I wish I could write more about some of the cases I encounter working as a JAG. There are usually some pretty entertaining tid-bits. But I can't. So I won't. I do have a little legal saga of my own going on though.
Yesterday morning, I was on my way to work, and had made it almost all the way. I was probably about 100 yeards from the gate. The last part of the drive involves merging from one road onto another one, that is pretty busy. The guy in front of me starts to go. I assume he will complete the act and merge. I was wrong. He hits the brakes. I cannot react quite fast enough and I end up hitting him. No joke, I was probably doing 2 mph.
It was pretty routine, there was almost no damage to either vehicle. No dents, no scrapes. There was a bit of white stuff showing on his bumper, but that was it. We exchanged information, realized that we both worked on base and had the same insurer. I considered the matter to be just an annoyance.
About 4 hours later, this guy, who is a civilian that works on base gives me a call letting me know that he apparently suffered whiplash and had to get an MRI and a CAT Scan done. He further provided that his boss was recommending that he get a police report to document the event. Alarm bells immediately started going off. When we exchanged information, he was totally fine. He was moving his head around just fine like a damned horned owl. But now, a few hours later, when our cars had gently kissed at a speed similar to that of a glacier, he had gotten whiplash. If this guy could get whiplash from this impact he could die of blood loss from a papercut.
I agreed to meet him at the police station after work. We met in the parking lot and he is now wearing a neckbrace and has someone else driving him. We walk into the police station together and one of the sergeants on duty asks what is going on. He explains that there was a car accident this morning and that we wanted to file a police report. Interesting that he used the word "we" there. I had no desire to file a police report. The officer takes a look at him and asks why we didn't call the police at the time. I explain that it should be clear once he sees the vehicles.
So we head out to the parking lot. In the rain. The officer takes one look and asks where the damage is. He points to his bumper, but because of the rain, there is even less to see. The officer wipes the bumper with his hand and now there is almost nothing. The officer explains that we did the right thing exchanging information and there would have been no point in calling the police. Still, this guy insists that he needs a report for his work. The officer explains that he cannot simply issue a report for the hell of it and there needs to be at least $500 worth of damage for him to issue a report.
At this point, it is raining even harder, but this guy won't drop the issue. Instead of just walking away, the officer then launches into a spiel about how insurance works and that he does not recommend making a claim because it is likely that our insurers will raise our rates and drop us. I found this kind of interesting because he just decided to give us this little speech and I am pretty sure he was in no way qualified to give this advice. However, I just nod along because it is always good to let someone think their unsolicited incorrect advice is very valuable. Also, I wanted to get out of the rain. Once he finished with Auto Insurance 101, the officer bid us adieu and we went out separate ways.
I did call my insurer to let them know about this. One, because I don't like scammers in general. Two, because we are covered by the same insurer I don't want my insurance to have to pay out anything unnecessary. So this morning one of the insurance adjustors calls me to do a recorded interview about what happened. It was all uneventful until the end when he asks me "Are the Questions and Answers you provided true and accurate in the recording" I didn't intend to be difficult, but I told him that I hadn't had a chance to review the recording so I couldn't state whether it was accurate or not. He then rephrased and asked me in the Questions and Answers were accurate and true. I then told him that I couldn't comment on whether the questions were true or not because I didn't write them. Further, I didn't believe that there was such a thing as true or false question. I then started to go on a tangent that a question isn't really something that is accurate or not. I told him that I thought the questions were straightforward and not ambiguous. I wasn't trying to annoy the guy, but I probably did. Finally, he just asked, "is everything you said true?" Of course, I had to answer, "you mean in the recording?" and finally we were done.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Monday, May 26, 2014
Perspective
I've only met my wife's dad, Hung, a couple of times. He is quiet, friendly and generous. From outward appearances, you would never guess the hell that he has been through.
He had grown up relatively prosperous in North Vietnam. Unfortunately all that changed with the Vietnam war. He was the oldest of 8 children. His sister was killed by the communist bombs while attending a New Years party in North Vietnam in 1965. It was the death of his sister and a desire to protect his country that motivated him to abandon his university life. Not content to merely join, he volunteered for the Ranger branch where he was sure to see real action. Although he was the first in his family to join, he was not the last. His younger brothers served as Artillery Officers, helicopter pilots, platoon leaders.
Those who have done extraordinary things, almost universally, tend to down play their actions. The way Hung tells it, he was a company commander, and he fought in the war. The truth is, he fought in the bloodiest and costliest battles. He was wounded, he fought on. He lived in the jungle, caught malaria and fought on. He was able to get brief respites from the battles and would see his wife and children from time to time. He couldn't have known at the time how long it would be before he saw them again.
When Saigon fell, his brother, the helicopter pilot was able to rescue Hung's family, including my wife. My wife doesn't remember all the details. What she does remember is incredible. She was only about 8 years old at the time, but remembers running for the helicopter. Because of the gunfire, the helicopter had to make several attempts. On one attempt, she and her brother had managed to grab the skids, but only the skids and they were hanging on with their upper bodies. She looked down, her mother and younger sisters had not made it to the helicopter. So they let go. Eventually, they all made it onto the helicopter, to the USS Midway, and ultimately to the United States as refugees.
Hung's journey would be much longer. While his family was starting a new life in the U.S., he would spend the next nine years as a prisoner of war. The North Vietnamese called them reeducation camps, but that was a name only. Nine years, working in mine fields, clearing jungles, digging wells, building barracks. They were given almost no clothing and nowhere near enough food. Those who complained, were beaten, sometimes to death. The hunger was so extreme that whatever they could catch, they would eat raw. It was his desire to reunite with his family that fueled him.
After nine years - he was finally released. More than anything, he wanted to come to America. There was no helicopter to take him to a US Navy ship though. He had to slip out under the cover of darkness in a crude homemade boat. With only a simple map and compass, the boat made its way 800 miles over the open ocean to a Malaysian oil rig. Still the journey was not over.
He would spend the next several years moving from one refugee camp to another first in Malaysia and then the Philippines. He did not complain. He taught other refugees English. He taught the children Vietnamese.
Finally, 11 years later, he made it to the U.S.A. and got to see his children again. When he had last seen them they were so young, one hadn't even been born yet. Now they were teenagers and young adults. Even though so much time had passed and he had missed so much, he focused only on the good things.
When I saw him at one of my wife's cousin's weddings, I had read his story. He had created a photo album of his incredible journey. He didn't want to forget the past, but he certainly did not want to relive it either. So we talked about the happier things in life and not about the torture and despair he had experienced. At the wedding, he was smiling, and so happy to see his children again.
I don't know if he celebrates Memorial Day. He should. He is the type of person that epitomizes what this day is about.
He had grown up relatively prosperous in North Vietnam. Unfortunately all that changed with the Vietnam war. He was the oldest of 8 children. His sister was killed by the communist bombs while attending a New Years party in North Vietnam in 1965. It was the death of his sister and a desire to protect his country that motivated him to abandon his university life. Not content to merely join, he volunteered for the Ranger branch where he was sure to see real action. Although he was the first in his family to join, he was not the last. His younger brothers served as Artillery Officers, helicopter pilots, platoon leaders.
Those who have done extraordinary things, almost universally, tend to down play their actions. The way Hung tells it, he was a company commander, and he fought in the war. The truth is, he fought in the bloodiest and costliest battles. He was wounded, he fought on. He lived in the jungle, caught malaria and fought on. He was able to get brief respites from the battles and would see his wife and children from time to time. He couldn't have known at the time how long it would be before he saw them again.
When Saigon fell, his brother, the helicopter pilot was able to rescue Hung's family, including my wife. My wife doesn't remember all the details. What she does remember is incredible. She was only about 8 years old at the time, but remembers running for the helicopter. Because of the gunfire, the helicopter had to make several attempts. On one attempt, she and her brother had managed to grab the skids, but only the skids and they were hanging on with their upper bodies. She looked down, her mother and younger sisters had not made it to the helicopter. So they let go. Eventually, they all made it onto the helicopter, to the USS Midway, and ultimately to the United States as refugees.
Hung's journey would be much longer. While his family was starting a new life in the U.S., he would spend the next nine years as a prisoner of war. The North Vietnamese called them reeducation camps, but that was a name only. Nine years, working in mine fields, clearing jungles, digging wells, building barracks. They were given almost no clothing and nowhere near enough food. Those who complained, were beaten, sometimes to death. The hunger was so extreme that whatever they could catch, they would eat raw. It was his desire to reunite with his family that fueled him.
After nine years - he was finally released. More than anything, he wanted to come to America. There was no helicopter to take him to a US Navy ship though. He had to slip out under the cover of darkness in a crude homemade boat. With only a simple map and compass, the boat made its way 800 miles over the open ocean to a Malaysian oil rig. Still the journey was not over.
He would spend the next several years moving from one refugee camp to another first in Malaysia and then the Philippines. He did not complain. He taught other refugees English. He taught the children Vietnamese.
Finally, 11 years later, he made it to the U.S.A. and got to see his children again. When he had last seen them they were so young, one hadn't even been born yet. Now they were teenagers and young adults. Even though so much time had passed and he had missed so much, he focused only on the good things.
When I saw him at one of my wife's cousin's weddings, I had read his story. He had created a photo album of his incredible journey. He didn't want to forget the past, but he certainly did not want to relive it either. So we talked about the happier things in life and not about the torture and despair he had experienced. At the wedding, he was smiling, and so happy to see his children again.
I don't know if he celebrates Memorial Day. He should. He is the type of person that epitomizes what this day is about.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Treks - Blue Mountain to Forked
I think of all the treks we did, this was the one I did the most. I don't know why so many troops signed up for this one, but for whatever reason, they did.
Unlike the load, who got to start off his career with a backpacking trip, I started off with this little gem. I am being too harsh, it is actually extremely beautiful and I greatly enjoyed it the first few times. In the end, I think I may have done it close to 10 times though.
The start is in the town of Blue Mountain. Blue Mountain is home to the adirondack museum. If you ever get the chance to visit, I highly recommend it. It is a great museum in its own right. Coupled with the beautiful location, it is a great way to pass an afternoon or even an entire day.
It would be cool if the first part of the trek began at the museum, but it doesn't. Like most canoe treks, it begins at a boat launch. Anytime you get a group of people together doing something new, it is wonderfully inefficient. It seems to take an eternity to get the canoe trailer unloaded and everyon in their canoes. When I first started guiding, I would pick the smallest person as my partner so as to keep the pace comfortable. If there happened to be an odd number of participants, one canoe would have 3 people. Most of the time, the 3 person canoe was the fastest or close to it. As time went on, I preferred to canoe by myself. All this meant was that there would be a 3 person canoe with an even number of participants.
Blue Mountain Lake is a very forgiving lake to learn how to canoe on. It is not particularly big, so there is little wind. The first day is extremely pleasant. If I remember correctly you pass from Blue Mountain Lake to Eagle Lake to Utowana and then into the Marion River. Blue Mountain-Eagle and Utowana are all connected, so there is no carrying involved. Generally, it takes only a few hours to reach the Marion River where the first carry of the week happens.
It is a pleasant enough carry, probably just over 1/2 mile or so. Interestingly, there used to be a narrow gauge railway here, just 1/2 mile long, that would transport the fat cats of wall street in the 1920s or so when the Adirondacks was a premier destination. They even employed people to walk along the train to ensure that the embers from the steam locomotive did not inadvertently cause a forest fire. All that is gone now, but it is fun that you are following the old railroad tracks - even if the tracks aren't there. You then follow along the Marion river, which I always called the Maid Marion River, until you reach Raquette Lake. The campsite for the first day is just inside the Lake, still quite close to the river. Here is where the trek falls apart a bit though.
Raquette Lake is huge, there is something like 125 miles of shoreline. Ken Smith envisioned that scouts would enjoy exploring every knook and cranny that this 125 miles offered. I am sure Ken Smith would, and did, do this. The problem was, the campsite for the next day was probably only 4 miles away from the campsite the previous night. Most groups had no interest, at all, in exploring even 100 yards of Lake that they didn't need to. I made the mistake once of not telling the scouts that our campsite was only 4 miles away and leading a trip around the lake in no particular direction. The scouts were furious when they discovered that I had "tricked" them and made them paddle further than needed. They would much rather break camp at 8 am and arrive at the next campsite around 10 am and screw around for the rest of the day. We would do some practice canoe strokes and perhaps even go out with empty canoes and see who could swamp the other person's canoe. But, bottom line, the 2nd day was a very easy day.
The third day involved an excursion to climb West Mountain. To get there, you had to paddle 6-7 miles directly across the lake. On a calm day, this was easy. There were very few calm days. Most of the time you were fighting the wind on either the trip there or the trip back. Occasionally, you got lucky and got to fight the wind both ways. Canoeing against the wind is tough. Even though canoes are not particularly big, there is enough surface area where a good breeze can really push you around. On a calm day, you paddle along and may even talk with your canoe partner or other boats that are nearby. When you stop to rest, you may drift a bit, but you largely stay in the same general location. All bets are off with a good breeze. Even if you wanted to talk, you can't because the wind carries off your voice. Moreover, you are paddling like hell just to make forward progress. In addition to fighting for forward progress you are fighting the wind as it trys to turn your canoe like a weathervane.
Once you reach the trail head for West Mountain, you walk through some swampy bits before you actually start climbing. The black flies in this area are tough. When one of them gets you, it doesn't feel like a sting, it feels more like they have scooped a bit of your flesh up and eaten it. They love biting you on the head too. It gets so maddening that the first instant you feel like one is on your head you nearly brain yourself hitting it with enough force to kill a small bird. You then repeat this process over and over and over. Other than that, it is a good hike. The views are good and it is always fun to get a break from canoeing.
After the climb, you return to the campsite from day 2. It is nice not to have to break camp or set up camp that day.
Day 4 involves leaving the Raquette Lake and heading to Forked Lake. Interestingly you pronounce the "ed" in "Forked" so it is two syllables. There is a carry between the two lakes, again pretty short and easy. Forked Lake is pretty small, so it is not a long day's paddle. There is a nice little diversion that you can take to a good swimming hole.
I have talked about Ken Smith's fondness for very short last days. Nowhere is this more evident than in the last day of this trek. You can easily see the takeout from the campsite the last night, it is probably about 1/4 to 1/2 mile away. In fact, you can see well enough that I would often know that before we even started, that Sarge had once again beaten me to the takeout. So the last "day" was really the last 1/2 hour. I frequently reached the takeout at 8 am or so and would often be back at camp by 10:30 or 11:00.
This was a great beginner trek. During the 90 miler, we paddled more than the entire 5 day trip in the first day. It would have been more fun if we could have had access to a pontoon boat on the 2nd and 3rd day in Raquette Lake. Raquette Lake is for the most part pretty built up and there are some absolutely beautiful lake front places. There isn't that much appeal in checking them out though when canoeing.
I don't have much to add here as the Voyageur has quite well covered it. I'll echo that the ADK Museum is a must not an option in my view. It is simply gorgeous and wonderfully informative. It really adds to the experience of any trip of trek to the 'Daks.
The hike along the old narrow gauge railway is pretty cool. When you reach the end, it's a short paddle to the campsite which is on a point before you enter Racquette Lake proper. The 2nd day you are supposed to canoe the short 4 miles North to your campsite. One year I had a troop from Ken Smith' hometown who insisted on following his itinerary to the 't.' So we canoed south to an inlet called Golden Beach in an area called South Bay. It was a windy overcast day. And when I say beach, I mean a shore line with a little more sand than most forested shorelines. We battled winds to get there, huddled in all our clothes and windbreakers to stay warm for a miserable hour and then went on our way.
West Mtn. - awesome. Nice clearing near the top where there was an old fire tower.
The carry to Forked Lake goes across a road with a pay phone - remember them? Every summer for about 5 or 6 in a row, I would call my Mom at work to say hi from the middle of the "wildneress" on this phone. At least two of my summers, I had a group on this trek that passed this phone on July 20, my Dad's birthday. So we would call him up and sing happy birthday.
I don't have any horrible stories about this particular trek; however one time I was on the trek at the same time the Weebs was with another group. His group was doing a really cool trek Blue Mtn. to Tupper, which combined most of Blue Mtn. to Forked, with Long Lake to Tupper, via a crazy carry from the NE shore of Racquette into Long Lake. Anyway, on the 2nd night it was pretty early and my group was winding down, so I hopped into my canoe and paddled over to the island where Webelo's group was camping. It was a beautiful, starlit, warm, calm night and I thought it might be fun to shoot the breeze with a friend while paddling around Racquette. While my group was milling around a campfire, talking and laughing, his site was dead. So being ignorant of any possible issues, I called out his name until I heard a response, "What!?" from inside a tent. I told him it was me and he basically said to go away. I found out later he was already having a tough time with his group and hating the trek and he was sharing a tent with a particularly annoying father, whom he didn't want to annoy further. So my late night paddle around the river
Unlike the load, who got to start off his career with a backpacking trip, I started off with this little gem. I am being too harsh, it is actually extremely beautiful and I greatly enjoyed it the first few times. In the end, I think I may have done it close to 10 times though.
The start is in the town of Blue Mountain. Blue Mountain is home to the adirondack museum. If you ever get the chance to visit, I highly recommend it. It is a great museum in its own right. Coupled with the beautiful location, it is a great way to pass an afternoon or even an entire day.
It would be cool if the first part of the trek began at the museum, but it doesn't. Like most canoe treks, it begins at a boat launch. Anytime you get a group of people together doing something new, it is wonderfully inefficient. It seems to take an eternity to get the canoe trailer unloaded and everyon in their canoes. When I first started guiding, I would pick the smallest person as my partner so as to keep the pace comfortable. If there happened to be an odd number of participants, one canoe would have 3 people. Most of the time, the 3 person canoe was the fastest or close to it. As time went on, I preferred to canoe by myself. All this meant was that there would be a 3 person canoe with an even number of participants.
Blue Mountain Lake is a very forgiving lake to learn how to canoe on. It is not particularly big, so there is little wind. The first day is extremely pleasant. If I remember correctly you pass from Blue Mountain Lake to Eagle Lake to Utowana and then into the Marion River. Blue Mountain-Eagle and Utowana are all connected, so there is no carrying involved. Generally, it takes only a few hours to reach the Marion River where the first carry of the week happens.
It is a pleasant enough carry, probably just over 1/2 mile or so. Interestingly, there used to be a narrow gauge railway here, just 1/2 mile long, that would transport the fat cats of wall street in the 1920s or so when the Adirondacks was a premier destination. They even employed people to walk along the train to ensure that the embers from the steam locomotive did not inadvertently cause a forest fire. All that is gone now, but it is fun that you are following the old railroad tracks - even if the tracks aren't there. You then follow along the Marion river, which I always called the Maid Marion River, until you reach Raquette Lake. The campsite for the first day is just inside the Lake, still quite close to the river. Here is where the trek falls apart a bit though.
Raquette Lake is huge, there is something like 125 miles of shoreline. Ken Smith envisioned that scouts would enjoy exploring every knook and cranny that this 125 miles offered. I am sure Ken Smith would, and did, do this. The problem was, the campsite for the next day was probably only 4 miles away from the campsite the previous night. Most groups had no interest, at all, in exploring even 100 yards of Lake that they didn't need to. I made the mistake once of not telling the scouts that our campsite was only 4 miles away and leading a trip around the lake in no particular direction. The scouts were furious when they discovered that I had "tricked" them and made them paddle further than needed. They would much rather break camp at 8 am and arrive at the next campsite around 10 am and screw around for the rest of the day. We would do some practice canoe strokes and perhaps even go out with empty canoes and see who could swamp the other person's canoe. But, bottom line, the 2nd day was a very easy day.
The third day involved an excursion to climb West Mountain. To get there, you had to paddle 6-7 miles directly across the lake. On a calm day, this was easy. There were very few calm days. Most of the time you were fighting the wind on either the trip there or the trip back. Occasionally, you got lucky and got to fight the wind both ways. Canoeing against the wind is tough. Even though canoes are not particularly big, there is enough surface area where a good breeze can really push you around. On a calm day, you paddle along and may even talk with your canoe partner or other boats that are nearby. When you stop to rest, you may drift a bit, but you largely stay in the same general location. All bets are off with a good breeze. Even if you wanted to talk, you can't because the wind carries off your voice. Moreover, you are paddling like hell just to make forward progress. In addition to fighting for forward progress you are fighting the wind as it trys to turn your canoe like a weathervane.
Once you reach the trail head for West Mountain, you walk through some swampy bits before you actually start climbing. The black flies in this area are tough. When one of them gets you, it doesn't feel like a sting, it feels more like they have scooped a bit of your flesh up and eaten it. They love biting you on the head too. It gets so maddening that the first instant you feel like one is on your head you nearly brain yourself hitting it with enough force to kill a small bird. You then repeat this process over and over and over. Other than that, it is a good hike. The views are good and it is always fun to get a break from canoeing.
After the climb, you return to the campsite from day 2. It is nice not to have to break camp or set up camp that day.
Day 4 involves leaving the Raquette Lake and heading to Forked Lake. Interestingly you pronounce the "ed" in "Forked" so it is two syllables. There is a carry between the two lakes, again pretty short and easy. Forked Lake is pretty small, so it is not a long day's paddle. There is a nice little diversion that you can take to a good swimming hole.
I have talked about Ken Smith's fondness for very short last days. Nowhere is this more evident than in the last day of this trek. You can easily see the takeout from the campsite the last night, it is probably about 1/4 to 1/2 mile away. In fact, you can see well enough that I would often know that before we even started, that Sarge had once again beaten me to the takeout. So the last "day" was really the last 1/2 hour. I frequently reached the takeout at 8 am or so and would often be back at camp by 10:30 or 11:00.
This was a great beginner trek. During the 90 miler, we paddled more than the entire 5 day trip in the first day. It would have been more fun if we could have had access to a pontoon boat on the 2nd and 3rd day in Raquette Lake. Raquette Lake is for the most part pretty built up and there are some absolutely beautiful lake front places. There isn't that much appeal in checking them out though when canoeing.
I don't have much to add here as the Voyageur has quite well covered it. I'll echo that the ADK Museum is a must not an option in my view. It is simply gorgeous and wonderfully informative. It really adds to the experience of any trip of trek to the 'Daks.
The hike along the old narrow gauge railway is pretty cool. When you reach the end, it's a short paddle to the campsite which is on a point before you enter Racquette Lake proper. The 2nd day you are supposed to canoe the short 4 miles North to your campsite. One year I had a troop from Ken Smith' hometown who insisted on following his itinerary to the 't.' So we canoed south to an inlet called Golden Beach in an area called South Bay. It was a windy overcast day. And when I say beach, I mean a shore line with a little more sand than most forested shorelines. We battled winds to get there, huddled in all our clothes and windbreakers to stay warm for a miserable hour and then went on our way.
West Mtn. - awesome. Nice clearing near the top where there was an old fire tower.
The carry to Forked Lake goes across a road with a pay phone - remember them? Every summer for about 5 or 6 in a row, I would call my Mom at work to say hi from the middle of the "wildneress" on this phone. At least two of my summers, I had a group on this trek that passed this phone on July 20, my Dad's birthday. So we would call him up and sing happy birthday.
I don't have any horrible stories about this particular trek; however one time I was on the trek at the same time the Weebs was with another group. His group was doing a really cool trek Blue Mtn. to Tupper, which combined most of Blue Mtn. to Forked, with Long Lake to Tupper, via a crazy carry from the NE shore of Racquette into Long Lake. Anyway, on the 2nd night it was pretty early and my group was winding down, so I hopped into my canoe and paddled over to the island where Webelo's group was camping. It was a beautiful, starlit, warm, calm night and I thought it might be fun to shoot the breeze with a friend while paddling around Racquette. While my group was milling around a campfire, talking and laughing, his site was dead. So being ignorant of any possible issues, I called out his name until I heard a response, "What!?" from inside a tent. I told him it was me and he basically said to go away. I found out later he was already having a tough time with his group and hating the trek and he was sharing a tent with a particularly annoying father, whom he didn't want to annoy further. So my late night paddle around the river
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Impressionable
I was and am a big fan of the comedy sketch show kids in the hall. They did a lot of absurd sketches that appealed to my sense of humor. One of my favorites was about a blue collar dock worker that gets counseled about his use of the word "ascertain". Apparently he was using it at least two to three hundred times a day. It is absurd, but that is what made it funny. Anyway, at the conclusion of the sketch, his boss tells him that he is glad they were able to "delineate" the problem. Of course, he then fixated on the word delineate.
For whatever reason, I decided that I would incorporate that word into my lexicon one summer and tried to use delineate as often as possible, with little regard for whether it actually fit into the context. Many times I subsituted the word "delineate" for the word "solve". So, often, when presented with a task, my response was that we would delineate it, and after finishing the task I would declare it delineated. The thing was, no-one, with perhaps the exception of the load called me on it. Maybe they just thought I was mildly retarded or didn't know what the word meant themselves.
When used correctly, it was often purely by coincidence. There are a number of times where the word delineate is appropriate. For whatever reason, a lot of times those types of situations do not present themselves at a boy scout camp.
The other, among many, weird quirks I had was that I had been listening to the song "The Freshman" by the Verve Pipe a lot. It was a pretty popular song, and the chorus featured a line "I can't be held responsible, she was touching her face." I dropped the "she was touching he face" part, but really enjoyed telling people either that "I couldn't be held responsible", or a variation that "they can't be held responsible". This one, I did get called on a few times. For instance, I would often claim that I couldn't be held responsible for things that no one would expect to hold me responsible for. For instance, if there was particularly bad weather and someone made a passing remark about it, my immediate response was to say something like "I can't be held responsible, but we will delineate the issue." Conversely, I would declare that I couldn't be held responsible for things that I absolutely could.
Interestingly, people still continued to talk to me. I think they sort of viewed like an old man entering the early stages of dementia.
However, there was one occasion where it did not fly over too well. I think it was the summer of 1997 or perhaps 1998, but we had a reservation director who was a bit of an odd guy. The reservation director was the top dog, basically everyone answered to one of three camp directors and the camp directors answered to the reservation director. I don't think Ranger Bob answered to anyone, but that was OK because he was Ranger Bob.
Most people sort of worked there way up to the Camp Director job, but not always. Sometimes someone would show up for only one summer and be the Camp Director. We had a few guys who held the reservation director job for several years running, but occasionally there was a gap. And indeed, during this summer there was a gap and there was a guy named Vince who was the reservation director.
Now unlike a couple of my very close friends, Weebs and the Load, I never worked as Summit Director. I will let Load comment on his summer as a camp director, (and perhaps his few weeks of directing a whole other camp) but I think it is a pretty thankless job. Reservation director, I imagine, is even worse. You are responsible for the entire reservation and you have a pretty immature ever changing work force that really wants to have a lot of fun. But, we have had some great reservation directors, the Hammer and T.H. T.H. incidentally was the person that hired me for my very first summer way back in 1992 as a Counselor in Training.
Vince was not a very good reservation director. He had a habit of focusing on minute details and losing the big picture. I wish i could remember this part of the story better, but it is hazy. Anyway, Vince was up at Summit telling us that we had to change the way we did something. It was a stupid suggestion because he really didn't understand the way Summit worked. Anyway, he was very serious. After he finished talking, I of course relied on my old standby and said to him "You can't be held responsible." Everyone who was in on the joke sort of chuckled. Vince was not in on the joke and naturally took my words at face value. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he could and would "be held responsible".
I know this story doesn't have much of a point. Perhaps it was another part of what I really loved about camp. I have never been in a workplace since, and likely very few exist, where it is largely permissible to simply talk in gibberish and non-sequitars.
Also, since this doesn't really warrant a post of its own, I'll throw out this other bizzare tradition that took off at camp. When we were not out on trek, we ate most of our meals in the dining hall at Camp Buckskin. It was nice not to have to cook, but it was very crowded and loud. The standing rule is that staff members were supposed to mix with the various scout troops and one or two staff members would sit with 8 or so scouts. Summit played by a different set of rules though, we almost exclusively formed our own table of all staff members. Then, because of our antics, we were often banished to the porch outside the dining hall. The funny thing was that the porch was by far the nicest place to eat. You were outside, dining alfresco, you didn't have to participate in the bizzare songs and chants that would crop up during the meals. So it was the best kind of banishment.
I think it started innocently enough with someone grabbing a cookie off someone else's tray and eating it. The sort of thing that would get you shanked at prison, but was just a good laugh. But of course it progressed. It got to the point where you would just walk up to someone, grab a hamburger or a piece of pizza off their tray and take a bite and calmly put it back on their tray. The Weebs took it even further. On at least one occasion, he went up to the reservation director, the Hammer, took a bite of I think his french toast and put it back on the tray. Hammer wasn't sitting at our table and noone dared Weebs to do it. He just decided that he would walk up to the Hammer's table, reach down, take a bite, and move on. Hammer, unlike Vince, didn't sweat the small stuff. He didn't say anything. I think he simply cut around the bit where the Weebs had taken a bite and continued with his meal.
For whatever reason, I decided that I would incorporate that word into my lexicon one summer and tried to use delineate as often as possible, with little regard for whether it actually fit into the context. Many times I subsituted the word "delineate" for the word "solve". So, often, when presented with a task, my response was that we would delineate it, and after finishing the task I would declare it delineated. The thing was, no-one, with perhaps the exception of the load called me on it. Maybe they just thought I was mildly retarded or didn't know what the word meant themselves.
When used correctly, it was often purely by coincidence. There are a number of times where the word delineate is appropriate. For whatever reason, a lot of times those types of situations do not present themselves at a boy scout camp.
The other, among many, weird quirks I had was that I had been listening to the song "The Freshman" by the Verve Pipe a lot. It was a pretty popular song, and the chorus featured a line "I can't be held responsible, she was touching her face." I dropped the "she was touching he face" part, but really enjoyed telling people either that "I couldn't be held responsible", or a variation that "they can't be held responsible". This one, I did get called on a few times. For instance, I would often claim that I couldn't be held responsible for things that no one would expect to hold me responsible for. For instance, if there was particularly bad weather and someone made a passing remark about it, my immediate response was to say something like "I can't be held responsible, but we will delineate the issue." Conversely, I would declare that I couldn't be held responsible for things that I absolutely could.
Interestingly, people still continued to talk to me. I think they sort of viewed like an old man entering the early stages of dementia.
However, there was one occasion where it did not fly over too well. I think it was the summer of 1997 or perhaps 1998, but we had a reservation director who was a bit of an odd guy. The reservation director was the top dog, basically everyone answered to one of three camp directors and the camp directors answered to the reservation director. I don't think Ranger Bob answered to anyone, but that was OK because he was Ranger Bob.
Most people sort of worked there way up to the Camp Director job, but not always. Sometimes someone would show up for only one summer and be the Camp Director. We had a few guys who held the reservation director job for several years running, but occasionally there was a gap. And indeed, during this summer there was a gap and there was a guy named Vince who was the reservation director.
Now unlike a couple of my very close friends, Weebs and the Load, I never worked as Summit Director. I will let Load comment on his summer as a camp director, (and perhaps his few weeks of directing a whole other camp) but I think it is a pretty thankless job. Reservation director, I imagine, is even worse. You are responsible for the entire reservation and you have a pretty immature ever changing work force that really wants to have a lot of fun. But, we have had some great reservation directors, the Hammer and T.H. T.H. incidentally was the person that hired me for my very first summer way back in 1992 as a Counselor in Training.
Vince was not a very good reservation director. He had a habit of focusing on minute details and losing the big picture. I wish i could remember this part of the story better, but it is hazy. Anyway, Vince was up at Summit telling us that we had to change the way we did something. It was a stupid suggestion because he really didn't understand the way Summit worked. Anyway, he was very serious. After he finished talking, I of course relied on my old standby and said to him "You can't be held responsible." Everyone who was in on the joke sort of chuckled. Vince was not in on the joke and naturally took my words at face value. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he could and would "be held responsible".
I know this story doesn't have much of a point. Perhaps it was another part of what I really loved about camp. I have never been in a workplace since, and likely very few exist, where it is largely permissible to simply talk in gibberish and non-sequitars.
Also, since this doesn't really warrant a post of its own, I'll throw out this other bizzare tradition that took off at camp. When we were not out on trek, we ate most of our meals in the dining hall at Camp Buckskin. It was nice not to have to cook, but it was very crowded and loud. The standing rule is that staff members were supposed to mix with the various scout troops and one or two staff members would sit with 8 or so scouts. Summit played by a different set of rules though, we almost exclusively formed our own table of all staff members. Then, because of our antics, we were often banished to the porch outside the dining hall. The funny thing was that the porch was by far the nicest place to eat. You were outside, dining alfresco, you didn't have to participate in the bizzare songs and chants that would crop up during the meals. So it was the best kind of banishment.
I think it started innocently enough with someone grabbing a cookie off someone else's tray and eating it. The sort of thing that would get you shanked at prison, but was just a good laugh. But of course it progressed. It got to the point where you would just walk up to someone, grab a hamburger or a piece of pizza off their tray and take a bite and calmly put it back on their tray. The Weebs took it even further. On at least one occasion, he went up to the reservation director, the Hammer, took a bite of I think his french toast and put it back on the tray. Hammer wasn't sitting at our table and noone dared Weebs to do it. He just decided that he would walk up to the Hammer's table, reach down, take a bite, and move on. Hammer, unlike Vince, didn't sweat the small stuff. He didn't say anything. I think he simply cut around the bit where the Weebs had taken a bite and continued with his meal.
John ____________ Mill
There is a chain of convenience stores that exists only in the upper parts of NYS and apparently parts of Vermont called Stewarts.
It is like a 7-11, but better. In addition to serving the typical convenience store fare, they have an ice cream section. A real ice cream station where someone scoops the ice cream for you. Also, you can get shakes, bannana splits and the like. The reason it is better than 7-11, is that the quality is universally better. If you get a hot dog from 7-11 it will typically have a stale bun, the toppings station will look like a bunch of 3 year olds ransacked it etc. If you get a hot dog from Stewarts, the bun will be fresh, the topping station will be immaculate and you will get a kind smile from the person behind the counter. Also, unlike a 7-11, you can have a seat in Stewarts and enjoy your tasty treats. Even though it is not a particularly big chain, they produce a bunch of their own brands. They have their own soda, cakes, ice cream etc. For a little while they sold soda in 1.5 liter glass bottles. To encourage recycling, they gave you 25 cents back for each bottle. One guy I worked with swore that if you bought enough you simply had to make money. I tried to explain to him that each bottle cost something like $1.25, and you only got a quarter back for each bottle. He tried to convince me that I was missing the big picture. He went on that if you are talking hundreds of thousands of bottles you could get a ton of money back. Not the brightest guy in the world.
Load here. Okay, ice cream, store brand root-beer, cheap cheap beer, chewing tobacco, porn, camping knick-knacks, deli style sandwiches, gas and malteds. Want to change your chocolate milkshake (which was already yummy and cheap) into a malted? 50 cents extra and you get the thickest, sweetest, maltiest shake ever. Simply sublime.
The Stewart's near camp got a lot of activity. It was the closest gas station, unless you count the camp gas pump, and also sold beer. Additionally they had a very old school ATM. I have never seen another like it, but you put in your necessary information and then it spits out a receipt that you take to the counter and then the cashier gives you your money. It was more of an electronic middleman than a bona fide ATM. However, you still had to pay a fee to use it.
Over the course of a summer you would likely visit Stewarts a half dozen times or so. One particular trip I remember quite well.
The load was driving. The load, more than anyone else I know, really supported the 4-6 cylinder late 80s american car market. I think at the time he had a Buick Regal. It was an interesting vehicle. It burned about a quart of oil every other fill-up, so essentially it was a 2-stroke engine. The trunk was enormous, but the cylinder that holds it open had gone bad so the load had a trusty ski pole that he used to keep it open. At some point, I think the heat went, but that was not a problem in the summer. Being the generous man that he was/is, the load was always up for a good trip to Stewarts and would lend his car. On this particular trip, we had 6 or 7 people in the car. It was pretty good and loaded (pun) down.
Very early into the journey it became apparent that the muffler was loose and dragging along the road. The Weebs and someone else did a bang-up job patching it back together with only twine and baling wire. It was particularly impressive because the muffler was quite hot at this time too. We made it to Stewart's, probably a 12 mile drive, without any further incident. Once at Stewart's we all partook in some yummy treats. I am not sure if we headed back to camp after that or went somewhere else. While at Stewarts, the load had availed himself to their sampling of pornography. Specifically, Penthouse Letters. This is a collection of erotic letters sent in by the public. Each one starts out with some mundane fact pattern and quickly morphs into a tale worthy of Caligula. A young lady that had accompanied us, far from being offended, was actually very excited about this reading material. She proceeded to read various tales aloud to us on the ride home. Somewhat bizzare, but memorable nonetheless! I think we had to interrupt it to make another muffler repair though. All in all, another solid visit to Stewarts!
I remember the muffler issue and the porn recital as two separate incidents! Funny how memory plays. I do recall one year arriving up at Stewarts late on a Friday night in early June. I went in, bought some beer and snacks, got in the car, turned around in the parking lot and drove over one of those asphalt bumps at the edge of the parking lot that are sometimes used in place of concrete stops or metal barriers. My car had bottomed out. Had to call Ranger Bob. He came, he pulled me out with his truck. I was mortified. Good times!
It is like a 7-11, but better. In addition to serving the typical convenience store fare, they have an ice cream section. A real ice cream station where someone scoops the ice cream for you. Also, you can get shakes, bannana splits and the like. The reason it is better than 7-11, is that the quality is universally better. If you get a hot dog from 7-11 it will typically have a stale bun, the toppings station will look like a bunch of 3 year olds ransacked it etc. If you get a hot dog from Stewarts, the bun will be fresh, the topping station will be immaculate and you will get a kind smile from the person behind the counter. Also, unlike a 7-11, you can have a seat in Stewarts and enjoy your tasty treats. Even though it is not a particularly big chain, they produce a bunch of their own brands. They have their own soda, cakes, ice cream etc. For a little while they sold soda in 1.5 liter glass bottles. To encourage recycling, they gave you 25 cents back for each bottle. One guy I worked with swore that if you bought enough you simply had to make money. I tried to explain to him that each bottle cost something like $1.25, and you only got a quarter back for each bottle. He tried to convince me that I was missing the big picture. He went on that if you are talking hundreds of thousands of bottles you could get a ton of money back. Not the brightest guy in the world.
Load here. Okay, ice cream, store brand root-beer, cheap cheap beer, chewing tobacco, porn, camping knick-knacks, deli style sandwiches, gas and malteds. Want to change your chocolate milkshake (which was already yummy and cheap) into a malted? 50 cents extra and you get the thickest, sweetest, maltiest shake ever. Simply sublime.
The Stewart's near camp got a lot of activity. It was the closest gas station, unless you count the camp gas pump, and also sold beer. Additionally they had a very old school ATM. I have never seen another like it, but you put in your necessary information and then it spits out a receipt that you take to the counter and then the cashier gives you your money. It was more of an electronic middleman than a bona fide ATM. However, you still had to pay a fee to use it.
Over the course of a summer you would likely visit Stewarts a half dozen times or so. One particular trip I remember quite well.
The load was driving. The load, more than anyone else I know, really supported the 4-6 cylinder late 80s american car market. I think at the time he had a Buick Regal. It was an interesting vehicle. It burned about a quart of oil every other fill-up, so essentially it was a 2-stroke engine. The trunk was enormous, but the cylinder that holds it open had gone bad so the load had a trusty ski pole that he used to keep it open. At some point, I think the heat went, but that was not a problem in the summer. Being the generous man that he was/is, the load was always up for a good trip to Stewarts and would lend his car. On this particular trip, we had 6 or 7 people in the car. It was pretty good and loaded (pun) down.
Very early into the journey it became apparent that the muffler was loose and dragging along the road. The Weebs and someone else did a bang-up job patching it back together with only twine and baling wire. It was particularly impressive because the muffler was quite hot at this time too. We made it to Stewart's, probably a 12 mile drive, without any further incident. Once at Stewart's we all partook in some yummy treats. I am not sure if we headed back to camp after that or went somewhere else. While at Stewarts, the load had availed himself to their sampling of pornography. Specifically, Penthouse Letters. This is a collection of erotic letters sent in by the public. Each one starts out with some mundane fact pattern and quickly morphs into a tale worthy of Caligula. A young lady that had accompanied us, far from being offended, was actually very excited about this reading material. She proceeded to read various tales aloud to us on the ride home. Somewhat bizzare, but memorable nonetheless! I think we had to interrupt it to make another muffler repair though. All in all, another solid visit to Stewarts!
I remember the muffler issue and the porn recital as two separate incidents! Funny how memory plays. I do recall one year arriving up at Stewarts late on a Friday night in early June. I went in, bought some beer and snacks, got in the car, turned around in the parking lot and drove over one of those asphalt bumps at the edge of the parking lot that are sometimes used in place of concrete stops or metal barriers. My car had bottomed out. Had to call Ranger Bob. He came, he pulled me out with his truck. I was mortified. Good times!
Treks - NLP Northern Section
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| The authors of this blog have two master's degrees, a law degree, and teaching certificates in Social Studies and Robotics - yet this picture will remain sideway cuz I can't figure it out - Load. |
I chose this trek to be my first write up as it was the first trek I did and my absolute favorite.
My first year ('93) I couldn't head out my first two weeks because I didn't have the lifeguard certification and we were light on treks anyway, so Toph took the first two out, while BJ and I hung out with the Summit Staff. This is where the "Summit doesn't work" phrase/put-down came from. There were more of us on Summit staff than we had groups signed up for our COPE course, our rock climbing or our zip-line. So we all had time off during the day - we weren't shy about advertising this to the other staff. Of course this situation didn't last, but the rep did. :)
My first trek was troop 28 Croton-on-Hudson, and that is as rich a town as it sounds. There were five people, Bill Ayers and his son Little Bill (just turned 13 at the time), a 16 year old, and another father and son.
Our camp does two (actually three, but one's just an extension) trips on the NLP. The Northville-Lake Placid trail is a trail that was actually used when the railroad only went as far as Northville and people wanted to get to Lake Placid. At least that's what they guidebook says. As such it avoids high points like mountains and sticks close to water sources most of the way which makes it quite popular. The drop-off for this trek is almost at the northern most point, just shy of Lake Placid proper. If you're ever in this neck of the woods, the drop-off is really close to the Olympic training facility where you can luge or bobsled and right around the corner is John Brown's farm which is a very cool place to visit if you're into history and your wife is not with you begging to leave before you're done. :)
That first day we got dropped off and started hiking, up, not a lot of up, but some hills and upward movement. The other father and his son were having trouble, lots of it. After a mile or two there lots of references to old hockey injuries and the such. This happens, often, but it was my first trek and there were no injuries so other than soldier on, I didn't know what to do. We made it past Wanika Falls, which is a really pretty place and on to Moose Pond lean-to. Bill was a ridiculously avid fisherman and he tried to fish Moose Pond, but unfortunately, like a lot of smaller ADK lakes/ponds, it was dead. The other interesting thing that happened is the hockey injury family decided to turn back. I had no idea what to do, as my training had only stressed to keep the group together, but I was a day into my first trek ever and 3/5 of my group wanted to leave. So I gave them some food, first aid supplies and a quarter (that's how you made phone calls back then) and sent them backwards. Luckily the other trek from my camp was also doing NLP so there were Scouts and a guide camped at Wanika Falls - who I found out later were kinda pissed at having two extra people show up that night. Can't really blame them, but didn't have much choice. The rest of the trip was really cool.
We moved quickly covering quite a bit of mileage. I think that second night we went to Duck Hole Pond Lean-To, which is a beautiful place. A nice bridge over a dammed pond, a swimming area, a family of snakes living under a bridge, a pretty clearing, it was a great place and since we had come so far the first night we arrived here early. Lots of swimming and relaxing in the sun that day!
Next was my favorite day on any trek. Most of the trek this day is a hike along the Cold River. Which is aptly named. Around lunch time, you pass Miller's Falls, which was cool because that is my name. Miller's Falls is an amazing swimming hole. There are rocks to jump off, pools to swim in, and small little rushing water falls to try and swim against or climb over. There are so many ways to break safety rules at this one spot. One summer, when I was here with a trek group there was a group from a nearby college on an orientation trip. This meant lots of 18-24 year old females in swim suits. We lingered a bit longer even though we had finished lunch.
You usually end that third night at Shattuck Clearing which is a nice clearing with a close by sandy beach on the Cold River. We stopped here on my first trek as well. What's great about this day though is at about lunch time you pass by Noah John Rondeau's hermitage. He was one of those characters who's taken on mythical proportions in Adirondack lore, but if you read his biography, it seems like he was quite the character. He lived along the Cold river, in a hut he had built. Living off the land, trapping, hunting, fishing. Playing his violin with deers gathered around. Writing an un-deciphered (undecipherable?) code in his journal - some people think it might have been gibberish with no actual code. He toured the states later in his life as a curiosity in a show touting the Adirondacks, and they even built a replica of his hermitage in that show. It's always a good place for lunch time and stories.
From Shattuck Clearing you head towards Long Lake and hike down its eastern shore. This is a boring day as it's a usually muddy trail without a lot of scenery. But you do get to swim in Long Lake and there's an number of campsites to choose from.
The next day is a very short hike to the end of Long Lake where route 28N crosses it and then it's a short drive to ice cream and then home.
I've had some memorable trips on the northern section of the NLP, but that first one was the best. Bill and his bought me a copy of the NLP guidebook and signed it as a thank you gift. That was my first trek and though we often got tips on most (75%) after that, I hadn't been expecting anything at all. Later, during the off-season, I met Bill in NYC and he took me out for a very expensive sushi dinner where we took out Adirondack maps and planned the trek his troop would do the next summer. He showed up a day early with his boat that next summer and took me water skiing with his son and his son's friend on Brant Lake. Things like that made for memorable times.
One less than memorable time involved a troop from Rye, NY. They had signed up for the 50 miler, which was basically the above trip with 14 miles tacked on. Not that difficult if you add a few miles each day and actually hike a long length that last day as opposed to just a few miles to the pick up.
Now I'm in my 40s and not in the shape I once was, so I'm sympathetic to the fathers who signed up to go on these treks. But if you're a totally out of shape smoker with no backpacking experience, don't sign up for the 50 miler! And this particular group was full of rude and obnoxious scouts who had a really awful problem with outspoken homophobia.
It was as early as the second morning when I heard the two fathers talking in their tents about how they didn't think they were going to make it. I thought that was entirely too early to give up so I started something that became a ritual for me later on. I got everybody up and we hiked 4 miles quickly in the rain and then stopped for breakfast. It was still only about 9 am and we had gotten a good jump on the day's mileage. Though this worked in all other cases, on this particular trip it had little effect. The group continued to complain and spout their racist homophobic lame jokes. The heavy smoker kept falling behind and by the third day started in on the "I'm never gonna make it, when is this day going to end?!" routine. I was getting fed up.
By the fourth day we were camped on Long Lake, but towards the north end, which means we would have a looooong last day. The group was fed up and not having it and I was done with them. This is literally the only group in 8 years of guiding that I couldn't stand. So that afternoon I hiked to the end of the regular 36 mile trek, hitch-hiked to Stewarts, made a phone call to camp, asked for the regular pick up the next morning instead of the 50 miler pick up and bought some soda and chips. So by Thurs. I had finished the trek. Then I hiked back to our camp and as I passed some of the Scouts with the bag of chips one of them said, "Great, give me some." My answer was a curt, "Fuck you." Then I walked away and ate the chips in a lean-to.
Rock on!
Monday, May 19, 2014
Like a Gentleman
There was always something being built at camp. Most of it, relatively simple wooden structures. One initiative that Camp took on was to put a lean-to in every site. The idea was that you could store the cots there in the winter and during the summer the adult leaders had a slightly nicer structure to sleep in.
I participated in a few of these lean-to builds, some more successful than others. One that I thought was going to be very successful was with a guy we'll call Mike, because that is his name. Mike was an adult volunteer. He was also a contractor, so I thought I would learn a lot from him. It was me, Mike and the Weebs.
This was one of those gray rainy days in the adirondacks. It didn't rain the whole day, but it rained more often than it didn't and the sun never came out. Even when it wasn't raining it felt damp. It was probably upper 60s or lower 70s, but it felt colder with the moisture and the rain.
We were working in one of the campsites with a lot of tree cover. So on top of the rain, it was also pretty dark in that site, even in the middle of the day. Nevertheless, Weebs and I had high hopes. However, we found out that we were not going to start building right away. First, Mike wanted us to rig a tarp and then make a makeshift floor out of plywood. He told us that we were going to "Work like gentlemen", a phrase I have stolen and use quite often to this day. We were not going to be treated like gentlemen though. We didn't have a ladder and even in the best of conditions, rigging a tarp can be tricky. While there are a lot of trees, they are almost never in the exact position that you need them. There are either too many in a given location or too few. Weebs and I persevered and got the tarp up. It wasn't beautiful, but it was a good effort. Mike disagreed, told us that it looked like shit and that he thought we were just goofing off.
At this point in my life, I was pretty rash in my decision making. I decided that Mike was an asshole and that there was nothing he could do to change my mind. I also vowed to employ a passive aggressive style of communication. For instance, anytime he would ask me to do something, I would pretend not to hear him. That, or he would ask for a hammer and I would hand him something totally different, like a sandwich!
It only got crazier as the day went on. At one point he started singing this song that was literally just a bunch of profanity woven together. Not creatively. It was like "Tourrette's - The Musical". Maybe he was trying to show us that he could cut loose, but it was just pathetic. Like a guy who is way too excited to be at his high school reunion and wants to relive the glory days.
At one point, we finished some sort of milestone, something like getting all the walls up. I remarked that we were making good progress. I was being genuine at the time, no sarcasm. He then launched into a tirade about me being a "yes man". He must have said it 3 or 4 times. I don't know what set him off, but I certainly wasn't being a yes man. In fact, I hadn't even been asked a question or said the word "yes". Regardless, we soldiered on.
I think the highlight - or lowlight of the entire event was when we went down for dinner. For whatever reason, he skipped dinner but asked us to bring some coffee up. We had a small generator on site to run the compressor that powered the air tools. I showed up with a coffee pot, plugged it in and brewed him a whole damn pot of coffee!
I participated in a few of these lean-to builds, some more successful than others. One that I thought was going to be very successful was with a guy we'll call Mike, because that is his name. Mike was an adult volunteer. He was also a contractor, so I thought I would learn a lot from him. It was me, Mike and the Weebs.
This was one of those gray rainy days in the adirondacks. It didn't rain the whole day, but it rained more often than it didn't and the sun never came out. Even when it wasn't raining it felt damp. It was probably upper 60s or lower 70s, but it felt colder with the moisture and the rain.
We were working in one of the campsites with a lot of tree cover. So on top of the rain, it was also pretty dark in that site, even in the middle of the day. Nevertheless, Weebs and I had high hopes. However, we found out that we were not going to start building right away. First, Mike wanted us to rig a tarp and then make a makeshift floor out of plywood. He told us that we were going to "Work like gentlemen", a phrase I have stolen and use quite often to this day. We were not going to be treated like gentlemen though. We didn't have a ladder and even in the best of conditions, rigging a tarp can be tricky. While there are a lot of trees, they are almost never in the exact position that you need them. There are either too many in a given location or too few. Weebs and I persevered and got the tarp up. It wasn't beautiful, but it was a good effort. Mike disagreed, told us that it looked like shit and that he thought we were just goofing off.
At this point in my life, I was pretty rash in my decision making. I decided that Mike was an asshole and that there was nothing he could do to change my mind. I also vowed to employ a passive aggressive style of communication. For instance, anytime he would ask me to do something, I would pretend not to hear him. That, or he would ask for a hammer and I would hand him something totally different, like a sandwich!
It only got crazier as the day went on. At one point he started singing this song that was literally just a bunch of profanity woven together. Not creatively. It was like "Tourrette's - The Musical". Maybe he was trying to show us that he could cut loose, but it was just pathetic. Like a guy who is way too excited to be at his high school reunion and wants to relive the glory days.
At one point, we finished some sort of milestone, something like getting all the walls up. I remarked that we were making good progress. I was being genuine at the time, no sarcasm. He then launched into a tirade about me being a "yes man". He must have said it 3 or 4 times. I don't know what set him off, but I certainly wasn't being a yes man. In fact, I hadn't even been asked a question or said the word "yes". Regardless, we soldiered on.
I think the highlight - or lowlight of the entire event was when we went down for dinner. For whatever reason, he skipped dinner but asked us to bring some coffee up. We had a small generator on site to run the compressor that powered the air tools. I showed up with a coffee pot, plugged it in and brewed him a whole damn pot of coffee!
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