. I breathe with him and we are flying. The more dangerous it is, the more exciting it becomes and still I don't care. I just want this feeling to go on forever. Sargent doesn't even slow down when we first hit the tight single strand of barbed wire. The absolute velocity of his gallop takes us right through it. He probably doesn't even feel it that first instant it snaps and rips across his lathered chest and forelegs. He doesn't feel it until we are all the way through the gate and the wire lies twitching and coiled behind us having done its gory work. I jump off and hold him as the initial shock wears off and he starts to snort and whinny in pain. I can't believe it when I see what the wire has done to him. What I did to him. I curse as the tears are torn out of me. I begin talking to him, sobbing as the dark blood pumps down his forelegs. I can't believe he is still proud, still walking. I know he will never run like that again. Neither of us will. All the way back to the barn I keep crying to him, like he knows what I mean, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Oh Jesus, God I'm sorry." Uges surprises me when we get back to the barn. I was expecting him to blow up at me, but when he sees how badly the horse is hurt, he just gets very calm and quiet as he strokes Sargent and examines his wounds. There are a few female J.C.'s around the barn and they are pretty squeamish about all this, but Uges takes charge and tells them what medicine to bring for the horse. I am feeling totally helpless and guilty as hell. I

keep asking Uges if he thinks Sargent will be all right, if he'll get well again, if he'll be the same again though I know inside that he won't. Uges just keeps saying we have to wait and see and that it will be a long time before we know. He is amazingly gentle and reassuring toward me which helps. He applies some dark purple medicine to the gashes while Sargent shivers and snorts and twitches each time the swab enters his flesh. I ask if there is anything else I can do and Uges tells me I should just go back to the main camp and that he will handle it. He tells me it's not my fault, that there's no way I could have seen the wire. I still feel awful. I stroke Sargent one last time and start walking back toward camp. It is only then that I notice my heavy work boots. There are deep slashes across the tops of both boots and I realize what would have happened to my feet without them. It is one of the first times I remember feeling lucky.

That evening after supper there is a campfire rally. Campers of all ages attend these and they last long into the night. Counselors tell ghost stories, play guitars and lead group songs. Tonight a group of older campers and counselors have returned from a Canadian canoe trip and Tom Roy, the bearded leader of this trip, is recounting their adventures in the north woods. He is a legendary figure among the younger J.C.'s and we all marvel at his rugged good looks, his prowess as a woodsman and his seemingly vast sexual experience. All the female counselors and J.C.'s seem to worship him while all the younger males try to emulate him, some by growing beards, others by dressing like him or affecting his quiet, self-possessed manner. It is rumored that Gerri has been involved with him and this makes me envy him all the more. What chance do I have competing with Tom Roy? He is older, wiser, more handsome and universally adored. Also he is definitely not sexually naive as I am. I can't help liking the guy even though I suspect he is my rival. Toward eleven that night the huge bonfire has begun to burn down and the last of the old campfire songs that anyone can remember has been sung. We all begin to meander back to our cabins to get ready for bed. Someone is singing an old camp favorite. "Indians are high minded/ bless my soul they're double-jointed/ They run down to Merhabs all night long." The two main toilet facilities in camp are called Cobles and Merhabs, probably after camp personnel or benefactors from the past. Merhabs is the facility used by Indians and the rest of the ditty is self-explanatory. I have been looking for Gerri all night but haven't seen her. She has probably gone off with Tom or arranged to meet him later. These nighttime trysts are common among the older counselors, though I have yet to arrange one myself. I have resigned myself to another night in my cabin full of

restless, homesick Indians when I hear my name in a loud whisper. It sounds like it's coming from the porch of the camp director's house and now I remember that one of the female counselors, Sue Zoller, bunks there. I approach the screen door and reply, "Sue? Is that you?" "Come on in, stupid. The night is young." Sue is a little older than me and also works in the horsebarns. She has a small reputation of being "easy" and I had thought that she was Uges' girl. Maybe Uges is busy tonight. I open the creaking screen door and as quietly as possible enter the dark, screened-in porch. I can barely make out Sue's long blond hair and face as she sits on the edge of her cot. I stand there awkwardly, not really knowing what to say or do next. "You're up late. Is Clark home?" I venture. Clark is the camp director. "Just come here and sit down." It is a command, not an invitation. I do as I'm told and find I'm trembling slightly. I can smell her now and she smells good. I have forgotten about Gerri. She takes my face between her soft, firm hands and looks at me. "I heard what happened today," she says. "I'm sorry." "So am I." I am still trembling, but I feel better. Then she pulls me slowly to her mouth and kisses me very soft and warm. She kisses me for a long time and then I am kissing her back and feeling her hair and her back and her breasts. She puts her soft, slick tongue in my mouth and runs it over my teeth and bites my lips a little. I am very excited and trembling and warm now and we keep doing this for what seems like a very long time. Then she stops suddenly. "You have to go now," she says. I remember Gerri and Sargent then and something comes loose inside me. I begin to cry, shaking silently. Sue takes my face between her hands again and wipes the tears with her thumbs. "It's OK, you know. It's OK."

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