I worked at the Ecology Center during my first two years on staff. For whatever reason, we abbreviated it to Econ Lodge, even though that was not really an abbreviation but really a renaming. It was nothing as grand as a center or as quaint as a lodge though. It was a small building, most of it with just a roof and now walls and a couple of picnic tables. A small part was enclosed where we stored various things, mostly merit badge books, animal pelts, glass jars with nothing in them etc. The main attraction was the reptile pit. Again, curiously named because it overwhelmingly contained amphibians.
It was about 100 square feet, a big square surrounded by a 3-foot tall wall. Scouts would catch frogs, turtles and occasionally a snake and toss it in there. There was a small man made stream and pond that ran through the center. Towards the end of the summer, it would get full. Too full. There was nowhere near enough food to support the population so frogs became cannibals and ate each other. It was amazing to see, the bigger frog would simply swallow the smaller frog whole. In many cases, there was not a whole lot of relative size difference. Kind of like a 200-pound man swallowing a 160 pound man whole. Often, it took a few attempts and the smaller frog would escape from the jaws of the larger one.
The other creatures seemed to do allright. Perhaps the snakes could last long enough, even without proper food, to make it to the end of the summer. We very rarely found any dead animals in there, but that was probably because they were eaten straight away. We did try to release them all at the end of the summer. It wasn't like we kept a strict count, so I am sure we may have left a few behind.
My first summer there, the director was a woodsy lass named Mary. I think she was 23 or 24 and I was an awkward lad of 16. Naturally, I developed a huge crush on her. Looking back on it, she was quite an odd person. She once taught me, for something like 25 minutes straight, how to best walk up a set of stairs without someone hearing you. You do a series of lunges up the steps without ever fully straightening your legs. This was in no way relevant to what we were teaching. Perhaps if we offered the burglary merit badge, but we did not.
She fancied herself a bit of a martial artist, but also loved to commune with nature. So she would get a sturdy tree branch, fashion it into a staff of sorts and go into the woods and make up martial arts moves to do on the trees. Really bizarre, in order to become one with nature she had to fight the trees, with trees.
She was also permanently getting into wrestling matches with this other staff member. Of course, there were all sorts of erotic over, under and side tones.
They really got into it, every day at lunch they would wrestle and the rest of the staff would watch. She was dating this other guy, but for whatever reason he tolerated this wrestling. Kind of like an open relationship as long as it involved the possibility of combat. Even though she was small, she was pretty strong and the wrestling matches were usually pretty evenly matched. Most of the time they would end up aggressively spooning each other, no-one was able to get the upper hand. Maybe the dude was really smart and realized that if he simply knocked her around a lot the wrestling matches would come to a quick end.
I never got the chance to wrestle Mary. I did get the chance to do something far more dangerous and far less pleasurable for her though. This was near the beginning of the summer and we were collecting some frogs to get the reptile pit started. It was Mary, me and a few scouts. All of a sudden Mary points to a giant snapping turtle in a small pond. I thought she was pointing it out to be careful. That was not the case. She wanted me to catch it to add it to the reptile pit. Had anyone else suggested it, I would have not given it a second thought and just walked away. Since Mary suggested it, and since she was a real live woman and all, I thought “what the hell, I’ll give it a whirl”?
At this point, I knew nothing about snapping turtles. Mary solemnly told me that these wily bastards can reach very far with their necks, like to their back feet and the best way to get them was to grab them by their tail. I took this knowledge in like I was a professional reptile rustler and started to make my move.
It wasn’t like this guy was sunning himself on a rock where I could easily approach. He was in a small pool, with a waterfall raining down making it difficult to see the water below. It was big too, probably 35 pounds or so. Growing up, I had heard how these guys can snap off a finger pretty easily. For whatever reason, it worked. I reached down, grabbed him by the tail and pulled him out. He was mad. Hissing, big powerful jaws open and thrashing his head about. It was then that I realized that we did not have anything we could put him in to get him to the reptile pit about a quarter mile away. So I had to walk with him, making sure to hold him far enough away from my body so he couldn’t latch onto anything.
He was way too big for the pit, he occupied an entire corner. He was the star attraction though because most of the time you don’t get to see a snapping turtle up close. He was too big to hide in the little man made stream, so he was forced to hang out in the corner. He lived through the summer and I was glad when it was time to release him. This time it was a lot easier as he was pretty easy to approach and this time we had some sort of crate to put him in for transport.
The next summer, Mary was gone. Doing what, I have no idea, but no doubt it was something absurd. I never did see the snapping turtle again. It is for the best, I am not sure I would have gotten lucky a second time.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
End of the Summer - Rager
In almost any work environment you have a pretty wide range of ages. But, typically, the younger end is in their 20s at a minimum. For most jobs, at the end of the day you go home and your social life and professional life are separated.
Camp is different though. Much of the staff is under 18, and the overwhelming majority are under 21. Maybe things were different in Camp prior to 1984 and the passage of the National Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984 (23 U.S.C. § 158). But when I attended camp, the drinking age was 21. Ostensibly.
My proposal would have been to establish alcohol free zones around camp, but not an outright prohibition. Unfortunately, this was neither legal nor logical, so it didn't happen. But it sort of did. Almost without exception there was no drinking in front of the scouts, and as far as I know, no-one was running programs with the scouts while under the influence. So these were the alcohol free zones.
The Rock House and the Voyageur cabin were not alcohol free zones. The nice part about Summit was that no scouts stayed up there overnight, with the exception of Sunday nights and Friday nights when scouts were preparing to depart and return from treks, respectively. Even then, the camp sites were quite far away from where the staff lived. Looking back on it, they were really unnecessarily far away. Before we got rid of the old style canvas tents and wooden platforms it resembled a WWII refugee camp. There were far too many tents in each campsite, you could have accomodated a group of 50 or more in each site. There is something a bit unnerving when you are surrounded by empty tents in the middle of nowhere. I guess you sort of feel like there has been some sort of apocolypse, because it just seems that there should be more people. Regardless, while the scouts were living the Alaskan Experience with several square miles of property each, we were huddeld in the Rock House.
In the other camps, the staff sleeping quarters were separate from the scout camping areas, but they were located in a central area. The lack of privacy and the fact that tents really provide no sound insulation meant that you had to be more creative in your partying at these other camps. Finally, you can only cram so many people into a tent.
At the beginning of every summer there was training. As part of this training, we always had some instruction on the alcohol policy at camp. The stated policy was no alcohol on camp property. One summer, for whatever reason, we actually had a debate on this. You would have thought that the debate would have involved whether those who are 21 can possess alcohol on base provided that reasonable precautions were followed. You would have been wrong. Rather, it was pure comedic gold. At this point I was 21, so I didn't really have a dog in the fight but it consisted of people, all under the age of 21, arguing that they should be allowed to enjoy alcohol responsibly. Really passionate arguments consisting of lines like "I am an adult, I can vote, if I want a drink at the end of the day that should be my choice" or "I don't see why camp is being so strict about this, what's the big deal." It was as if New York State law didn't apply and it camp was making arbitrary and capricous rules. The best part of this, was that it was very strictly moderated, by the Piton. I have written about the Piton a few times before, very much the renessaince man and had to put up with a lot of things that he was not paid nearly enough to deal with. He was my director for a few summers and really loved working with him. He ran this debate like a professional moderator with very strict time limits to make your argument and he was not afraid to cut you off. The result was a foregone conclusion, there was no way camp could just abrogate the State law and lower the drinking age - but that didn't stop people from trying.
The end of the year party was an exception. Sort of. All of the senior staff members knew about it, but would begrudgingly let it proceed. This party was open to the entire camp staff. Immediately before the party, there was the staff banquet. It was a good dinner and people were presented with various gag gifts - almost all in good spirits but some that may have crossed the line. One young lady of questionable morals was presented with with a maternity dress. On the other end of the age and fertility spectrum, a cantankerous older guy (not Roger) was presented with the A.H.O.Y. (Asshole of the Year) award.
Sometime after the banquet the second part of the end of the year party would begin. Importantly, at this point there were absolutely no scouts left, the party typically happened at the end of closing staff week where all the staff gets the camp ready for winter. I think the Load will remember other locations, but I remember at least a few parties taking place at the Butler Building. When you hear Butler Building, you may think of a very posh cottage where Butlers are trained. The sort of place where you need a top hat and a monacle to gain admittance. It couldn't have been further from the truth. My understanding is that there is a corporation called Butler Manufacturing that specializes in pre fabricated buildings. We had one of these buildings at our camp.
It was really more of a shell of a building though. Metal columns anchored to concrete footings and a large corrugated metal roof. The floor was dirt, but it provided some protection from the elements. There was a smattering of random stuff stored there, a lot of lumber, some big plastic barrels that were empty, and an ancient road grader, with dry rotted tires and flaky yellow paint. I don't know the last time it ran, but it had been quite awhile. It was a good place though because you could fit a ton of people there, it was up a road that people didn't generally travel and there was nothing to break. Plus, there was rudimentary power so at least you had some illumination. Across from the building was a large field for overflow capacity. And there was a keg. But that was it, it was pretty spartan as far as parties go. But we loved every second of it. At least for me, it represented the end of the summer and it was a chance to see people from the other camps that you typically did not see. Everyone was generally in a good mood. And though no one would talk about it, there was a sense of sadness for another summer had come to an end. So even though you knew that each drink took you closer to your last, it seemed to taste a bit better than the one before it.
For the most part, nothing bad happened. Yes, people drank too much, some of them far too young to drink. I remember seeing a pretty stocky 16 year old, stumble along, beer stains streaking down his shirt. He was walking towards me with a beer in one hand and all of a sudden he just did a complete face plant right into the dirt. He didn't even try to break his fall. It was like a belly flop done on land. Amazingly, and seemingly most important to him, he didn't spill much of his beer. The best part was he got up and kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Those who were new to the juice of the barley were surrounded by more experienced drinkers. Perhaps it is just the rose colored glasses of summers gone by, but it seemed that no-one let anyone go too far. And even if they did, someone was there to help them to make sure they got back to where ever they were sleeping that night. I don't know if it is still a tradition. I think leadership came up with the idea of moving the banquet back so that it would end later. I am not sure if they really thought that would work though. It wasn't like people would say "Man, I would have been up for starting a party at 6, but I cannot live the rock and roller lifestyle necessary to start a party at 8"!
At least for one night, if you were old enough to vote, or hell even get a learner's permit, you were old enough to drink. I think drinking in the woods, surrounded by friends, is far less dangerous than learning to drive anyway.
Camp is different though. Much of the staff is under 18, and the overwhelming majority are under 21. Maybe things were different in Camp prior to 1984 and the passage of the National Minimum Drinking Age Act of 1984 (23 U.S.C. § 158). But when I attended camp, the drinking age was 21. Ostensibly.
My proposal would have been to establish alcohol free zones around camp, but not an outright prohibition. Unfortunately, this was neither legal nor logical, so it didn't happen. But it sort of did. Almost without exception there was no drinking in front of the scouts, and as far as I know, no-one was running programs with the scouts while under the influence. So these were the alcohol free zones.
The Rock House and the Voyageur cabin were not alcohol free zones. The nice part about Summit was that no scouts stayed up there overnight, with the exception of Sunday nights and Friday nights when scouts were preparing to depart and return from treks, respectively. Even then, the camp sites were quite far away from where the staff lived. Looking back on it, they were really unnecessarily far away. Before we got rid of the old style canvas tents and wooden platforms it resembled a WWII refugee camp. There were far too many tents in each campsite, you could have accomodated a group of 50 or more in each site. There is something a bit unnerving when you are surrounded by empty tents in the middle of nowhere. I guess you sort of feel like there has been some sort of apocolypse, because it just seems that there should be more people. Regardless, while the scouts were living the Alaskan Experience with several square miles of property each, we were huddeld in the Rock House.
In the other camps, the staff sleeping quarters were separate from the scout camping areas, but they were located in a central area. The lack of privacy and the fact that tents really provide no sound insulation meant that you had to be more creative in your partying at these other camps. Finally, you can only cram so many people into a tent.
At the beginning of every summer there was training. As part of this training, we always had some instruction on the alcohol policy at camp. The stated policy was no alcohol on camp property. One summer, for whatever reason, we actually had a debate on this. You would have thought that the debate would have involved whether those who are 21 can possess alcohol on base provided that reasonable precautions were followed. You would have been wrong. Rather, it was pure comedic gold. At this point I was 21, so I didn't really have a dog in the fight but it consisted of people, all under the age of 21, arguing that they should be allowed to enjoy alcohol responsibly. Really passionate arguments consisting of lines like "I am an adult, I can vote, if I want a drink at the end of the day that should be my choice" or "I don't see why camp is being so strict about this, what's the big deal." It was as if New York State law didn't apply and it camp was making arbitrary and capricous rules. The best part of this, was that it was very strictly moderated, by the Piton. I have written about the Piton a few times before, very much the renessaince man and had to put up with a lot of things that he was not paid nearly enough to deal with. He was my director for a few summers and really loved working with him. He ran this debate like a professional moderator with very strict time limits to make your argument and he was not afraid to cut you off. The result was a foregone conclusion, there was no way camp could just abrogate the State law and lower the drinking age - but that didn't stop people from trying.
The end of the year party was an exception. Sort of. All of the senior staff members knew about it, but would begrudgingly let it proceed. This party was open to the entire camp staff. Immediately before the party, there was the staff banquet. It was a good dinner and people were presented with various gag gifts - almost all in good spirits but some that may have crossed the line. One young lady of questionable morals was presented with with a maternity dress. On the other end of the age and fertility spectrum, a cantankerous older guy (not Roger) was presented with the A.H.O.Y. (Asshole of the Year) award.
Sometime after the banquet the second part of the end of the year party would begin. Importantly, at this point there were absolutely no scouts left, the party typically happened at the end of closing staff week where all the staff gets the camp ready for winter. I think the Load will remember other locations, but I remember at least a few parties taking place at the Butler Building. When you hear Butler Building, you may think of a very posh cottage where Butlers are trained. The sort of place where you need a top hat and a monacle to gain admittance. It couldn't have been further from the truth. My understanding is that there is a corporation called Butler Manufacturing that specializes in pre fabricated buildings. We had one of these buildings at our camp.
It was really more of a shell of a building though. Metal columns anchored to concrete footings and a large corrugated metal roof. The floor was dirt, but it provided some protection from the elements. There was a smattering of random stuff stored there, a lot of lumber, some big plastic barrels that were empty, and an ancient road grader, with dry rotted tires and flaky yellow paint. I don't know the last time it ran, but it had been quite awhile. It was a good place though because you could fit a ton of people there, it was up a road that people didn't generally travel and there was nothing to break. Plus, there was rudimentary power so at least you had some illumination. Across from the building was a large field for overflow capacity. And there was a keg. But that was it, it was pretty spartan as far as parties go. But we loved every second of it. At least for me, it represented the end of the summer and it was a chance to see people from the other camps that you typically did not see. Everyone was generally in a good mood. And though no one would talk about it, there was a sense of sadness for another summer had come to an end. So even though you knew that each drink took you closer to your last, it seemed to taste a bit better than the one before it.
For the most part, nothing bad happened. Yes, people drank too much, some of them far too young to drink. I remember seeing a pretty stocky 16 year old, stumble along, beer stains streaking down his shirt. He was walking towards me with a beer in one hand and all of a sudden he just did a complete face plant right into the dirt. He didn't even try to break his fall. It was like a belly flop done on land. Amazingly, and seemingly most important to him, he didn't spill much of his beer. The best part was he got up and kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Those who were new to the juice of the barley were surrounded by more experienced drinkers. Perhaps it is just the rose colored glasses of summers gone by, but it seemed that no-one let anyone go too far. And even if they did, someone was there to help them to make sure they got back to where ever they were sleeping that night. I don't know if it is still a tradition. I think leadership came up with the idea of moving the banquet back so that it would end later. I am not sure if they really thought that would work though. It wasn't like people would say "Man, I would have been up for starting a party at 6, but I cannot live the rock and roller lifestyle necessary to start a party at 8"!
At least for one night, if you were old enough to vote, or hell even get a learner's permit, you were old enough to drink. I think drinking in the woods, surrounded by friends, is far less dangerous than learning to drive anyway.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
The Heist
As mentioned before, one of the cooler aspects of working at Summit Base was that you lived in an actual building rather than a tent.
For whatever reason, I never lived in the Voyageur Cabin, even though it was supposed to be where Voyageurs lived. Over the different summers I either lived at the Rock House (RIP), the new staff tents, the back of the summit office, the Howie Hut - a building that was falling down and hadn't been lived in for many years prior, nor was it occupied again after I left and one summer spent most of my nights on the summit of Mt. Stevens.
This story takes place in the Rock House. It was a hot day, and I had just come down from the cliffs where we instructed scouts on rock climbing. It was on these cliffs that I first observed the awesomeness that was K.W. It was when I was attending camp as a Scout and our troop had signed up to go to these very same cliffs for a climbing introduction. K.W. was one of our instructors. After he had showed us how to put on the necessary gear and tie the right knots he showed us the route we would climb. I think he was wearing flip flops at the time. He made it look so easy, he just put his feet on the wall, put his hands on the wall and looked like he was climbing a ladder. Armed with a pair of climbing shoes I was beginning to think this would be a joke. Then it was my turn. What had seemed to be ladder now seemed like a sheet of glass with small nubbins. Essentially I fell up the climb because K.W. was belaying me. If you have a strong belayer like K.W. he can do much more than simply make sure that you don't fall, he can actually pull you up the climb by keeping the rope very tight and using strength and body weight to get you up.
On this day, I had been instructing a climb. I think it was the summer of 1995 when I didn't really work at summit but pretended I did. I think we were pretty flush with staff so a guy named Beaver and I spent most of our time at the top of the climb. It was very easy work. Once the scouts finished the climb, we took them off of the belay ropes and switched them to a rappell set up. The scouts were usually most nervous to step over the ledge, but once they committed they learned that the rope would hold them and had a blast rappelling. It was a ratio of 10 minutes of singing Irish Drinking songs with Beaver - he was particularly into singing "The Wild Colonial Boy" and 30 seconds of work. Unlike the bottom of the climb though, there was no shade. We didn't get very many scorchers in the Daks, but every so often you would get a good hot day. Once the rock got good and hot it would tend to increase the effective temperature too.
After the group was done, we divided up the climbing gear and headed back down to the rock house, about a 10-15 minute hike. Beaver and I ended up in the Rock House. The living room was nothing more than a collection of old chairs and sofas, bits of wood screwed into the wall to practice climbing, an old dartboard that claimed the forehead of the load and a small refrigerator. I cracked open the fridge and there was a fresh sixer of Molson Canadian. Since we were relatively far North, you could get a good selection of Molson and Labbatt and other Canadian beer at the local stores. It looked so inviting with the condensation forming on the neck and dripping down to the label. The only problem was that this beer belonged to the Quacker.
We called him the quacker because he had kind of a weird voice and when he talked, particularly if he got excited or mad, he tended to sound like a duck. Most of us kind of viewed whatever we put in the fridge as community property, but the Quacker definitely did not. His name was on the box, but Beaver and I couldn't resist. The first two went down so quick and smooth we barely noticed we had emptied them. We had planned to just have one each, but it seemed like we had cheated ourselves out of enjoying those first two. The next two, we enjoyed like gentlemen. As we got down to the last third of a bottle or so, it became clear that we would still be thirsty. The last two beers seemed so lonely too. Sort of like that last bit of orange juice or milk in a container, you hate to leave it. At least that is how Beaver and I rationalized it. Just like that, the entire sixer was gone. The box remained, still clearly labeled. So we did the only responsible thing. We carefully filled each bottle up with water from the sink in the bathroom. We were lucky the bottles were twist off - because they became twist on. We dutifully replaced each bottle and all seemed to be OK.
Later that evening, a bunch of us were sitting around and I believe we had purchased some new beer at that time. The Quacker wanted to drink his beer though. As he reached in the fridge, Beaver and I tried not to laugh. It was pretty clear that there was a problem. Usually when you twist off the cap there is a satisfying hiss of carbon dioxide escaping and a little vapor trail. This time there was nothing. Quacker was probably 95% sure he had been hoodwinked, but when he tipped it back there was no doubt. He smiled at first, thinking that someone had helped themselves to one of his beers. The smile quickly faded as he opened each successive beer. By the last two, he was livid and Beaver and I were bursting on the inside. If he hadn't been so angry, we probably would have told him. Instead, we told him that it was probably a bear. This only made him angrier. Of course it only made it funnier for us. You've probably seen a mother duck quacking and flapping its wings like crazy if you accidentally get too close to its young - if you think of a human making the same sounds and flapping his arms - you are pretty close to being there!
For whatever reason, I never lived in the Voyageur Cabin, even though it was supposed to be where Voyageurs lived. Over the different summers I either lived at the Rock House (RIP), the new staff tents, the back of the summit office, the Howie Hut - a building that was falling down and hadn't been lived in for many years prior, nor was it occupied again after I left and one summer spent most of my nights on the summit of Mt. Stevens.
This story takes place in the Rock House. It was a hot day, and I had just come down from the cliffs where we instructed scouts on rock climbing. It was on these cliffs that I first observed the awesomeness that was K.W. It was when I was attending camp as a Scout and our troop had signed up to go to these very same cliffs for a climbing introduction. K.W. was one of our instructors. After he had showed us how to put on the necessary gear and tie the right knots he showed us the route we would climb. I think he was wearing flip flops at the time. He made it look so easy, he just put his feet on the wall, put his hands on the wall and looked like he was climbing a ladder. Armed with a pair of climbing shoes I was beginning to think this would be a joke. Then it was my turn. What had seemed to be ladder now seemed like a sheet of glass with small nubbins. Essentially I fell up the climb because K.W. was belaying me. If you have a strong belayer like K.W. he can do much more than simply make sure that you don't fall, he can actually pull you up the climb by keeping the rope very tight and using strength and body weight to get you up.
On this day, I had been instructing a climb. I think it was the summer of 1995 when I didn't really work at summit but pretended I did. I think we were pretty flush with staff so a guy named Beaver and I spent most of our time at the top of the climb. It was very easy work. Once the scouts finished the climb, we took them off of the belay ropes and switched them to a rappell set up. The scouts were usually most nervous to step over the ledge, but once they committed they learned that the rope would hold them and had a blast rappelling. It was a ratio of 10 minutes of singing Irish Drinking songs with Beaver - he was particularly into singing "The Wild Colonial Boy" and 30 seconds of work. Unlike the bottom of the climb though, there was no shade. We didn't get very many scorchers in the Daks, but every so often you would get a good hot day. Once the rock got good and hot it would tend to increase the effective temperature too.
After the group was done, we divided up the climbing gear and headed back down to the rock house, about a 10-15 minute hike. Beaver and I ended up in the Rock House. The living room was nothing more than a collection of old chairs and sofas, bits of wood screwed into the wall to practice climbing, an old dartboard that claimed the forehead of the load and a small refrigerator. I cracked open the fridge and there was a fresh sixer of Molson Canadian. Since we were relatively far North, you could get a good selection of Molson and Labbatt and other Canadian beer at the local stores. It looked so inviting with the condensation forming on the neck and dripping down to the label. The only problem was that this beer belonged to the Quacker.
We called him the quacker because he had kind of a weird voice and when he talked, particularly if he got excited or mad, he tended to sound like a duck. Most of us kind of viewed whatever we put in the fridge as community property, but the Quacker definitely did not. His name was on the box, but Beaver and I couldn't resist. The first two went down so quick and smooth we barely noticed we had emptied them. We had planned to just have one each, but it seemed like we had cheated ourselves out of enjoying those first two. The next two, we enjoyed like gentlemen. As we got down to the last third of a bottle or so, it became clear that we would still be thirsty. The last two beers seemed so lonely too. Sort of like that last bit of orange juice or milk in a container, you hate to leave it. At least that is how Beaver and I rationalized it. Just like that, the entire sixer was gone. The box remained, still clearly labeled. So we did the only responsible thing. We carefully filled each bottle up with water from the sink in the bathroom. We were lucky the bottles were twist off - because they became twist on. We dutifully replaced each bottle and all seemed to be OK.
Later that evening, a bunch of us were sitting around and I believe we had purchased some new beer at that time. The Quacker wanted to drink his beer though. As he reached in the fridge, Beaver and I tried not to laugh. It was pretty clear that there was a problem. Usually when you twist off the cap there is a satisfying hiss of carbon dioxide escaping and a little vapor trail. This time there was nothing. Quacker was probably 95% sure he had been hoodwinked, but when he tipped it back there was no doubt. He smiled at first, thinking that someone had helped themselves to one of his beers. The smile quickly faded as he opened each successive beer. By the last two, he was livid and Beaver and I were bursting on the inside. If he hadn't been so angry, we probably would have told him. Instead, we told him that it was probably a bear. This only made him angrier. Of course it only made it funnier for us. You've probably seen a mother duck quacking and flapping its wings like crazy if you accidentally get too close to its young - if you think of a human making the same sounds and flapping his arms - you are pretty close to being there!
Building a Mystery
During college, I worked for a couple of professors that had been building an airplane. It was not a kit, they had detailed blueprints but were responsible for obtaining all the materials. It was a pretty fun experience. One was a professor of Mechanical Engineering, but the guy who was financing the whole thing was a remarkable guy named Claes Lundgren. Dr. Lundgren was a professor in the medical school and focused his research on how humans react in extreme environments. He is one of the leading researchers in free hold breath diving, diving to extreme depths, often several hundred to even thousands of feet, with no supplemental oxygen. He also invented nicorrete gum, so he was not hurting for coin. He had a few other interesting quirks, first he had a pretty heavy swedish accent and also suffered from Alapecia. So he was sort of the brilliant hairless version of the Swedish Chef. Even though we all worked for him for free, he was very demanding and critical, but not in a mean way. It was just that he held himself to a very high standard and expected the same from us. He often remarked, quite seriously, that he had wanted to be an engineer, but didn't consider himself smart enough. So he had to settle for being a world reknowned doctor and millionaire.
Dr. Lundgren was a perfectionist. He worked constantly on this aircraft and it should have taken him about a year to complete it. When I joined the project he was on year 14. You could see the shell of an aircraft taking shape, but there was far far more to be done.
One example of the perfectionist nature was something as simple as the method of joining the two cowling sections together on the engine. The cowling is the part of the aircraft that surrounds the engie. The cowling usually resembles two nearly symmetrical semi circles. The top half is joined to the bottom half usually by way of a hinge one each side. You can remove the pin that runs the length of the hinge on either side to access the engine for maintenance. Or you can remove both pins and access the entire engine. Dr. Lundgren was not happy with using a store bought hinge, even though this was the recommended course of action. Rather, he decided that he was going to design his own hinge and fashion it out of carbon fiber and kevlar. This was going to look pretty awesome because the cowling itself was constructed of kevlar and carbon fiber, so the hinge would look like it was built in. However, the plans did not call for this, so there was no official design. Had we followed the plans, this probably would have taken a day or two, but it ended up taking months. First, there were long discussions about the best way to do this. Then, once we settled on a method, we talked about the best way to refine this method. Even though Dr. Lundgren would likely never have another opportunity to build a carbon fiber hinge, he wanted to make sure he came up with the most efficient method of doing it. This would have made sense if we were in the carbon fiber hinge business. It was all part of his magic though.
Lunches were always a fun affair. We worked out of a hangar at Niagra Falls airport. It was a pretty sleepy airport, with hardly any passenger traffic. It had the capacity to handle very large aircraft though because it was used by the Air National Guard and some of their larger cargo aircraft. In the winter, it was pretty drafty, but still comfortable enough with the heaters going. In the summer, Dr. Lundgren would often open the large hangar doors and you would sit and watch the planes go by. I should have mentioned, this was not Dr. Lundgren's first plane. He already owned a two-seater aerobatic aircraft that was parked in the hangar as well. It was quite a fun experience to shoot the breeze under the wing of one aircraft and watch aircraft roll by.
Even though Dr. Lundgren didn't pay us, per se, he made it up in other ways. He would sometimes offer to buy us lunch or take us out to dinner. Even more fun, sometimes as we were finishing lunch, he would walk around the table dropping a twenty dollar bill in front of each of us, making it rain as they say. But, what we all looked forward to the most is when he would get ready to take his aircraft out and would ask if we would like to accompany him.
His aircraft was pretty small, just a two seater. The pilot sat in front and the copilot/passenger immediately behind. Because he would fly aerobatics, you were required to wear a parachute. A couple interesting things about that: 1) As discussed above, Dr. Lundgren was an extremely thorough person, so you would have thought there would have been an extremely long and detailed brief about how to use the parachute. There wasn’t. You were simply instructed on how to put it on and that there was a rip cord. That was it. There was incredibly detailed instruction on how to get in the aircraft. It was the same level of instruction that you get when playing twister, exactly where to put your left hand, your right foot, how to turn your body in order to get in the seat. To a degree, this made sense, aircraft are fragile and it was a bit awkward to get in the back seat. Perhaps this is why the parachute discussion was so abbreviated, if you did need to get out of the aircraft it was going to be extremely difficult based on how hard it was to get in.
I went on a handful of flights, and they were all awesome. It would have been fun just to be up there, but the real fun started when Dr. Lundgren would radio in and ask the air traffic controllers for a clearance to do some “airwork”. We would then do rolls, loops, stalls and spins. When I was getting my private pilot license several years later, we were taught that spins were incredibly dangerous things and you learned how to avoid them. I can tell you, they are unnerving.
In a spin, one of the wings of the aircraft is stalled, not developing lift. The other wing is still developing lift and so, as the name implies, you spin, but you are also descending very fast. Experienced pilots will intentionally put an aircraft into a spin if they need to drop through a small hole in the clouds or just want to show off. Prior to initiating a spin, Dr. Lundgren would tell you over the radio that we were going to do a spin and that we would do three revolutions. Then he would kick the wing over hard and push opposite rudder to make the aircraft spin. You felt the aircraft drop from below you and you were pushed against the side as the aircraft banked hard. To me, it seemed like we spun around 30 times and we were moments away from hitting the ground. Then, in a very calm Swedish voice you would hear “that’s one” and what seemed like 30 spins and 5 minutes later “that’s two” and so on. All the other maneuvers, I had a general idea of where the aircraft was positioned and so on, but the spins were a different beast.
Interestingly enough, the Navy funded most of Dr. Lundgren’s research. But the Navy is a big organization and our paths never crossed again. Those times in the hangar, getting yelled at, lunch time money drops and the flights will always stand out in my mind.
Dr. Lundgren was a perfectionist. He worked constantly on this aircraft and it should have taken him about a year to complete it. When I joined the project he was on year 14. You could see the shell of an aircraft taking shape, but there was far far more to be done.
One example of the perfectionist nature was something as simple as the method of joining the two cowling sections together on the engine. The cowling is the part of the aircraft that surrounds the engie. The cowling usually resembles two nearly symmetrical semi circles. The top half is joined to the bottom half usually by way of a hinge one each side. You can remove the pin that runs the length of the hinge on either side to access the engine for maintenance. Or you can remove both pins and access the entire engine. Dr. Lundgren was not happy with using a store bought hinge, even though this was the recommended course of action. Rather, he decided that he was going to design his own hinge and fashion it out of carbon fiber and kevlar. This was going to look pretty awesome because the cowling itself was constructed of kevlar and carbon fiber, so the hinge would look like it was built in. However, the plans did not call for this, so there was no official design. Had we followed the plans, this probably would have taken a day or two, but it ended up taking months. First, there were long discussions about the best way to do this. Then, once we settled on a method, we talked about the best way to refine this method. Even though Dr. Lundgren would likely never have another opportunity to build a carbon fiber hinge, he wanted to make sure he came up with the most efficient method of doing it. This would have made sense if we were in the carbon fiber hinge business. It was all part of his magic though.
Lunches were always a fun affair. We worked out of a hangar at Niagra Falls airport. It was a pretty sleepy airport, with hardly any passenger traffic. It had the capacity to handle very large aircraft though because it was used by the Air National Guard and some of their larger cargo aircraft. In the winter, it was pretty drafty, but still comfortable enough with the heaters going. In the summer, Dr. Lundgren would often open the large hangar doors and you would sit and watch the planes go by. I should have mentioned, this was not Dr. Lundgren's first plane. He already owned a two-seater aerobatic aircraft that was parked in the hangar as well. It was quite a fun experience to shoot the breeze under the wing of one aircraft and watch aircraft roll by.
Even though Dr. Lundgren didn't pay us, per se, he made it up in other ways. He would sometimes offer to buy us lunch or take us out to dinner. Even more fun, sometimes as we were finishing lunch, he would walk around the table dropping a twenty dollar bill in front of each of us, making it rain as they say. But, what we all looked forward to the most is when he would get ready to take his aircraft out and would ask if we would like to accompany him.
His aircraft was pretty small, just a two seater. The pilot sat in front and the copilot/passenger immediately behind. Because he would fly aerobatics, you were required to wear a parachute. A couple interesting things about that: 1) As discussed above, Dr. Lundgren was an extremely thorough person, so you would have thought there would have been an extremely long and detailed brief about how to use the parachute. There wasn’t. You were simply instructed on how to put it on and that there was a rip cord. That was it. There was incredibly detailed instruction on how to get in the aircraft. It was the same level of instruction that you get when playing twister, exactly where to put your left hand, your right foot, how to turn your body in order to get in the seat. To a degree, this made sense, aircraft are fragile and it was a bit awkward to get in the back seat. Perhaps this is why the parachute discussion was so abbreviated, if you did need to get out of the aircraft it was going to be extremely difficult based on how hard it was to get in.
I went on a handful of flights, and they were all awesome. It would have been fun just to be up there, but the real fun started when Dr. Lundgren would radio in and ask the air traffic controllers for a clearance to do some “airwork”. We would then do rolls, loops, stalls and spins. When I was getting my private pilot license several years later, we were taught that spins were incredibly dangerous things and you learned how to avoid them. I can tell you, they are unnerving.
In a spin, one of the wings of the aircraft is stalled, not developing lift. The other wing is still developing lift and so, as the name implies, you spin, but you are also descending very fast. Experienced pilots will intentionally put an aircraft into a spin if they need to drop through a small hole in the clouds or just want to show off. Prior to initiating a spin, Dr. Lundgren would tell you over the radio that we were going to do a spin and that we would do three revolutions. Then he would kick the wing over hard and push opposite rudder to make the aircraft spin. You felt the aircraft drop from below you and you were pushed against the side as the aircraft banked hard. To me, it seemed like we spun around 30 times and we were moments away from hitting the ground. Then, in a very calm Swedish voice you would hear “that’s one” and what seemed like 30 spins and 5 minutes later “that’s two” and so on. All the other maneuvers, I had a general idea of where the aircraft was positioned and so on, but the spins were a different beast.
Interestingly enough, the Navy funded most of Dr. Lundgren’s research. But the Navy is a big organization and our paths never crossed again. Those times in the hangar, getting yelled at, lunch time money drops and the flights will always stand out in my mind.
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