Rogue scout troop goes camping

Starting about the time I was 12, I belonged to a “rogue scout troop.”

Of course, back in the day I didn’t know my troop was a rogue troop, but over the years it became clear I was in a group where the adult leaders’ drinking whiskey and beer and getting away from their wives for the weekend was their priority, not by-the-book scoutin’.

The names are all changed and I’m not going to be exact about the name of the scoutin’ organization.

About once a month our troop would go on camping or backpacking trips into the mountainous national forest. Sometimes we’d go to the place the troop owned called “Scout Camp,” in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The camp had a three-sided lodge made of old railroad ties, a running stream, a drinkin’ spring and a freshly dug pond stocked with rainbow trout.

One winter weekend a couple of the older scouts who had driver’s licenses, Larry and Woodrow, took a handful of us boys on a camping trip to Scout Camp.

Saturday dawned crisp and cold. A fire was built, we all whipped up our own breakfasts.

“Ho, HO! Look what I found.” It was Woodrow hollerin’ from back of the lodge.

He came around the corner with a small box marked “FRAGILE” and “DANGER” all over it. He moseyed over to the fire pit.

“I found Scout Chief Pete’s dynamite stash,” Woodrow said.

He opened the box and we all looked inside.

It was the first time I’d ever seen real, live sticks of dynamite … eight of ’em.

“Dang, you need to put that back where you found it,” Larry said.

“You’re such a wimp. This stuff can’t hurt us … no fuses … no blasting caps. C’mon, let’s go have some fun,” Woodrow said as he pulled a stick from the box.

He grabbed his 30-06 from his car trunk and headed down the road toward the fish pond with the stick of dynamite.

Larry put the box of dynamite back under the shelter.

“Come on guys, let’s go see what he’s up to,” he said.

We got to the fish pond and there was Woodrow, standing and grinning.

“I knew y’all couldn’t resist,” he said.

“Where’s the dynamite?” asked Larry.

Woodrow pointed out to the middle of the frozen pond.

There on the ice was the lone stick of dynamite.

Woodrow shouldered his 30-06 and squeezed off a shot.

BLAM!

A hole appeared in the ice about a foot from the dynamite.

“You mean it’ll blow up without a fuse?” asked Ronnie, a younger scout.

“A flyin’ bullet meets a stick of dynamite … KABOOM!” Woodrow said.

Ronnie took a shot and missed.

Woody offered the rifle to Larry.

“You sure you don’t want to take a shot, Larry?”

The two older scouts stared at each other.

Quick as a flash Larry grabbed the rifle, aimed and squeezed off a shot.

KABOOM!

A huge plume of water shot skyward.

Ronnie fell backward on his rear-end.

Woodrow started laughing.

Larry stared out to the center of the pond at the big hole, maybe 20 feet across, and the motionless fish starting to float to the surface.

That was the last time our troop went camping without adult scout chiefs.

Grant McGee writes for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him:

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