Camplore

At the end of October 2006, our Boy Scout troop lost one of its dearest assets, a long-time assistant Scoutmaster. Steve H. was the father of four boys, three of whom have completed their Eagle rank, and married to a wonderful woman who supported him and the boys, not from a distance, but from the front trenches. Scarcely an event went by without most if not all of the family there, serving, working, playing, laughing, teaching. Steve worked with the Trail to First Class boys, and he knew every boy in our troop, even while the rest of us were still trying to straighten out which one was Ryan and which one was Sean. At 50, Steve made his second trek to Philmont with my son, who reported he was a maniac, especially for his age. Quiet, behind the scenes, hard working, devoted to teaching boys to become the kinds of men that would make a mom proud. I wish I could’ve told Steve what that meant to me. We all miss him, and I hope my son never forgets the kind of person Steve was.

I thought I had met wintertime. Once. At a camp reunion we had between Christmas and New Years. It snowed in the mountains, and those of us reuinioning spent most of our time chopping wood, huddled under sleeping bags and blankets on thin mattresses in the staff room, or drawing straws to see whose turn it was to go fix something really hot to eat or drink. How quickly we forget (well, it was some 25 years ago. Egad.).

I was assigned an Order of the Arrow ordeal with my eldest at the beginning of December at a Boy Scout camp in Texas. I was relieved it wasn’t going to be in August, as trail clearing and trash hauling tend to be the order of the day in the Order of the Arrow. And even though I had packed my positive attitude and (incognito, not knowing how welcome they would be) a few pocket warmers, I was amazed at the temperature in the teens we experienced both Friday and Saturday nights.
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