Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, August 8, 1993 TAG: 9308060088
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DONNA ALVIS-BANKS STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: HIWASSEE LENGTH: Long
In among the trees,
Floats the flag of old Camp Powhatan
Waving in the breeze.
Hail to Powhatan, hail to Powhatan
With her Scouts so true
May the spirit of good scouting
Trail along with you."
It's quiet at Camp Powhatan now.
No bugle blaring reveille. No ear-splitting whoops coming from the dark depths of the woods, ringing through the hollow.
Not even the whisper of oars licking the still waters of the lake.
But if you were at Camp Powhatan now, and if you stretched out in the wildwood near the cold ashes of what once was a campfire, and if you closed your eyes real tight and listened, I'll wager you could hear stories there.
Thousands of them.
For 43 years, Camp Powhatan in Pulaski County is where youths have come to find the "spirit of good scouting." It's a place where boys begin a journey and a place where men return to find the summers of their childhood.
My 12-year-old son, Dee, began his journey two weeks ago. He spent his first week away from home at Camp Powhatan with Christiansburg Boy Scout Troop 141.
There were 14 boys, ages 10 to 17, in his group. The troop's scoutmasters and parent volunteers had devised a plan for supervising the boys during the week. Boy Scout rules require that at least two adults accompany the troop at all times.
One mother, Regina Moses, spent the entire week at the campsite. The other adult leaders took turns staying two or three days at a stretch.
Dee's stepfather, Rick, had signed up for two days and one night. He would arrive Thursday and stay until Friday evening.
"Can I come, too?" I had asked.
The worried mother in me wanted to make sure my son wasn't homesick.
The working mother in me had another motive.
"I bet I'll find a story there," I told my boss.
`Be prepared'
The day before he left for camp, I helped Dee load his pack.
We marked off items on the clothing and equipment checklists as we gathered them:
Canteen. Compass. Flashlight. Rain poncho. Scout uniform. Hiking boots. Handbook. Laundry bag.
When Dee put a roll of Charmin on the heap, I gave him a puzzled look.
"Why are you taking the toilet paper, Dee?" I asked.
He pointed to the checklist.
"It says toiletries, Mom."
By the time he had jammed everything into the backpack, it weighed more than he did. He heaved it onto his back, buckled the strap around his thin waist and flashed a crooked grin.
He was more prepared for this week than I. My insides turned to mush.
"I'll write to you, Mom," he promised.
On Sunday, the first night he was at Camp Powhatan, I wrote to him.
"Hi! How's camp so far? Is the food good?" I asked. "Don't forget to put those eardrops in after you swim, and don't forget to change your underwear."
Monday passed. Then Tuesday. And Wednesday.
No mail from Dee.
When Rick and I packed the van Thursday for our overnight trip, I thought I was prepared for anything. I wanted to see my son.
We headed down Interstate 81 to Exit 94 in Pulaski County. Immediately, we were in the country. We rambled past red barns, pretty white churches and sluggish creeks. We passed men in farm caps bouncing along on tractors and roosters strutting in the front yards of neatly kept houses.
We found the road marker to Hiwassee. We found the sign that read "Blue Ridge Scout Reservation."
We turned onto a gravel road lined with huge pines. Over a wooden bridge where a slow-moving creek hummed underneath, over another wooden bridge and into a shadowy dale, over a third wooden bridge past swimmers bathing in a stream, our van wriggled down the curving roads to Camp Powhatan.
Suddenly, I spotted two towering totem poles.
"We're here!" I squealed.
We parked the van and made our way through a thicket to the campsite. Troop 141 was sharing Tipi (pronounced tepee) with Troop 43 from Amherst. The scoutmaster from Amherst, Ron Horwege, directed us to our group.
Regina Moses and Assistant Scoutmaster Don Anderson were taking a breather. All the boys except Justin Farley, 10, and Greg Warden, 14, were at their afternoon activities.
Greg was snoozing in his tent.
Justin was recuperating from camp-related injuries.
"I stepped in a yellow jackets' nest and got stung three times," he explained. "I've got cuts, bruises, stings, everything!
"I'm having fun," he added, grinning.
Moses, who had been at the campsite since Sunday, looked unruffled, even tranquil. I asked her how she did it.
"There's no phone ringing, no food to cook, no dishes to wash," she said. "I love it."
While we waited for the other boys to return to camp, Moses and Anderson led us to an empty tent, our sleeping quarters. It was directly downwind from the latrine.
I warily assessed the surroundings: musty green canvas, rattletrap floorboards, a couple of rusty bunks and two mattresses that looked like World War I rejects.
"There's home, Donna," Rick said. "The lap of luxury."
I sniffled.
"A Scout is kind. A Scout is obedient. A Scout is cheerful . . . ," I recited silently.
`Thrifty, Brave, Clean'
Soon, boys began returning to the campsite.
Jason Bartley, David Mattox, B.J. Whitehurst and Jeremy Yuvanavattana arrived first. Thomas Felton and Travis Collins traipsed in afterward. Will Price wasn't far behind.
Dee brought up the rear.
When he caught sight of me, he quickly averted his eyes and headed straight for the tent he shared with Will.
"Uh-oh," I thought. "I've embarrassed him."
A moment later, he was at my side. He held out two smooth, rectangular pieces of leather. One half had his name etched into the grain.
"I'm making a knife sheath in leather working," he said. He almost beamed.
I hugged him.
"I was going to write to you," he said.
"Have you had showers this week?" I asked, eyeing the dark ring around his neck.
"I took one shower and I brushed my teeth once," he assured me. "I've been swimming every day."
Greg Warden emerged from his tent, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. At 6 feet 3 inches, Greg is the gentle giant of Troop 141. This week, he was the acting senior patrol leader.
"This has been the worst week at camp I've ever had in my life," he groaned.
Greg, Justin and David had spent the previous night in the Blue Ridge Scout Reservation's outback. To earn their wilderness survival merit badges, the threesome (accompanied by two counselors) had left the campsite with a few bare necessities - ponchos, water bottles, flashlights, a fire starter and a first aid kit.
Their objective was to make a shelter . . . and to make it through the night.
"We got about two hours sleep," Greg said. "We got ready for bed at 9:30. All of a sudden, some nerds started throwing rocks. These weren't little pebbles, either. These were BIG rocks!
"One kid got hit in the head," he added, indignantly. "We chased 'em but we couldn't catch 'em."
The rock-flinging rascals were too fast.
The gutsy guys in Troop 141 earned their merit badges, though.
`I Will Do My Best'
Before supper, the boys hustled into their Scout uniforms for the nightly retreat ceremony at the parade grounds in the center of Camp Powhatan.
Flags representing various troops flapped in a half circle on either side of the U.S. flag as boys from each troop assembled in lines, their hands raised to their foreheads in three-finger salutes.
Except for scattered snickers when the bugler flubbed a few notes, there was silence. A bird soared soundlessly over the flagpole.
When the ceremony was over, the bugler walked up to one of the snickerers and held out his horn.
"Here," he said, "you wanna try this?"
After eating, the boys took off in different directions for their free-time activities. I found a group clustered around John Nevard, a 22-year-old English Scout who was "trading patches" with the American boys.
Nevard was decked out in his light blue uniform. He explained that the British Scout Association, as it's called, is divided into two groups, sea scouts and land scouts.
"I'm a sea scout," he said. "Sea scouts do more boating and water activities. Land scouts wear the same tan clothing as American Scouts and are more involved in camping."
Shawn Pattison, a 12-year-old camper from Charlottesville, was eager to trade his first-class rank patch for the British equivalent of the rank.
"I'll trade as long as your mum's not going to be too mad when you take it off your shirt," Nevard teased.
Nevard, who's involved in a program to promote international scouting this summer, explained to the group that England's equivalent of the Eagle Scout rank is the Queen Scout.
"When they achieve their rank, Queen Scouts go to Windsor Castle and are paraded before the Queen of England," he said.
"Will you trade a Queen Scout patch?" Shawn asked.
Nevard shook his head. "They're hard to get," he said.
"Would you trade it for an Eagle patch?" Shawn persisted.
"You might start twisting my arm," Nevard replied.
Mighty, mighty Powhatan
Camp Powhatan got noisy just before dusk.
Campers were shrieking and hollering down by the boat dock where a water wrestling match was in full swing.
Every now and then, a blast coming from the direction of the rifle range pierced the air. Shotguns and black powder rifles are loud.
At 8:30, there was a roaring fire at the Tipi campsite. Troop 141 from Christiansburg, Troop 812 from Galax and Troop 43 from Amherst were together for the Thursday night campfire.
It was a time for stories, skits and corny jokes:
First Scout: "I met this cute girl last night. She rolled her eyes at me."
Second Scout: "Oh, yeah, what'd you do?"
First Scout: "I picked 'em up and rolled 'em back to her."
It was also pep rally time. The Boy Scout counselors led the cheers.
"Everywhere we go,
People always ask us
Who we are and where do we come from?
And we tell them
We're from Powhatan
Mighty, mighty Powhatan.
And if they can't hear us,
WE SHOUT A LITTLE LOUDER!"
By 11 p.m., most of the boys in Troop 141 were asleep. The adults gathered around the campfire, listening to the crackling of hickory and talking quietly.
We also were waiting up for the four who hadn't returned to camp yet.
Doug Adkins, Mark Moses, Eric Anderson and Chris Shelton had had been white-water rafting at the New River Gorge all day. These boys, ages 14 to 17, were enrolled in the Blue Ridge Mountains Scout Council's new "High Adventure" program. During the week, they had gone rappelling, mountain biking and caving, as well as rafting and canoeing on the whitecaps of the New River.
They straggled into camp a little after 11, tired but exhilarated, and gave us a play-by-play report of their experience. They chattered until their excitement - like the warm flames of the campfire - subsided.
Don Anderson smothered the glowing embers and we all said good night.
Rick and I laughed as we sank into the squashy mattresses on our bunks. I couldn't get to sleep. I imagined all sorts of creepy-crawly night creatures.
Around 3:30, I heard the pop of firecrackers in the woods.
I wondered what Dee and his buddies were dreaming about.
When I finally drifted off, I dreamed about Windsor Palace and apple pies cooked over an open fire.
`Do a Good Turn Daily'
On Friday morning, the boys in Troop 141 prepared the campsite for the daily inspection. After breakfast, they scattered for their classes.
I went snooping for stories . . . and found them.
I found 11-year-old Patrick Warren of Martinsville at the phone booth. Fuming.
"I tried to call home but my brother wouldn't accept the charges," he said.
"He's 17 and his name is DAVID," he said. "Put that in the paper."
I found lots of tales that made me laugh and one that made me cry.
It came from Bill Kelly, the 65-year-old leader of Pulaski Troop 249.
"The first adult that ever showed an interest in me was a Scout leader," he told me. "I was an orphan at the age of 5. In the early '30s, I moved from relative to relative. I had a rough life, I really did.
"When I got a little older, I used to sneak off and go with the Scout troop. On one trip, they said to bring something to cook out. I stole a potato from the cellar - it was the only thing I had. That night, I burned that potato black in the fire and I started bawling right there."
He paused and wiped his eyes.
"I get all choked up, to this day," he said before he continued.
"Well, the Scout leader came up and asked me what was the matter. When I told him, he put his arm around me and said, `Oh, don't worry. I've got two potatoes.'
"Years later," Kelly went on, "I was asked to be a Scout leader. I had a couple of kids then and a mortgage. My first reaction was, `I don't have the time.' Then, I remembered that potato."
Since 1955, Kelly has been bringing the boys in his Scout troop to Camp Powhatan. He hasn't missed a summer.
Now, some of the boys who grew up under Kelly's leadership return to Camp Powhatan with him. Charles Bopp, who was a Scout with Troop 249 in 1964, is Kelly's assistant scoutmaster.
"When someone from the past walks up to you and says, `Hi, you don't remember me but I was in your Scout troop and you really helped me,' it sorta gets in your blood," Kelly said.
"Boy, Do We Need Scouting." That's the slogan on a bumper sticker attached to the wall of the director's office at Camp Powhatan.
Dave Clark, Blue Ridge Scout Reservation director, was in the office when I was at camp. He was filling in for Camp Director Craig DePuy, who was out of town.
"Scouts are different from the average boy," Clark told me. "Boys up here carry knives; uses axes; go swimming, rock climbing and white-water rafting. . . .
But "injuries related to the program have been minimal. We insist upon double adult leadership - that's our mandate. It's part of what we call our Youth Protection Program. From a safety standpoint, we have an excellent record.
"Every boy out here is carrying a knife," he added. "In 25 years, I've never seen anybody fight with one."
Of course, that doesn't mean all the boys at the camp are perfect. Clark is the first to admit that.
On this day, Clark had to call the parents of two boys who were found with fireworks in their tents.
"They're coming to pick them up today," he said. "We get some theft, some vandalism, but it's not the norm.
"We teach self-reliance by practical experience," Clark said. "I watch young people grow up both as campers and as Scouts. Nobody joins the Boy Scouts because they want to become a better person. They join because they want to go camping."
From boy to man
The last afternoon at Camp Powhatan brought a downpour, but the skies cleared in time for the ceremony the campers had anticipated all week. Some of the boys would become a part of a long tradition on this evening. Some would come a step closer to manhood.
It's customary to hold inductions for the Order of the Arrow on the last night of camp. O.A., as it's called, is a fraternity for those Scouts who have earned recognition by excelling through service.
"It's a brotherhood for kids who show exceptional Scout spirit," Chris Shelton said. At 17, Shelton is the oldest camper of Troop 141. A member of the Order of the Arrow, Shelton said new members are chosen in a secret ballot of the troop.
"It's not a popularity contest," he said.
At dusk, parents and onlookers filled the amphitheater facing Lake Powhatan. The ceremony traditionally attracts a crowd.
Rain dripped from the leaves of trees. A mist had settled over the lake following the storm, and fog skimmed the water. A bonfire across the lake was a distant glimmer.
The Scouts, nearly 300 of them, paraded single-file into the amphitheater. When Dee passed by me, he lifted his hand in recognition. His eyes looked bluer than usual.
The opening ceremonies were high-spirited and boisterous. When Scouts are rowdy, they're very rowdy.
When it was time for the Order of the Arrow ceremony, they grew solemn.
The only sound was the beating of a tom-tom as four canoes, illuminated by glowing torches, slowly approached from the far side of the lake. The canoes carried four braves, dressed in full Indian regalia, who represented the lessons of scouting: brotherhood, service, cheerfulness and things of the spirit.
The braves formed a circle in front of the Scouts. One by one, each boy passed through the circle in a symbolic welcome to the tradition of scouting. When boys who had been chosen for the Order of the Arrow approached the circle, they were embraced and saluted with the song of the drum.
Eric Anderson, 16, was chosen from Troop 141.
I felt a surge of pride.
After the ceremony, Rick and I loaded Dee's gear in the van. He took a last look around the campsite and climbed into the back seat. He was quiet as the van crept along the dark roads leading out of Camp Powhatan.
Finally, he spoke.
"Next year, I'm going to sign up for white-water rafting," he said.
P.S. The day after we returned from Camp Powhatan, I found a postcard Dee had written but never mailed. "Dear Mom and Rick," it said, is very fun at camp. I got to do lots of things. I shot a rifle too. The food is OK. I earned my Totin' Chip and my Fireman Chip too. Try to come up. Love, Dee."
I'm saving it. Someday when he's all grown up, I'll show it to Dee. I figure it'll be a good story to tell around a campfire.
by CNB