Everyone in Cambridge who participated in the Boy Scouts for any length of time will have fond memories of Camp Wakpominee. These were often created by a combination of absolutely spectacular natural settings that surrounded a picturesque lake. Equally significant was Camp Wakpominee’s extremely well designed program. But no place this side of heaven is flawless and mistakes were made, a big one occurring when I was hired as a CIT, counselor in training, when I probably should have been breaking rocks in some youth reformatory.
I had a huge credibility problem with my peers that summer, all fellow CITs. Like all boys, we played a lot of “my whatever is better than yours” on subjects from sports teams to our own abilities. One of our favorite topics was which of our various home scout troops was the best. I knew I didn’t stand a chance arguing from that position, and as disadvantaged people often do when they know they can’t win, I changed the game and decided to argue that my troop was the worst one in America, a wild band of Cambridge’s worst cutthroats and thieves who pillaged and burned on good days and did lots worse on others. I provided a great deal of supporting evidence, all of it true, but no one believed a word of it.
“OK,” I said. “You just wait. Troop 62 will be here in a few weeks and you can judge for yourself.” Never, even in my wildest imagination, did I think good old Troop 62 would exceed expectations, but a most fortuitous occurrence set the spark for a marvelous display of mayhem.
When Troop 62’s designated week arrived I was surrounded by four of my most ardent critics, all demanding I “put up or shut up.” I did and they did as Troop 62 presented its finest low moment, the first requiring some explanation for those not familiar with Camp Wakpominee.
The main area of the camp where the dinning hall and offices were located was accessible by car, but most of the actual camp sites where the troops set up could only be reached by 4-wheel drive vehicles, and sometimes not even them because the paths were too narrow. Campers always had a lot of gear to haul, and to do so Camp Wakpominee provided what we called “Indian carts” for some reason. Indians had nothing to do the carts; they were actually hand-pulled WWI Army surplus ammo carts made from aluminum and steel.
Each cart had a draw bar approximately a yard long that ended in a t-handle making it easy for two guys to pull it up hill. In the middle of the T was a triangular bit of metal welded to the handle designed to stop the cart from rolling if the handle was dropped. The cart had only one axle on which two wheels were mounted. If used appropriately, the carts were perfectly safe.
I don’t think Indian cart racing was a Troop 62 invention, but do know it was one of the few things that could lead to being sent home almost instantly by camp officials. The reasoning was that the practice was super dangerous and a number of kids suffered broken bones in previous rides. Of course, we still raced the little buggers as often as we could.
The actual competitions might be described more accurately as distance events, the tracks too narrow in places for two carts to race at once and the vehicles never designed for maneuverability in the way we often used them.
Effective cart riding involved skills much like those required for a unicycle. The trick was to first learn how to balance on the single axle while in the cart’s square basket and holding the draw bar up. Once this was perfected the cart was positioned where one good shove from an assistant got the cart rolling down hill. Riders used both seated and standing methods based on personal preference. I liked the standing position as it was easier to bail out and I never had great balance, meaning every ride I did was a guaranteed wreck.
The objective was to see how far one could get before crashing, and crashing was almost inevitable because there were no brakes or any way to steer the cart itself once it really got rolling. The preferred stopping method was to shift weight to the rear of the cart while still keeping a tight grip on the draw bar. If executed well, this caused the rear of the cart basket to drag, slowing and eventually stopping the cart. This was the optimal means of exit, but only the best riders could execute it. More commonly, balance was lost due to something like a big rock of which there were hundreds, or some other rider error throwing off the delicate balancing act, or, even worse, something causing the rider to drop the handle at speed, the ultimate mistake, as once the holding cleat dug into the dirt deeply the cart always made a end-over-end flip, often landing on top of the hapless racer. Like Romans at the Coliseum, we lived to watch those flips, salivating like lions devouring the last Christian.
As I walked up the steep path to Troop 62’s encampment with four inquisitors still jabbering about how full of beans I was, we heard a loud scream and then a shout, “Watch the blank out down there.”
We looked up the path. Hurtling our way was one of Troop 62’s best chariot racers (name withheld to protect the guilty) coming directly at us at speed, a human torpedo. We all jumped off the path as the cart and rider sped by, went another 20 yards and wiped out when one wheel hit a deep rut. Fortunately, the scout tumbled one way and the cart another, always the better of two evils.
The pilot got up, his lip and kneecap bleeding, as he pulled the cart back up the hill for the second heat.
“Hey Mike,” he said, “You’re a witness. I got past that big maple, right? I just won five bucks!” Five dollars was huge money at the time.
“Got it,” I answered, but my CIT pals weren’t yet overly impressed. Most of us, due to an entire summer’s practice, were moderately accomplished chariot racers already, but the bleeding scout and his five buck bet had begun to make a positive impression. Once we hit the camp itself the deal was sealed.
It’s a picture I still see like it happened yesterday. In the middle of a circular arrangement of lean-tos that served as shelter at lots of campsites at Camp Wakpominee was a tall flagpole. On it should have been first the American flag and then the Troop 62 banner, but in this case we saluted someone’s dirty underwear under which a cleverly weighted Playboy centerfold took the place of the troop banner, the penny taped to the bottom very effectively holding the centerfold open for perfect viewing. We’d managed to get our hands on a number of Playboy Bunny patches earlier, but had yet to convince our scoutmaster to allow them as part of our uniform. We advocated for the patch as a new merit badge for which we created specific criteria, but our pleas only elicited the same kind of language we’d grown to expect, worse than any you could find in the magazine.
Seated at a table in front of the flagpole when we entered camp were two of our newest scouts, both barely 12-years-old. Each had an unlit White Owl cigar sticking out of their mouths as they played blackjack for nickel a hand, real Norman Rockwell stuff. The rest of the campsite looked much like the aftermath of a Hell’s Angels bash.
Normally, even Troop 62 didn’t look this bad, but our scoutmaster, due to work obligations, could not spend the week at camp and delegated his duties to an assistant scoutmaster. This man worked at a local mill, had never supervised normal kids alone, much less our group, and simply was in way over his head.
I left with the other CITs after accepting an invitation to attend the evening campfire, an event I assured my now converted believers was bound to be a lot more interesting because we were always much worse in the dark when it was harder to see what we were up to.
We heard fireworks as we walked up the hill just after dark. I didn’t find the bangs a bit unusual. Just about every scout in the troop had a pack of firecrackers thrown into a pup tent at some point in time, a basic Troop 62 initiation rite. This was a little different, though.
“Get down, get down,” somebody yelled as we walked into the camp. At first I found it odd no one stood around the fire, where we all still stood now looking for company, not understanding the urgent nature of the request. Then another firecracker went off, but this time we all heard the ping of ricochet, a bullet striking rock surrounding the campfire. We all instantly dropped to our stomachs. I first assumed someone was shooting at us, and remember thinking in the dirt it was probably more than justified, long overdue, and quite possibly our assistant scoutmaster who’d finally reached the breaking point.
In reality, we were witnessing the apex of Troop 62’s dumbest stunt. Some bright Cambridge lad I won’t name decided it would be a most exciting experiment to see what happened when a box of 50 .22 bullets was thrown into a campfire. We already knew what a cherry bomb did and nearly burned down a campsite for that pyrotechnic study.
The now very frightened group of CITs crawled on stomachs to the closest lean-to that, as the others, sat on a concrete pad. The pad in the back was about two feet tall to level the pad on a slight slope behind which about half the troop, all prone, took cover. The rest were behind similar structures.
Every minute or so, another round would go off. Just when we thought it was the last one and started to get up, another round cracked and we hit the dirt again. I don’t know how long this went on. Eventually, my CIT group crawled down the slope into the woods and then cut back to the path, far enough down hill to feel safe enough to stand up and walk to the CIT camp. This was the last time anyone argued with me about Troop 62. The boys had my back, and in fact, nearly shot it off .