So the visiting Pen Pals see this, and go, Why should we send our kids here next year instead of one of the other camps? And to that I found myself saying, Good question. I really found myself saying that. It was depressing.
And then, one day, Moosey was gone. And the campers … well, they were upset. We were all upset. No one knew who’d taken the thing. I didn’t think it could’ve been one of our kids, but we did a bunk search anyway. We combed the beach. Had the campers stomp through the brambles, arms linked so they wouldn’t miss a spot. They didn’t find him.
The fact that someone could just take Moosey, it was a little more than some of the campers could bear. To be honest, it was a little more than I could bear. Things already hadn’t been going well, and now this? The effect that Moosey’s absence had on these kids, especially the sensitive ones … it was a last-straw kind of thing. Some of them wanted to go home, and expressed it in no uncertain terms. No one signed up for the Tailfeather Talent show, which is normally a big hit. And our camp songs, I mean, you could forget about it. Frogs eating marbles. It was worrisome. We didn’t know how to fix it, all these mopey campers, but something had to be done.
I think it was Scott, one of our senior counselors, who came up with the idea. Moosey was missing, yes, and that was sad and infuriating, but maybe there was an opportunity here to, you know, harness some enthusiasm for Camp Winnesaka.
I called an emergency Tribal Meeting in the Chow Hut and told the campers that today was a grave day at Camp Winnesaka. One that shouldn’t be taken lightly. A day we shouldn’t forget. Some of the campers were crying. I was wearing my ceremonial button blanket and standing below the spot where Moosey’d always hung. I asked them if they had faith in me as Head Eagle. They nodded. I told them that Moosey was Camp Winnesaka. And that there are people who are jealous of us. And resentful of all the fun we have here. People who would rather … I looked at Eric, the cook, who nodded, and I said, And those people are the art fags across the lake at Camp Chickapony.
Camp Chickapony had nicer brochures than we did. They had a pool.
They said, What are art fags? I said, You don’t want to know. Chadwick Thoroughgood raised his hand and said, What now? I said we had to stand up for ourselves. What would the Elders, who are watching us right now, have done in this situation? We had to get Moosey back.
There was a brief moment of … I don’t know what it was. I could hear kids sniffling. I pulled my button blanket over my head and then flapped my arms to simulate the flight of an eagle and said, We have to get Moosey back!
They cheered.
We canceled Crafts and Activity Time to let the campers marinate on what was expected of them. We didn’t know, necessarily, where Moosey was, but he certainly wasn’t here, and Chickapony seemed like a good place to start. And then Jim, one of our junior counselors, came bursting through the door, dripping wet, and made the announcement that he’d just been at Camp Chickapony, and that they did indeed have Moosey, hanging in their refectory. Upside down. With a cardboard thought bubble taped to one of his antlers. That said “I suck.”
I should’ve—I mean, he smelled like perfume and body odor: I had my doubts he’d actually seen Moosey. But skepticism isn’t one of the virtues we try to instill in our campers here at Winnesaka. Skepticism is like a gateway drug to more destructive impulses, like cynicism. And who wants to sign their kids up for a summer of that?
We stormed Chickapony at night. I figured even if the kids didn’t find Moosey, at least it would get their spirits up. Get their blood flowing in the right direction. Generate a little common feeling among the campers for Winnesaka, and we could go from there.
But there were problems. It was an amphibious operation and this wasn’t the most athletic or boat-smart bunch we’ve had at Winnesaka. Our first raid ended—I mean, we were trying to get across the lake, but they didn’t even get to Chickapony. Jimmy Osteo bumped Randal Jenkins who was holding one of the bow lines, and he dropped it into the water. Tony Rademaker heaved his not-unsubstantial weight to port and bent an oarlock while trying to steady himself. Byron McKinstry said he couldn’t see through the masks we’d given them. Then there were the wooden rowboats. They’d always been tipsy, which was the reason we didn’t use them much. The paddleboats were fine, they were made of plastic, but they weren’t large enough for our purposes. So that, you know, that’s why we used the wooden ones. And since we’d sold most of our life jackets to Camp Niateano a couple of summers ago … I guess we thought we wouldn’t need them. I don’t know. So in terms of preparation … I mean, it’s easy to say always be prepared, but when something needs to be done urgently sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got and figure the rest out as you go.
A couple of the boats capsized. They were only ten feet away from the dock. And since Seaweed Sessions had been canceled this year because of cutbacks, there were a few of them who probably couldn’t swim as well as they should have. No one died, but there was some floundering. Quinn Kasem ended up drinking half of Lake Oboe, and … he’s home now. He’s doing fine. We just today received a postcard from him, actually. His words bear quoting: “Dear All the Eagles and Papooses at Camp Winnesaka: What … fun … proud to have … been [part of] … Camp Winnesaka [where all summers are Indian Summers].”
The campers, I guess, the Quinn incident shook them up a little bit. I reassured them what we were doing was honoring Winnesaka tradition, but some of them were a little slow putting money on the counter for a second raid. I told them that as far as safety goes, how can you feel safe knowing that someone could just creep into camp at any time and steal something as important as Moosey? I mean, what’s next? Your sleeping bag?
Thom Sloane raised his hand and asked why we couldn’t just ask Chickapony to give Moosey back. I told him it didn’t work like that. Chickapony campers, they aren’t like you and me, I said. You can’t just talk to them.
Not everyone was convinced, which, I could tell, might complicate things. I was feeling a little nervous about our next raid.
And that’s when Ward Hamilton came in. He was—to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what he was doing at Camp Winnesaka. He was good-looking. He had muscles. The rumor was that he’d lost his V-card to his twenty-three-year-old social studies teacher, Miss Robriand. Which would be, you know, certainly within the realm of possibility. This was his first summer here, and he’d already shattered the Archery and Long Toss records, and was in hot pursuit of the Sand Jump record, which I’d set when I was a camper.
We all admired him. He was everything Camp Winnesaka should’ve been. And something about the indignity of losing Moosey, it, I don’t know, touched him. He took it personally. We didn’t even have to ask him to step up. He walked into the Chow Hut in full war paint, gave the Comanche Cry, and led the campers down to the dock like it was something he was born to do.
I addressed them briefly at the water. I put my hand on Ward Hamilton’s shoulder and said I was proud of them for avenging this desecration of Camp Winnesaka, and that they should be proud themselves. Plug in and ride the lightning, is what I told them.
The night was very dark, remember. And this was … well, they didn’t find Moosey. I’m not even sure how far they got. And Ward, it’s possible he wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Or maybe was wearing it backward. There’s a chance that—I mean, it’s hard to say what really happened. There were conflicting reports. One kid said he fell in when one of our own boats accidentally nudged his, and he bumped his head on an oar on the way down. Another kid said he’d just jumped into the water. Which doesn’t make much sense. I think I’d just like to say that he was admired while he was here, and he was loved. And anytime a camper drowns, it’s a tragedy. I know that much.
We had a meeting in the Sacred Circle. I wasn’t sure, exactly, what I was going to tell them. I did know that Ward’s drowning was … well, it had the potential, if handled improperly, to be demoralizing to the campers. Not to mention the Pen Pals. And I think it was Eric who,
well, it was his idea, the posters. He had some experience with Photoshop, and he—you’ve seen them. Ward, in the bow of the rowboat, hoisting Moosey over his head, looking toward the sun which, in turn, is showering him with the golden rays of a Winnesaka summer.
I told them Ward was a hero of no small degree and presented the poster to the Sacred Circle. I said, Never forget. I led them in a moment of silence, and then fixed the poster to the wall of the Chow Hut. We made another one and hung it in the Sandy Can. Grief can be confusing for kids and this … well, it put things in perspective, I think I would say. Because Ward didn’t just die, alone, in a cold and unbound universe, he died, an honorable Papoose, in an effort to realize all things Winnesaka.
Below the image of Ward, Eric had printed the phrase “Integrity Is Not Born, It Is Learned at Lake Oboe.”
Jimmy Donner, who’d been in the boat with Ward, then, this is when he came to us. He was upset. There were tears. I think he’d been binging on chocolate. It was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, but it was something about responsibility. He looked at us and said, Shouldn’t there have been … ? And Eric just said: Jimmy, don’t. We already have another raid under way, and what is finger-pointing going to accomplish? You need to think about what Ward would have done. Would he have fired off accusations? Would he have let doubt win the day?
The next raid was more successful. They didn’t find Moosey, but they did come back with one of Chickapony’s Sacred Stones. And this, I think in hindsight, we should’ve been happy with this. But, you see, Moosey was the whole reason for our going over there in the first place. And there was the general feeling around camp that once you start something … The ball was rolling, is what I’m trying to say. The campers, they had certain expectations regarding Moosey. Part of it had to do with Ward. Part of it was because one of the things we stress here at Camp Winnesaka is follow-through.
They came back with a boar’s head next, which was, I think, sort of like the Moosey of Chickapony. We celebrated in the Chow Hut with extra helpings of Mac and Buffalo. We placed the boar’s head near one of the posters of Ward. Things were—well, they were going better than they had in weeks, camper morale–wise. I mean, we hadn’t found Moosey yet, and that was a bit of a pebble in our shoe, but we’d been successful in a lot of other ways. We had a boar’s head. We had one of their Sacred Stones. Some of the kids even asked me if they could come back next summer, they were having such a good time. A couple of small victories, for them and for me.
But this, then, this is when things sort of got out of control. I’d figured … I don’t know what I figured. I hadn’t really considered … I mean, Chickapony is the camp you go to if you can’t get into Winnesaka. If you look at tradition, that is. I thought they’d appreciate the friendly ribbing and that maybe they’d just send someone over with Moosey, drop him off no-harm-no-foul, and proffer an invitation to their August Potlatch, which we’ve enjoyed for years. And that would be the end of it. I mean, it wasn’t in their interest to begin …
The short of it is they hit back, chopping down our totem pole while we were asleep. Dragged it through our crocus patch and softball field and down to the shore, where some boat must’ve been waiting.
It’s hard to explain things to kids. Sometimes you say the right thing, but you could just as easily say the wrong thing. They looked to me, their Head Eagle, imploringly. There was … well, they were pretty angry about the totem pole. I was angry about the totem pole. It had been around longer than Moosey, and had been carved by a guy who wasn’t alive anymore. Taking that totem pole, it was the height of disrespect. And what are you going to do, drop your kid off at a camp that doesn’t have a totem pole?
That night, Eric and Scott came to me and said this back-and-forth needed to stop. Any other year, when we weren’t crunched on our numbers, when enrollment wasn’t down, maybe it’d be fine. But this year? Tit for tat was unacceptable. And anything short of a decisive and resounding Winnesaka victory was, frankly, untenable in the long haul. They’d talked it over and were in agreement that we needed to mobilize a little more professionally if we were ever going to find Moosey. Eric said, “I know this is a camper thing, but …” I sighed. I said okay.
The two Chickapony campers they shanghaied … it was dark, and maybe they didn’t grab the right ones, I don’t know. Eric put these orca masks over their heads so they couldn’t see and sequestered them in the basement of the Arts and Crafts complex. The idea was that maybe they could tell us about Moosey, and the totem pole, and where we could find them. That was all we wanted. But these kids … I think they might have been autistic or something. Normally if you put a camper down there, spin him around a few times, and tell him he’ll never see his Pen Pals again, he’s giving up family recipes and apologizing for the time he diddled his brother in Grandpa’s basement. But these Chickapony kids, nothing. They wouldn’t crack. And then, see, it’s a bit of a dilemma. Return them to Chickapony, where they will most likely help out with future raids, especially now that they know the lay of the land here at Winnesaka, or hang on to them until things blow over?
We didn’t have too much time to think about that, though, because the next morning we woke up and the Tribal Thunder Stick was missing. We’d only posted sentries on the dock, it hadn’t occurred to us that they might come through the woods, don’t ask me why. It wasn’t an encouraging development. In response, we had the campers stage another raid, and this time they came back with some more Chickapony kids. We tried everything on them—duct tape, maple syrup, dirty talk—but still, nothing.
At that point, some of the campers began wondering if we were ever going to find Moosey. They were just sort of questioning things, which is natural, sure, and part of every camper’s development, but I mean, why now? I told them, beyond a shadow of a doubt we were going to find Moosey. And the totem pole and the Tribal Thunder Stick. And they needed to have faith in me as Head Eagle. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s second-guessing, and I think I’m only human in that respect. The implication is that I don’t want every camper to have a Winnesaka summer that, you know, shimmers in memory long after the sun goes down. And that’s just not true. You think I don’t have your best interest at heart? There’s a time and a place for this line of inquiry, and to raise these concerns now, when we’re already invested … I mean, honestly.
It came to me in a dream, I think, what we were doing wrong. We just … the thing was that we weren’t sending enough campers across the lake on our raids. It was taking us too long to search Chickapony, and now, especially, that we had to get Moosey, the Thunder Stick, and our totem pole back, it, well, it just made more sense to have everyone go over at the same time.
We didn’t have enough boats, though. And this was a problem. It was Eric’s idea, I think, the felling of the Spirit Grove. Sure, those trees had been there forever. And they were beautiful. And yes, they did house the Ancestral Shades, at least according to Winnesaka legend. But we needed boats. So I figured what we’d do next summer is make it a Winnesaka priority to have the campers plant saplings. Then chart their growth in the growth charts we could have them make in Arts and Crafts. It would be a new type of bonding experience, and also one we could put in the brochure. Plus, the campers could now add boatbuilding to their list of Winnesaka Activities Mastered when they went home at the end of the summer. They could add logging too.
Before going on, I’d like to say how much I admire the campers at Winnesaka. I’d like to make that clear. Never have I seen such selfless industry. Such unflagging enthusiasm. Such a unity of purpose. Plus, they really seemed to enjoy building the boats. We honored every fallen tree with a shout of “Moosey.” I caught Sam Stopwell genuflecting as he passed Ward’s poster in the Sandy Can. Flotilla formations were drawn up, X’s and O’s and arrows drawn in the sand. Our campers were campers again. Or maybe for the first time. And … well, there’s just no substitute for the feeling that gives you as Head Eagle.
They piled int
o the boats. They were canoes, actually, and we’d painted them to look like tiger sharks and killer whales. I stood on the dock, steadying keels, letting each camper know how important he was to Winnesaka. And to me. I told them we are given few opportunities to shine in this life, and that this was probably one of those opportunities. They began paddling. Fifty yards from shore, one of the kids, Tony Jameson, turned to wave at me.
Well, if I knew then what I know now about the trees, that the reason it was called the Spirit Grove was because all the trees were pretty much rotten and that, you know, even just one rotten plank can seriously affect flotation, things might have turned out differently, sure. I would like to have anticipated that. It would’ve been nice if someone had pointed that out. It also would’ve been nice if the life jackets we did have came with better instructions, and if they were going to be the kind that flip you on your back that they would’ve said as much. Or at least have been manufactured in such a way that it was impossible to fasten them on backward. But you’re not given a crystal ball when you’re hired as Head Eagle. I’m not a soothsayer. We’re given a budget each summer, and the question is always, do you sink it all into new boats and better life jackets, or do you use it for other things, like sturdy bunk beds, or a new chef? I mean, especially now that we have to have a vegetarian option at every meal. Problems come up, and you solve them as best you can, is what I’m trying to say.
The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories Page 8