Troop 1

Beginning in 1953 when I was 9, my dad and I would spend a few weeks every summer hiking and climbing in the High Sierras.  A couple of years later we became involved with a Boy Scout Troop in Eagle Rock.  Meetings were held in the basement of the church that still sits on the corner of Maywood Avenue and Colorado Blvd.  We were an official Boy Scout Troop but functioned more as a club for backpackers.  There were always several trips in the planning stages for outings that ranged from a weekend in the desert to 3 weeks hiking the John Muir Trail.  The trips were strictly hiking and climbing with some occasional fishing.  With the longer trips, arrangements were made to have our supplies brought in to the back country by mules to scheduled rendezvous points.

 

Unlike today, except for the John Muir Trail there were no permits required, nor were there restrictions on where you could go, or how long you could stay.  We would often plan trips to places that were not accessible by the established trails.

It wasn't unusual to spend a week without seeing anyone other than our own group.  One such destination was Bench Lake.  There was no trail to it and for the 3 times we stayed there, including a 2-week stay, we had the place to ourselves.  The north end of the lake offered the best place to set up camp.  From the campsite, you looked across the lake to University Peak that towered over everything.  The Peak caught the first light in the morning and the last of it at sunset. 

Each trip to Bench Lake would include climbing University Peak.  It was as challenging to climb as it looked.  In the days prior to the climb we would sit around the campfire and deliberate the pros and cons of taking it on again. 

Climbing any mountain means several hours of drudgery and semi-exhaustion in exchange for getting to the summit and enjoying twenty minutes of relaxation with a great view.  The joy you experience in making the top is always diminished by the knowledge that you soon will have the arduous task of getting back down.  Depending on the mountain and the route you take, coming down can often be more difficult than going up.

Climbing University Peak was a lot like making a dental appointment when there was nothing wrong with your teeth.  At some point during the climb, as with the appointment, you begin asking yourself, "Why in God's name did I do this?"  In addition to continually berating yourself, you never lose sight of your helpless situation.  It is clearly obvious that no helicopter can pluck you off the side of the mountain, nor can someone else carry you back down.  You alone are the only means by which you will ever return to camp.  You become overly fatigued, terrified, cold and on the verge of clinical depression.  Your spirit is broken and eventually not even your sense of dignity and pride prevents you from baring your soul to your climbing companions.  They respond with uncontrollable laughter.

One evening when we were camped at Bench Lake, despite a driving rain, Mr. Brown was serving up a dinner consisting of bread and Dinty Moore Stew.  One of the adults worked for Hormel which had lots of food items that were ideal for backpacking and we were usually pretty well supplied with their products.  Mr. Brown was one of several adults that didn't have a kid in the troop but enjoyed being part of a group that did a lot of backpacking. 

Everyone was trying to cover their bread and stew with their rain gear while they ate.  I had my stew in a tin cup but hadn't taken a bite yet, waiting for it to cool off a little.  Mr. Brown announced, "Anybody for seconds?"  I was 14 at the time and was seriously committed to eating.  There was rarely a chow line without me at the front.  Before Mr. Brown had finished his sentence, I had hurdled the campfire on my way to the kettle of stew.  I established the head of the line and waited for Mr. Brown to remove the lid covering the stew.  Mr. Brown looked at me shaking his head.  Then he noticed that I had stew still in my cup.

Mr. Brown, "Gardiol, you can have more after you finish the first cup".

I stood my ground, lifted the cup and poured the stew into my mouth.  The stew was still too hot for my liking so I was forced to hold it in my mouth without swallowing. 

Mr. Brown, noticed the slice of bread in my hand, "what about the bread?"

I took the slice of bread and shoved it into the front of my mouth.  This actually helped as it kept the hot stew from my lips and served as a temporary dam to hold the stew in place.  Having complied with Mr. Brown's requests, I stuck out my cup for more stew.

Mr. Brown peered down into my cup and said, "You didn't get all of it".

I took back the cup and looked inside.  Mr. Brown was right, there was a spoonful sitting at the bottom of the cup.  I took my spoon and carefully scooped up the remainder.  I raised the spoon to my mouth, inserted the spoonful between my lips, and then took the spoon back out.  I was so pleased with myself at this juncture I couldn't help but smile.  The bread had kept everything secure at first but the final spoonful had poked a hole in the dam.  Mr. Brown looked on in disgust as Dinty Moore Stew began trickling out through the hole in the bread, down my chin, and helped by the rain, began spreading down the front of my wet poncho.  Mr. Brown, who no one had ever heard swear in 4 years of backpacking, dropped the ladle and muttered. "God Damn it Phillip!" and disappeared into his tent.     

We switched to self-service and finished off the stew.