Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and cinnamon rolls heated in bacon grease—that was our scoutmaster’s specialty and we loved it. Breakfast was my favorite meal of the day anyway and still is. After we cleaned up the utensils, we had a couple of hours to straighten up the campsite and loaf around before the mountain hike. I do not remember just where we camped but it was near Mena, Ark. I remember that because I mispronounced the name of the town as “men-ah” instead of “mee-nah” and got laughed at.
When Timmy, the youngest scout on the trip, got his gear all squared away, he ambled down to the lake. We could see him from the camp. At first, he skipped rocks. Then he waded. Then he was hollering for help. Johnny, who was the scout closest to the lake at the time, shot like lightning down to the water, jumped in fully clothed and pulled the sputtering Timmy out. He got a badge for that one and much adulation from Timmy’s family. By the next year, Timmy was a strong swimmer.
“Timmy, do you feel like going on the hike now? You don’t have to,” the scoutmaster said. “Sure, I’m fine. Let’s hike!” he replied. So, we took off on a very long and steep climb up the mountain. When we got about a mile up, a man who called himself the mountain man was on the descent. One look at his energetic blue eyes with little bitty pupils told me he had mental issues. His first utterance was, “You boys look out for bumble jackets. They’s a bunch of bumble jackets up here in this mountain. You don’t want to get stung by no bumble jacket.” The scoutmaster called for a break and we sat cross-legged on the edge of the road. The mountain man had an audience. He held forth about a painter cat. “How do you spell that?” the scoutmaster wanted to know. “P-a-n-t-h-e-r,” he replied. Then he said there was a bigfoot about, though he spent most of his time over on the Kiamichis in Okla. When he got tired of lying to his gullible audience, the mountain man ambled on, calling back over his shoulder, “You boys watch out for them bumble jackets.”
We did not see a single bumble jacket but Johnny found a suspicious footprint—huge with gnarled toes. It was an old print, so we assumed bigfoot was in the next state over. I guess the old fellow meant yellowjacket or bumblebee. Or, maybe he imagined a hybrid buzzing about the mountains. As to the bigfoot, I now know what I did not know then--that he lives around Fouke, Ark.
I would not take a pretty for my boy scout experiences. They were fun but—how do I say this?—too supervised. I preferred the camping trips my friends and I experienced without adult interference. My friends and I even found an old abandoned house back in the woods that had a still-functioning fireplace. We made ourselves believe the former occupants still lurked around the corners and we could hear them faintly conversing late at night. Johnny swore he heard a voice say, “We got company, Mable.”