Being Sasquatch

     This past weekend I had the opportunity to volunteer at Frost Valley YMCA. This camp is a haven for the nature enthusiast encompassing more than 6000 acres in the middle of the Catskill Mountains Preserve. I spent seven years employed at this camp leading outdoor education programs, facilitating team building groups, and coordinating countless family camps. Needless to say I was very excited at the prospect of returning to my camp roots and working alongside instructors introducing flatlanders to the natural world. While I was on trail current instructors were given trainings from fellow alumni, learning from their expertise in order to bolster their lessons. 

     Schedule in hand, I learned I was to be on the Sasquatch hunt! This is a program I developed a few years prior in order to get children excited about nature. At the time of inception, Finding Bigfoot was a popular TV program with many of our young campers. The concept was simple: One instructor leads a group on a hike looking for Bigfoot while a second hid out of sight playing the part of Sasquatch answering the "whooping" calls of the group. It was wildly popular and grew in complexity. Wooden cutouts were made to make footprints in the snow and mud for the campers to find. A costume was purchased so campers could catch a glimpse of the wooly beast in the distance. The tall tales and stories improved with each hunt and campers returned year after year excited to finally find the Squatch. However, the intent remained. This program, whether the campers realized it or not, forced them to use their senses. Their eyes remained peeled and inspected the earth for signs, prints, and the perfect Squatchy shelter. Their ears attentive to the sounds around them. Was that the beast throwing rocks? Did I just hear him banging trees or rocks? Was THAT his angry call? They were engaged with their natural surroundings!

     This cave was to be my perch, my shelter. We often lead hikes to this place better known as The Bear Cave. It was even slept in by Bear Grylls and Zac Efron during the filming of an episode of Running Wild with Bear Grylls, a show I also had the pleasure of working on during my time in this valley. Today though, this was the home of Gigantopithecus! I hiked up to the entrance of the cave mouth and surveyed my surroundings. Wildcat Mountain could be seen to my Southeast. This Mountain has the longest continuous ridge line in the Catskill Mountains. An old logging road could be seen below. This is where my prey would be looking for their target. I found some rocks of hefty size to smash and throw. I located a large branch to whack against a nearby birch tree. With a plan in place I donned the costume and waited patiently for the campers to arrive. Birds were chirping in the distance, the wind was blowing gently rustling the remaining browned leaves of nearby Beech trees, and the Sun's rays kissed the mouth of the cave bringing the first bit of springs warmth to the long frigid valley.

     "WHOOP!!!" The instructor below called out into the forest. They were here and I was on. I made a terrible racket whilst answering call with my own loud, ferocious whoop. He called again and I answered. The woods went quiet for a moment then I noticed the group just below me about a hundred yards away. At this point I screamed in my human voice "AAAAGHHHH SOMEONE HELP ME!!! AAAAGGGGHHHHH" I cut of the last scream with the loud cracking of a rock against the cave. Then I gave another loud WHOOP while banging my large branch against the tree. I could hear a camper below, "Someone screamed!" The group below gathered together and all gave their best Squatch call in unison. This was my cue to go berserk. I stood in the cave opening throwing rocks, banging the branch, and giving my loudest whoops in triplet. The three whoops together were a sure sign that the Sasquatch above was threatened by the intruders in his territory. The campers quickly departed the area and headed back to main camp. There they could relax while enjoying hot cocoa or partake in a lively game of dodgeball safely away from the angered Bigfoot.

     Now it is important to understand that this could be quite traumatizing to younger campers. A complete and thorough debrief is essential for campers to understand that this may not be real, they were never in danger, and that camp is a safe place for everyone. This can lead to great conversations about healthy versus negative risks, listening to our instincts when in compromising situations, and also about respecting wildlife and their habitat. How many camps have haunted houses or tel scary stories? It is how we process these events that separate us, as camp professionals, from the more commercial themed attractions. Processing is the transference of knowledge through the art of guided reflection. This transference of knowledge is essential in educating our campers. Without processing we really are just playing games and leaving the true meaning of camp to float away like a leaf in the breeze.

     I enjoyed very much my time volunteering at my former camp. Meeting fellow alumni, sharing stories with current staff, and influencing campers was nothing less than a pleasure. I will always look fondly at the education my time at camp has provided me and I hope to continue to give back for many years to come. Luckily camp is a career for me, one I have worked hard to achieve. I will continue to help my previous camps as much as I can. Without them, my current camp wouldn't benefit from everything I have learned in my career.

It's Fishing, Not Catching

     Today I went to my local reservoir for a bit of trout fishing. The season started April 1st and I had yet to wet a line. I was quite excited and spent the entire workday fighting daydreams of the fresh air, wooded solitude, and the lunker I was sure to catch. As soon as the day ended I was out of the office faster than a squirrel running from a diving hawk. I readied my rod, checked my tackle, and stuffed my pockets with the necessary paperwork the great state of New York requires one to carry whilst enjoying his God given right to pluck a meal from the water.

     The body of water I chose as my destination today was my angling nemesis, The Rondout Reservoir. I fished this water many times last year and landed not a single trout. I have caught bass from here so I know there are indeed fish lurking below. This water is part of the New York City water supply system. These reservoirs are highly regulated, the big city wouldn't want their water supply tainted now would they. After all, this land was justifiably and fairly taken from upstate citizens to quench the thirst of an ever growing city below through eminent domain. The big city tells me what size boat I must use and where I must park it. Once the boat is put in at the reservoir (a DEP officer must oversee this) it may not be removed unless the owner would like to wait for another appointment for a cleaning and parking job. You may only propel the boat through human powered mean such as oars and rowing. Motors, even electric, are not permitted. Thanks to all of this I choose to fish this area from shore. Thus those deep trout are even harder to target.

     Attached to my line was a brand new, shiny silver and blue Krokodile lure. Surely this was the tool to change my luck. As I eased my way down the hill from the parking area above a new calm crept over me. Upon hearing the soft lapping of wind swept water against the smooth rocks lining the shore a smile crept over my face. At this moment I realized the red tape of the DEP did not matter. I understood the stresses of work were insignificant. I relished the solitude, breathed a sigh of relief, and cast my first line of the season. Finally the hobby and obsession I love had returned to me. For the next several months I will indeed walk many shoreline miles, cast many lures, and enjoy many sunsets.

     I reeled this lure slowly to give just the right action. I imagined the faux fish swimming below. I could see it moving just as a real bait fish might. I worked it through different depths. I varied the speed sometimes stopping it only to immediately begin the retrieve again. I did this many times as I walked along the shoreline covered in smooth sun bleached rocks. Each time I was sure my expert lure manipulation would land my prey.

     The sun began to set and I started the walk back to the parking area. I was without a trout but it did not matter. It's fishing, not catching. Besides, this was the best day to go fishing I could ever imagine. Truly, any day fishing is the best day for it. Along the way I noticed my surroundings more and more. Surely spring is on the way. The trees were starting to bud, the geese and ducks have returned, and a few insects of flight could be seen overhead. Up ahead just off the trail I spotted something rather unusual. Perched atop some long forgotten, washed up plywood was the skull of a young spike buck. I examined this decomposed skull for a bit and made my way home. Even better than the fish waiting for me below were two women waiting for me at home. My wife, young daughter, and a crock pot of pork and sauerkraut greeted me upon arrival.  This was a good day.

The New Canoe

     Three days ago my wife and I carried our three week old child to several outdoor stores intent on purchasing a canoe. For many months I browsed countless websites and craigslist constantly searching for the perfect boat. Would I get a jon boat, a row boat, or perhaps even a slick bass boat? I pined over many set ups and thought constantly of being on the water fishing for the record setting bass.  I wanted a vessel  that I could enjoy both with my family and by myself. I needed to get on many different types of water. The boat must be able to handle flat and moving water. It should be able to get me across big water and into tiny pockets at the end of narrow canals.
    
     Then I thought to days not too long ago. For several summers I led a wilderness tripping program in Maine and white water canoe trips were a large component of my program. I remembered gliding effortlessly between the rips hearing nothing but the water lapping against the side of the green canoe. I recalled prying with all of my might, back paddling, and j-stroking to get the perfect line entering a class III rapid. A smile crept upon my face as I thought of passing by a grazing moose, floating under a circling eagle, and beaching on a remote bank to eat wild strawberries amongst a wilderness undisturbed by my presence.

     The canoe was my choice. An elegant craft used by many generations and cultures before me, the canoe is a boat that appeals to me. In its purest form it is minimalist perfection. I could take on any water in a canoe. I could find the deepest pockets amongst the thickest lillies holding the largest bass. I could find adventure amongst the ripples and current of a mighty river. I could glide across the water in perfect quiet and solitude. More importantly, I could teach my daughter.

     Not too long from now she will be grown and my time with her limited. The canoe offers an intimate experience, not just with nature but also between the paddlers. She will be my audience and I hers in a little bit of heaven measuring just over fourteen feet.

     I have many plans for my little boat. It will be taken from its minimalist form, butchered and accessorized to meet my needs as an angler. It will no doubt have an electric motor. It will have lights, gadgets, stabilizers, and more. These modifications will not be permanent as I would prefer to strip it down from time to time. There will be few things more precious in my life than time with family in our little canoe. I long for the days when our only distraction is the natural world around us.

     My first time out in the canoe I caught several fish of good eating and legal keeping size. I thought the better of keeping them. Instead, I threw them back in hopes of one day helping my daughter catch them again.