The Wondrous Place
By John H Foote
I couldn't have been more than four, just a tiny tyke, a wee lad, a button, when I went ... uh... was taken ... on my first camping trip. On the way down slippery and treacherous Overflow Hill, Uncle Jimmy's homemade box trailer detached itself from the car and plowed its tongue into the mud. While graphically expressing their opinions as they splashed around in the mud, the men managed to reattach the trailer, and order and sanity were restored -- sort of. Now we -- they -- only had to worry about the quicksand ahead. And old man Grouch, who had a reputation for aggressively guarding his peach orchard with a shotgun and a, “shoot first, ask questions later” attitude. And whether we took the wrong prong of the last fork in the road.
Our campsite was a wondrous place on a low bluff, at a wide bend of the river; it was said to have been an old Indian campground and, later, a riverboat landing. The Indian-camp story must have been true, because many years later I found some arrowheads there. It was an open, grassy area, bordered on one side by the bluff and river and on the other sides by trees. Because of the bend, one could see a long way, both up and down stream. Just a few steps upstream, a small tributary entered the river, providing a good, though sometimes muddy, place for tying the john-boats. It was a beautiful, idyllic spot, seldom visited in those days.
By dusk, the camp had become quite cozy. An old carpet had been rolled out and chairs set around. Close by, in the edge of the trees, 'skeeter bars (nets) had been strung up, with canvas tarpaulins overhead, and cots and bedrolls had been placed under them.
After supper, with a dessert of roasted marshmallows, the grown-ups sat around chatting by the light of the campfire and one or two coal-oil (kerosene) lamps or lanterns. But my good friend and first cousin, Johnny, and I were put to bed. The trailer blocked our view of the grown-ups and most of the light. It was dark, and we were scared. Soon, however, a thoughtful someone brought a huge carbide lantern and hung it on the side of the trailer close to us. That was very comforting. As the carbide & water that generated acetylene gas for the lantern were exhausted, the light faded, ever so slowly. And so did our consciousness.
Going up Over-flow Hill was even worse than going down. It was so slick that the car I was in spun around and headed back down. Everyone had to get out and push to get the trailer back up.
This, my first campsite, was my favorite for many years. I think that was because of the quiet and solitude that its seclusion provided. It also provided access to swimming, fishing and hunting. I’ve learned since then that such places are rare and hard to find.
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Wondrous Nights
Sleeping under a mosquito bar at the wondrous place was a wondrous experience in the old times. As night came, a comfortable coolness would move in, and quiet and tranquility would reign – that is until the choir began to sing. First, a katydid would sing out, “Katy did.” Moments later another would answer, “Katy didn’t.” Soon others would join in the argument; then more would join. Soon a mighty chorus would be declaring that Katy did, and another mighty chorus would be declaring that Katy didn’t. Then things would be out of synchronization, so that the dids and the didn’ts were mixed together. It would seem kind of wild, but kind of dronish, too. I guess it was the drone factor that would put you to sleep – a very pleasant and restful sleep.
Just before daylight, you would awaken, and the choir would have ceased its singing. Maybe it was the coming of silence that aroused you.
Be sure to have your sound on.
Often heard, but seldom seen, katydids sound differently in different places and at different temperatures. The male and female katydids “sing” to each other by rubbing the hardened surfaces of each of their front wings together to make the sounds. They hear each other with ears on their front legs.
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Then, and Somewhat Later
There were no tents made of nylon or other synthetics, no portable toilets, no plastic bags. Cooking was done over a campfire, and freshly caught and fried fish was the mainstay of the menu. Coffee and tea were made with boiled river water, to conserve hauled drinking water. Mosquitoes were kept at bay by smoke from tin can containing smoldering cotton rags. A one hundred pound block of ice wrapped in a linseed-oil treated, cotton canvas tarpaulin, placed in a hole in the ground, served as refrigerator and ice supply. The rain shelter might be a canvas tent or, more often, a canvas tarpaulin stretched between trees and propped up in the middle by a wooden pole, which was made by cutting and trimming a small tree (a sapling). We slept under mosquito bars stretched between trees, either under the tarp or separately. (Mosquito bars were homemade of cheese cloth or wallpaper canvas.) Flashlights had only limited use because batteries were very short lived. There was hardly any broken glass around, so going barefoot was relatively safe -- just watch for thorns and things that bite. Vinegar was good for sunburn, if applied soon enough. To hunt frogs (always done in a boat) you used a frog gig – frog grabbers came later. The john-boats were homemade, of wood—as were the paddles.
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The Legend of Uncle Jeff
By John H Foote
By John H Foote
During the early years, Uncle Jeff was a part of our camping experience at the “wondrous place.” Not because he went camping with us, but because he lived there – well, just a few steps away. One might say that he was omnipresent.
One might also say that he was very casual in dress and general appearance. He lived in a rickety cabin of plank and batten construction. But Uncle Jeff was not ignorant. No-Sir-Ree-Bob; he had a college education, and was always interested in hearing about the latest goings-on back in civilization. Why, then, was he living such a primitive life?
The story goes that after having had a very disappointing love affair, he disappeared for several years. None of his family, relatives, or friends knew his whereabouts; nor did he communicate with any of them. When he finally made his reappearance, it was near our wondrous place. He was a virtual hermit, because in those days few people went there. I can remember camping there for a week, during which we saw only one other person.
Just moments after we would arrive, Uncle Jeff would be searching through our food supplies, knowing that there would always be a special treat there, just for him. About dusk, he would tell us a story or two before departing for the night. Some were pretty scary. And distant sounds in the night were, according to him, panther howls – that was scary, too.
Uncle Jeff’s monetary needs were small. He did some commercial fishing, as evidenced by the big hooped fish nets that were always around. And it seemed that he always had a boat under construction, so he may have sold a few of them. They were expertly constructed of wood, and were of the style of Jon-boats, although that term was not in use there at that time. He made his own wooden paddles, too.
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Grandmother
By John H Foote
By John H Foote
Grandmother Davis loved to fish, and would take advantage of every opportunity to do so. She had all of the gear required for several people to camp out for a week or more. It's not surprising, therefore, that she was the promoter, instigator, and planner of numerous camp-outs at the wondrous place -- where the fishing was really good. She would roundup several people -- two were enough, and kids were OK -- and someone to haul her and off she and her entourage were on their way. I was often fortunate to be one of the kids. No bank fishing for her; spending most of the day in a Jon-boat with a cane pole equipped with hook, line, sinker, and cork (float) suited her just fine. Sometimes she omitted the float, but she always caught an ample supply of fish. I loved my grandmother.
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Camping by Wagon
By John H Foote
Barely a smidgen remains of my memories of the only camping trip I ever made in a horse drawn wagon. Our destination was the wondrous place that I described in “First Camp,” and I wasn’t much older than I was then. The distance by dirt roads was about nineteen miles, but we made it a little bit shorter by cutting across an unfenced field. Still, it would take a while to get there. Other members of our party would come later, by car or truck. They would bring more stuff and more food.
The entire trip must have been fun, but cutting across the field is the only part of it that I remember; and it seems kind of like a fun dream. If I were an artist, I would try to paint a picture of it, like the one I see in my mind.
I see a wooden wagon, similar to the ones that John Deere says won the west, pulled by two sturdy chestnut colored horses. I see several dogs – sometimes trotting alongside, but more often out front, pretending, as dogs will do, that they were leading the way. I see my Grandmother in her wide brimmed straw hat holding the reins, with me sitting on the cushionless wooden seat beside her, and the wagon bed filled with camping stuff and food supplies. Wisps of dust rise lazily from hooves and wheels. An occasional dragonfly flits by or pauses briefly on Grandmother’s hat. A blue sky with fluffy white clouds, and a few wildflowers with bees and butterflies sipping their nectar, complete the scene.
Was it just a dream? I don’t think so. But maybe life is just a dream.
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The Adventure of Mrs. D
More wagon camping
More wagon camping
By John H Foote
While I was working for Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma my landlady, Mrs. Litha D, an elderly lady, told me that when she was a young child she was sent to Colorado to live with relatives so that she might recover her health in the clean mountain air. The relatives took her with them on a camping trip to Estes Park, traveling by wagon. They camped in canvas tents, but young Litha didn’t get much sleep. She had gotten against the wall of the tent and was sure she could feel a bear pressing against the outside. Well, how could anyone sleep with a bear just inches away? Litha didn’t. And when daylight came she wouldn’t go outside until a relative assured her that it was alright. Hey! It was just hay! Her bear was just a bale of hay that had been brought along to feed the horses.
I wonder if she slept alright the next night, don’t you? Did she recover her health? Well, I would say she was in her seventies or eighties when she told me the story, and she seemed to be in good health.
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Bear in Camp
By John H Foote
There wasn’t much light in camp that night, and the outer edges were even darker. Suddenly, someone said, “I heard something out there.” That ignited imaginations, and everyone began hearing and seeing something -- out there. Maybe it was a bear. Maybe it was a panther. Or maybe it was somebody! We didn’t have a flashlight or other means to penetrate the darkness, but we had to find out what it was. It was decided that someone should just shoot it.
A warning was called out, just in case it was a “somebody”. A rifle was raised. A shot was fired. A penetrating sound was heard: the sound of metal hitting metal. Then memory kicked in – a skillet had been hung on a nail in a tree.
When we investigated, next morning, we found that someone had rigged a system of strings to rattle the pots and pans in the cooking area. My grandmother, who was wearing a sly smile, was immediately blamed; after all, she was the chief cook, and she was already famous for her scare-generating antics.
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Train Ride
By John H Foote
I wasn’t there when it happened,
but I heard about it.
Now it so happens that not far from the Wondrous Place there was, and still is, a railroad that crosses the river on an antiques turntable bridge. The turntable had made it possible to open the bridge for river boats, in case there were any. At the time that this event occurred it was traveled by only one train each day, and that was in the middle of the night.
A certain classmate of mine was camping with some other boys, and all were fast asleep when the train came chugging by. My classmate was dreaming that they had camped in the middle of the railroad track and were about to be run over by the train. Without awaking, he jumped up, shredded their mosquito bar to get out, and left camp in a run. Then he went running back to camp to save his fellow campers.
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The Great White Hare
I will not swear that this is the truth.
By John H Foote
It seemed like a classic case of déjà vu – but wait, I wouldn’t let myself get into such a predicament more than once.
I’m talking about a day late in March; the year doesn’t really matter. I was fishing up on Big Hare Lake – not catching anything, but getting ravenously hungry. Now, eating always makes me very sleepy, so after I had completed a sumptuous meal consisting of a dish called Two Cans of Beanie-Wieners, I sauntered down a dim trail to a suitable looking tree, sat down, leaned back, and dozed off. I’d hardly closed my peepers, it seemed, when I heard a tur-r-r-ible growl. My eyes popped open and there, no more than ten feet away, was a humongous bunny rabbit charging toward me with fangs bared like a bloodthirsty vampire. I was terrified; instinctively I threw up my left hand as a shield, while my right hand reached for my cell phone in order to contact my good friend, Dr. Anonymous, who is an expert at calling up coyotes – I wanted a quick lesson. No answer. I was on my own. I cleared my throat and did my best to sound like Wiley Coyote. It was pitiful. It was embarrassing. But, much to my surprise, a coyote popped up right next to the attack rabbit.
What ensued was awesome! Gory! Unbelievable! Incredible! Absolutely hair raising! Amazingly, Mr. Coyote managed to save my life! I wanted to properly thank him, but by the time I’d recovered my wits he had already vanished.
When next I awoke, I discovered that my hair and beard had grown several feet longer, and my camera, with which I had recorded details of the above-told encounter, had disappeared. I think Mr. Coyote took the camera; it’s a well-known fact that coyotes dislike having their spiritual activities exposed. The abnormal hair and beard growth may have been due to a temporary hormonal imbalance, triggered by unfettered fear.
Lesson: If you ever fish Big Hare Lake in March, beware the March Hare. Don’t fall asleep under a tree. And, before you go, learn how to call up a coyote, just in case!
Lesson: If you ever fish Big Hare Lake in March, beware the March Hare. Don’t fall asleep under a tree. And, before you go, learn how to call up a coyote, just in case!
As for myself, I won’t be fishing Big Hare Lake again; I don’t want déjà vu to happen to me all over again.
After thought: I wonder if this rabbit was kin to the one that attacked President Carter while he was fishing in Georgia.
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