I have been asked what the best prank ever played at Sylvan Acres was, and I wish I could say that it was one of mine, but I have to give the credit for that to two brothers from Port Alberni, Alvin and Dietmar.
It was a March break camp, and the weekend stretched from March 30 to April 1. April Fools days at Sylvan were very rare, and the boys decided to make the most of it.
It started for me when a camper came to me and asked what they should do if they knew that someone at camp was breaking the camp rules. I asked if there was a chance that someone could get hurt, and they said that they thought so. I asked for details, and then went to speak to Alvin and Dietmar.
They were campers in Haida Cabin, and for some unknown reason they had brought a large footlocker to camp, with a padlock on it, and it was sitting at the foot of the bed. I pulled the boys out of lunch and asked them to open the locker, as I had heard a rumor about what was inside. I was very disappointed to see that it was true, and was trying to figure out how I was going to deal with it without getting them banned for life, when Alvin offered his explanation. After I was done laughing, I agreed to keep their secret.
Late that night the sound of loud music started to float down from the top field and over the camp. This was before there were any houses in the area, and as the music got louder, the director was finally forced to come and investigate. What she found was her whole staff, and more than half of the campers, up on the field with music and beer. Enough beer to keep them going for the rest of the weekend at least. Alvin and Dietmar had brought fifteen cases, along with the stereo and lights. It was a camp director's nightmare, but with one difference. The beer bottles were full of apple juice.
Apparently, their father had a home brew operation, and they were able to collect enough bottles and fill them with juice and cap them so they were indistinguishable from regular beer until you opened a bottle and tasted it. Alvin came over to offer Bev a bottle, and eventually got her to take a drink to put her out of her misery. It was brilliant. I really wish I had thought of it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
A Trap Door with a Flag over it is still a trap door
One of the things you learned at Sylvan Acres after a few weeks was that there were trap doors in the ceiling of the lodge. Why they were there was a mystery to the uninitiated, because there was a large door going from the staff room above the covered area into the lodge attic, and it was much more convenient for putting things in storage. Come to think of it, there was precious little ever stored in that space, but the trap doors were a godsend.
The attic was like the crawlspace above Diggory's house in the Magician's Nephew. You could start in the staff room, push the fridge out of the way (it wasn't a big fridge), and step into the darkness. There were cross beams to stand on, and narrow boards laid across the beams for those who weren't confident about stepping from beam to beam while bent over at the waist. The story was that if you stepped between the beams by accident, you might fall through into the room below. I doubt it, since the Cooper family helped build it, and Coopers never built anything half-way. But that was the story we were told.
So, you step from beam to beam, bent over at the waist, or walk quietly on the narrow boards, trying not to make them creak under the weight of you and the bucket of water you're carrying, and soon you come to the trap door. It is in the middle of the meeting area of the lodge, before you get to the dining area, and this is where people tend to stand around if they don't know better. And if you are careful about not making any noise when you lift the trap, you can dump a bucket of water on them, get out through the staff room window, and be over the roof and into the woods on the far side of the lodge before they can figure out what happened and come after you.
The trap played a frequent role in skit nights as well, but as more and more staff got soaked, less and less of them stood around where they could be targetted, so the game got more challenging and less likely to end in success, particularly if you were after someone like Wayne, who rarely walked through the middle of the room for precisely this reason.
It was Senior Teens 1986, and the theme for the summer was tied to Expo 86 in Vancouver. Wayne had obtained large flags from a number of countries around the world, which he draped by their four corners from the ceiling of the dining hall. It was a striking display, and was very effective, but it was while he was doing the after-lunch announcements (delayed by choruses of "Why are we Waiting") that I looked at the flag above his head and thought to myself that I vaguely remembered there being a trap door right under that particular flag.
I checked it out late that night, and sure enough, there was a trap there, but you couldn't get to it from the staff room because the attic was divided into two separate rooms by a wall inside the attic above the kitchen door. In order to get up there, someone would have to climb through the ceiling and wait, and afterwards they would not have any escape. It was a suicide mission, particularly considering the target, but one well worth the cost. A perfect assignment for one of the boys in my cabin. I told them of my discovery, and was proud to see that every single one of them was ready to step up and face the wrath to come.
The next day I helped my two chosen volunteers get up through the trap during free time before lunch, passed them a large bucket, and replaced the flag over the opening. They were more than willing to miss lunch for this, and waited through the whole lunch for Wayne to start his announcements. I gave one cough to signal ready, and a second cough for go. The flag dropped behind Wayne and the water hit him as he looked up. It was a beautiful thing. The camp went wild, Wayne took note of the grinning faces looking down on him, found me in the crowd, and wordlessly communicated that vengeance would be swift. But, as I said, it was well worth it.
The attic was like the crawlspace above Diggory's house in the Magician's Nephew. You could start in the staff room, push the fridge out of the way (it wasn't a big fridge), and step into the darkness. There were cross beams to stand on, and narrow boards laid across the beams for those who weren't confident about stepping from beam to beam while bent over at the waist. The story was that if you stepped between the beams by accident, you might fall through into the room below. I doubt it, since the Cooper family helped build it, and Coopers never built anything half-way. But that was the story we were told.
So, you step from beam to beam, bent over at the waist, or walk quietly on the narrow boards, trying not to make them creak under the weight of you and the bucket of water you're carrying, and soon you come to the trap door. It is in the middle of the meeting area of the lodge, before you get to the dining area, and this is where people tend to stand around if they don't know better. And if you are careful about not making any noise when you lift the trap, you can dump a bucket of water on them, get out through the staff room window, and be over the roof and into the woods on the far side of the lodge before they can figure out what happened and come after you.
The trap played a frequent role in skit nights as well, but as more and more staff got soaked, less and less of them stood around where they could be targetted, so the game got more challenging and less likely to end in success, particularly if you were after someone like Wayne, who rarely walked through the middle of the room for precisely this reason.
It was Senior Teens 1986, and the theme for the summer was tied to Expo 86 in Vancouver. Wayne had obtained large flags from a number of countries around the world, which he draped by their four corners from the ceiling of the dining hall. It was a striking display, and was very effective, but it was while he was doing the after-lunch announcements (delayed by choruses of "Why are we Waiting") that I looked at the flag above his head and thought to myself that I vaguely remembered there being a trap door right under that particular flag.
I checked it out late that night, and sure enough, there was a trap there, but you couldn't get to it from the staff room because the attic was divided into two separate rooms by a wall inside the attic above the kitchen door. In order to get up there, someone would have to climb through the ceiling and wait, and afterwards they would not have any escape. It was a suicide mission, particularly considering the target, but one well worth the cost. A perfect assignment for one of the boys in my cabin. I told them of my discovery, and was proud to see that every single one of them was ready to step up and face the wrath to come.
The next day I helped my two chosen volunteers get up through the trap during free time before lunch, passed them a large bucket, and replaced the flag over the opening. They were more than willing to miss lunch for this, and waited through the whole lunch for Wayne to start his announcements. I gave one cough to signal ready, and a second cough for go. The flag dropped behind Wayne and the water hit him as he looked up. It was a beautiful thing. The camp went wild, Wayne took note of the grinning faces looking down on him, found me in the crowd, and wordlessly communicated that vengeance would be swift. But, as I said, it was well worth it.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Music over the Water
One of my favourite memories of Sylvan Acres was a combination of music and water. During the 1980’s we had a regular program feature called the Antiphonal Sing. It was traditionally held in the evening, as part of a campfire program where we would light candles, attach them to small pieces of wood and carry them, lighted, from the lodge to the waterfront. There, we would float them out into the water, and gather in three or four groups and sing campfire songs back and forth between the groups. It was always amazing to watch the thin line of candles float away out of sight and listen to the other groups singing as their voices carried along the shoreline.
One night we had a large senior teens camp, with well over a hundred campers, and when we walked down to the beach it was necessary to stop traffic on Landsend Road so the campers could continue in an unbroken line down to the waterfront. Landsend wasn’t a busy road, but there was some traffic, and I think we made the drivers a little nervous as they came around the corner and saw a stream of candle-bearers, most wearing hoodies because it was a cold evening. However, no one panicked, and they were able to drive quickly away as the procession ended.
The other night that I remember most at camp was a night we camped on a small island off the coast. The whole staff packed up for pre-camp training, and took over a few campsites at a campground on the island. I had my recorder with me, and after supper I went for a walk along the beach, and heard someone playing a penny whistle on one of the cabin cruisers anchored in the bay. I ran back to my tent, got my recorder, and when I got back he was still playing. So I waited for the end of his song, and then played Amazing Grace on the recorder. For the next hour we traded songs back and forth. When we finished, I called out to him and told him where we were from, and how to find our camp near the ferry terminal. I listened for him when we got back to camp, but he didn’t search us out. It was a neat experience.
What was your favourite memory of music at camp? Was it singing in the lodge, campfire songs, or music at the waterfront? Post a comment and share your experience.
Dont Answer Phones after Midnight
Pop quiz. It’s just after midnight on the last night of a camp at Landsend Road and you are standing beside the office door at the main lodge, when the phone rings. These are the days before call display. Without picking up the phone, who is it?
Only a rookie would answer the phone of course, because at that time of the night it can only be a neighbour, living in one of the new houses bordering the camp property. They want to talk to the director, immediately, about the air horn that is blowing intermittently through the woods. More specifically, they want the noise to stop, because they paid a lot of money to build their dream house right next to a summer camp, which by the way has been here for the past 40 years and hasn’t made a secret of its presence. They don’t want a lecture, though. They want action.
How are you going to tell them that the director is on top of the situation. That she is, as we speak, running around in those same woods, and in fact that if the neighbour would care to follow the sound of that air horn to its source, they could tell her to stop in person.
The simple fact is that no one rises to the rank of camp director by being the type of person who would confiscate an air horn in the dead of night, the last night of camp, and then NOT give the guilty counsellor 10 seconds to run away before they became the hunted in this ancient game of freak-your-socks-off-by-sneaking-up-and-blowing-the-horn-in-your-ear-as-you-run-past. And once that counsellor had escaped or begged for mercy, who wouldn’t go after anyone else who happened to be in the woods, since it is too dark at that time of night to tell who you are picking on anyway.
Camp needs a buffer zone; a treed area between the camp and its neighbours, both to keep the neighbours happy and to discourage them from deciding to participate in camp life. This was seldom a problem at Sylvan but there were a couple of occasions when teenagers from around the area wandered onto the camp grounds at night, looking for a little adventure.
Male staff lived for this. We generally kept good track of any cabin groups or staff members who wandered around at night, and despite using flashlights, those of us who patrolled at night had exceptional night vision and could recognise staff when we were chasing them. If we started chasing someone who wasn’t staff, we would have all male staff out of their bunks within minutes, and you wouldn’t want to be caught by them.
One night, very early in my camp career, one of the girls said she saw someone on the trail below Salish Cabin. She screamed, he ran, and the staff mobilized, but we didn’t catch him. After a while everyone went back to bed, except me. I slept that night in the clearing beside Salish. My counsellor told me to go to bed, but I declined, and Wayne told him to let it go. The girl who saw the intruder took a lot of teasing because everyone knew I had a crush on her, but I would have done the same for any of the girls on staff. A few nights later Wayne called me out and let me help him do night patrol, and I was hooked.
I would happily sleep during the day, missing most of the camp activities, just to prowl around until early morning, looking for anyone out of bunks. I’m sure that I spoiled some fun (my friend said my motivation was probably that if I wasn’t getting any goodnight kisses, then nobody was) but I know that sneaking around at night wouldn’t have been any fun at all if Wayne hadn’t been out there trying to catch us, and I just tried to provide the same experience for the next generation.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The futility of trying to be impressive
One of the interesting things in the storage shed at the Landsend site was a massive stack of doors of all sizes. You wouldn't think a camp would have that many doorways, and you would be right. These doors were leftovers, salvaged from a variety of places, in the thought that someday we might need 40 or 50 extra doors. We even gutted a number of houses in Sidney which were donated to the camp on the condition that they be torn down completely by a certain date. It was great to have so many spare doors, but it complicated my life as a wrangler because there were only a few doors that we really needed, and they tended to get lost in the stack.
The doors in question were the interior doors for Chilkat cabin. Every year it seemed that one or more of these doors had to be removed or replaced, depending on the leadership style of the girls’ counsellors in Chilkat. You see, every other cabin consisted of only one room, and therefore only one door. It was madness to consider removing this door, because it provided privacy for the campers and protection from the creepy crawlies that tend to live in the great outdoors and which would rather live in a nice warm cabin.
However, the interior doors of Chilkat cabin divided that cabin into about 5 bedrooms, and while some staff preferred having a private space where they were separate from the campers, others wanted an “open-concept” where they could hear and see all of their campers. So they would call me to either take a door out, or put a door in.
The challenge came when it was time to try to find one of these doors, because they were slightly different sizes, and they were mixed in the mound of other doors of varying usefulness in the storage shed. I suppose in hindsight it would seem simple to just set the Chilkat doors off to one side, but organization in the storage area was non-existent, and there always seemed to be someone wanting to re-organize everything, and nothing seemed to remain in the same place from year to year.
The end result was that there was this counsellor that I thought was kind of nice, and she wanted a door replaced in Chilkat. It had been off for a number of years, and I didn’t really know if the original door was still around, but I was determined to be helpful, and efficient, and most of all impressive. So I took measurements and set off to find a door that was the right size, or that could be forced to fit.
If you‘ve ever replaced a door, you will know that the hinges on any given door are not in a standard location, so after finding a door that was reasonably close to what I needed, my first challenge was that the hinges did not line up with the hinge spaces on the door frame. However, I was prepared for this and diligently proceeded to cut new notches in the door to match the frame. As I worked, the counsellor sat on her bed, reading a book and occasionally glancing at me with what I hoped was admiration.
Then I had to cut the door down a little bit, because it was a tiny bit too big for the door frame, but again I was prepared, and though it was a solid wood door, and therefore harder to cut through with the dull camp handsaw, I was able to get it done, get the hinges on, and proudly swing the door shut. My ingenuity had succeeded in replacing a door despite several problems.
Almost. Because when I had finally finished all of the alterations necessary and swung the door, it was to discover a two inch deadbolt sticking out of it, which I had not noticed before in my rush to be impressive, and which banged loudly on the door frame.
At this point the counsellor started laughing. Not tittering quietly, mind you. Full-throated, snorting hysterical laughter. And she didn’t stop. All the time I spent dismantling the dead-bolt, pulling the unit out of the door, and packing up my tools, she laughed. And laughed. And laughed. My attempt to be impressive had failed. But at least I was able to shut the door on her and muffle that darned laughter when I left.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The One that Got Away
Go to summer camp long enough, and you're bound to run into one. Someone who's completely out of your league. You'll take your shot, but it's certain to end in heartbreak and humiliation as you ponder how things could go so wrong. For me there was frustration too, frustration that she got away and I never had the chance to get her back. Because I am confident that I could have, if fate had only given me a chance. I watched for her every summer, hoping a miracle would happen, that God would bring her back to me, but He never did. I heard that she got married last year, and I stopped watching. I will meet others, I am sure, but none will be like the one that got away.
In my memory, that fateful summer is as clear as last Saturday. The first time I saw her, sitting across the campfire, I thought she looked like any of the other girls I had known. How wrong I was. The sparkle in her eyes, which might have warned me, was hidden by the reflection of the dancing firelight.
She was strange, foreign, a girl from the United States. Rumors had flown before she even arrived at camp that she had a reputation back home as something of a practical joker, but I had some experience and a reputation of my own, and was confident that if any situation came up, as I secretly hoped it would, I would be able to stay in control. Besides, she would only be at camp for a week, before she had to return to the States for work. I had been disappointed to hear this at first. After hearing the stories, I had hoped to spend the summer finding out how good she really was, but a week was not very much time for that.
My first impulse was to discount the rumors about her as ridiculous. She didn't seem the type, and the stories were so wild that they had to be exaggerated. She couldn't possibly have done everything that people said. But, I have to admit I was intrigued, and wondered if she might be the challenge I had been seeking for so many years. I decided I would give her a try and see what happened.
Across the campfire, I watched her eyes travel around the circle until her gaze settled on me. A long, confident gaze that was strangely uncomfortable. I looked away, and all was lost. I think she picked me out at that moment as her next conquest, and everything else that happened was just chess pieces moving into positions that I didn't recognise until it was too late. I was used to seeing the strategy from my side of the table, and like the lost hiker who never looks behind him, the return trail looks strange and unfamiliar. I failed to realize what was happening until she was gone. She was playing it just as I would have, ignoring me to make me think she hadn't noticed. I should have known then that I would just be spinning my wheels, but I had to find out the awful truth myself.
She was a cabin counsellor, which presented the first obstacle to my plans. I would have to find a time when her campers weren't around. Unfortunately, this eliminated most of the days and all of the nights. I couldn't leave anything for her in her cabin, because her campers might see it, and I didn't want to get them involved. I had no choice but to wait for a meal when she sat at the staff table. Counsellors and AC's take turns sitting at the extra tables because there isn't room for everyone at the camper tables. I began to check at every meal to figure out her eating schedule.
For several days I found her schedule very unpredictable, and I gave up on trying to anticipate it. Time was running out, and I began to feel the pressure, which is why, when the opportunity presented itself, I finally decided on an admittedly childish method of getting her attention. She had left her bathing suit hanging on the clothesline outside her cabin, and it was dinnertime, so while everyone was in the dining hall I slipped out, removed the bathing suit and took it to the kitchen where I found a tall bucket and a piece of broomstick cut up for making doughboys on campouts. I balanced the stick on the bucket, hung the suit on the stick, and filled the bucket with water. I found that the suit floated, so I put a rock in it to make it hang properly. Then I put the whole thing in the freezer, behind several pails of margarine, where it would not be found.
By dinnertime the next night the bathing suit was encased in ice. I was somewhat disappointed that no mention had been made of the missing bathing suit. I felt that a girl with a reputation such as hers would be more aware of such things, and I began to doubt even more strongly that the stories I had heard were true. I was saddened by the idea that I might be wasting my time, but I had started this, and I might as well finish it. She was sitting at the staff table, and dinner was over. Dessert was being served when I asked the cooks to deliver a special dessert to her table. I used hot water to loosen the ice block and put it on a serving cart. They agreed to my request, understanding my motives, and delivered my creation, along with a dull ice pick, to her table.
She laughed, along with everyone else, and scanned the room looking for the culprit. Once more her eyes settled on me, laughing eyes that looked for and found the answer she wanted. She raised her ice pick to me (as a toast or a mock threat, it mattered not. I would welcome either.) and made short work of the ice block.
For the rest of that evening and all of the next day I waited. Sure, it wasn't the most clever way to start things off, but it deserved some kind of response. Toilet-papering my vehicle; sewing my sleeping bag shut; setting alarm clocks al around my cabin. But there was nothing. The following day was to be her last, and I went to bed that night very disappointed.
Next morning she said goodbye to everyone, but said nothing to me. I saw her getting into her friend's car as I got into my own truck. She saw me, but didn't wave. Sitting in the driver's seat, I reflected that it was going to be a boring summer.
As I started the engine, I noticed a piece of paper on the seat beside me. I hadn't remembered seeing it there before, and reached for it as I took my hand off the gear shift and stepped on the accelerator to back up. As I grasped the paper, I realized that my truck hadn't moved. I shifted gears and stepped on the gas again, without success.
I knew then what was wrong, even as I opened my driver's door. I didn't need to look at the paper or the truck. My rear tires were one inch off the ground, held by two sturdy blocks of wood. I knew my jack was gone, and wouldn't likely turn up for several days.
I turned to see her waving from the back seat as she drove slowly out of the camp gate and out of my life. Becky Belt, you were everything they said you were. Come back, I dare you.
In my memory, that fateful summer is as clear as last Saturday. The first time I saw her, sitting across the campfire, I thought she looked like any of the other girls I had known. How wrong I was. The sparkle in her eyes, which might have warned me, was hidden by the reflection of the dancing firelight.
She was strange, foreign, a girl from the United States. Rumors had flown before she even arrived at camp that she had a reputation back home as something of a practical joker, but I had some experience and a reputation of my own, and was confident that if any situation came up, as I secretly hoped it would, I would be able to stay in control. Besides, she would only be at camp for a week, before she had to return to the States for work. I had been disappointed to hear this at first. After hearing the stories, I had hoped to spend the summer finding out how good she really was, but a week was not very much time for that.
My first impulse was to discount the rumors about her as ridiculous. She didn't seem the type, and the stories were so wild that they had to be exaggerated. She couldn't possibly have done everything that people said. But, I have to admit I was intrigued, and wondered if she might be the challenge I had been seeking for so many years. I decided I would give her a try and see what happened.
Across the campfire, I watched her eyes travel around the circle until her gaze settled on me. A long, confident gaze that was strangely uncomfortable. I looked away, and all was lost. I think she picked me out at that moment as her next conquest, and everything else that happened was just chess pieces moving into positions that I didn't recognise until it was too late. I was used to seeing the strategy from my side of the table, and like the lost hiker who never looks behind him, the return trail looks strange and unfamiliar. I failed to realize what was happening until she was gone. She was playing it just as I would have, ignoring me to make me think she hadn't noticed. I should have known then that I would just be spinning my wheels, but I had to find out the awful truth myself.
She was a cabin counsellor, which presented the first obstacle to my plans. I would have to find a time when her campers weren't around. Unfortunately, this eliminated most of the days and all of the nights. I couldn't leave anything for her in her cabin, because her campers might see it, and I didn't want to get them involved. I had no choice but to wait for a meal when she sat at the staff table. Counsellors and AC's take turns sitting at the extra tables because there isn't room for everyone at the camper tables. I began to check at every meal to figure out her eating schedule.
For several days I found her schedule very unpredictable, and I gave up on trying to anticipate it. Time was running out, and I began to feel the pressure, which is why, when the opportunity presented itself, I finally decided on an admittedly childish method of getting her attention. She had left her bathing suit hanging on the clothesline outside her cabin, and it was dinnertime, so while everyone was in the dining hall I slipped out, removed the bathing suit and took it to the kitchen where I found a tall bucket and a piece of broomstick cut up for making doughboys on campouts. I balanced the stick on the bucket, hung the suit on the stick, and filled the bucket with water. I found that the suit floated, so I put a rock in it to make it hang properly. Then I put the whole thing in the freezer, behind several pails of margarine, where it would not be found.
By dinnertime the next night the bathing suit was encased in ice. I was somewhat disappointed that no mention had been made of the missing bathing suit. I felt that a girl with a reputation such as hers would be more aware of such things, and I began to doubt even more strongly that the stories I had heard were true. I was saddened by the idea that I might be wasting my time, but I had started this, and I might as well finish it. She was sitting at the staff table, and dinner was over. Dessert was being served when I asked the cooks to deliver a special dessert to her table. I used hot water to loosen the ice block and put it on a serving cart. They agreed to my request, understanding my motives, and delivered my creation, along with a dull ice pick, to her table.
She laughed, along with everyone else, and scanned the room looking for the culprit. Once more her eyes settled on me, laughing eyes that looked for and found the answer she wanted. She raised her ice pick to me (as a toast or a mock threat, it mattered not. I would welcome either.) and made short work of the ice block.
For the rest of that evening and all of the next day I waited. Sure, it wasn't the most clever way to start things off, but it deserved some kind of response. Toilet-papering my vehicle; sewing my sleeping bag shut; setting alarm clocks al around my cabin. But there was nothing. The following day was to be her last, and I went to bed that night very disappointed.
Next morning she said goodbye to everyone, but said nothing to me. I saw her getting into her friend's car as I got into my own truck. She saw me, but didn't wave. Sitting in the driver's seat, I reflected that it was going to be a boring summer.
As I started the engine, I noticed a piece of paper on the seat beside me. I hadn't remembered seeing it there before, and reached for it as I took my hand off the gear shift and stepped on the accelerator to back up. As I grasped the paper, I realized that my truck hadn't moved. I shifted gears and stepped on the gas again, without success.
I knew then what was wrong, even as I opened my driver's door. I didn't need to look at the paper or the truck. My rear tires were one inch off the ground, held by two sturdy blocks of wood. I knew my jack was gone, and wouldn't likely turn up for several days.
I turned to see her waving from the back seat as she drove slowly out of the camp gate and out of my life. Becky Belt, you were everything they said you were. Come back, I dare you.
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