The bright Kansas sun beat down on eleven-year-old Danny’s neck as he trudged along the dusty rural road. He impatiently waited for the periodic ten-minute break when everyone would sit in the shade of trees, break out snacks and sip tepid water from their canteens. Afterwards, the troop would line up again and proceed to their destination on the Wakarusa River southeast of Topeka.
It was summer, the early sixties, and this was a ten-mile hike, a requirement to become a second-class scout. Danny wasn’t thrilled. Ten miles seemed like such a long way to this Scout. He shifted his backpack which contained a change of clothes, first aid items, toiletries, and the afore mentioned snack. With each step his legs became heavier. He could not wait until they reached their destination.
Ahead and behind him, the other scouts walked in single file. Occasionally, the sound of boys slapping at mosquitoes could be heard. The song of cicadas filled the air. The troop of young men continued their trek, chattering among themselves as they made their way from the housing development where Danny’s family made their home to the site of the empty farmhouse on the Wakarusa River that had been made available to the scout troop.
That part of Kansas landscape consisted of rolling hills. The road passed by wheat fields and occasionally thin rows of trees. As they walked, Danny noticed ears and tails of coyotes nailed to the sun-bleached, weathered, wooden posts of fences that lined the road. These trophies of hunters that posted them in attempt to discourage others of their kind from entering the farmers’ fields were a stark reminder of customs that still lingered in this part of the Mid-West.
After a few hours, they reached their destination. The riverbank was lined with thick trees, and the air here was noticeably cooler. John, the scoutmaster had already driven there with some of the boys’ fathers. Danny knew his dad would join them as soon as his duties at the airbase permitted.
The car containing sleeping bags and tents and driven by the father of one of the boys, had become stuck in mud in the ill-maintained road leading to the campsite. The youths gathered around providing little help other than gathering sticks to place under the vehicle’s wheels. Once freed from the quagmire, the troop followed it to the empty farmhouse near the riverbank.
They set up camp between the river and the old structure, whose peeling paint and boarded up windows revealed it had not been lived in for some time. One could only imagine who had lived there, working the land, raising children, facing the hardships and joys of farm life.
A well with a hand pump stood in front of the house, but it had been tested and shown to be unsafe. And so, the scouts brought all the water they needed. Near the pump, they set up their campfire. Danny’s older brother, set up a reflector oven consisting of a cardboard screen and box lined with aluminum foil placed on opposing sides of the fire. In the oven he warmed up beef stew and made biscuits. It was a comforting smell, a smell of home and hearth, even though they were miles from anywhere.
As the sun began to set, the scouts pitched their puptents. The air had become cooler. Each scout doused himself with insect repellant in futile attempt to ward off winged pests. The landscape seemed to soften in the fading light; the harsh edges smoothed away. Danny and the others gathered around the campfire, and told stories before crawling into their bedding to sleep under the stars.
Danny, with his brother beside him, looked up at the clear summer sky. They tried to identify the Big and Little Dipper, Orion, and the North Star. They felt a sense of peace, a sense of connection to the land around them.
It was one day out of many in the four years that the boy lived in Kansas with his family. Two years after this event, his father would retire from the Air Force and the family move to the Catskill Mountains in New York. In the moment, Danny failed appreciate the wonders of this experience: the hike to the Wakarusa, the coyote tails on the fences, the old farmhouse on the river, the baking of biscuits with an open fire, the sunset, the stars. He was just a boy, worn out from a long day, looking forward to crawling into his sleeping bag and falling asleep.
Years later, I remember that camping trip. I remember the heat, the dust, the smell of stew and biscuits. I remember the coyote tails, the old farmhouse, the Wakarusa River not much wider than the streams we call creeks in New York. And I remember the stars that shined down on me that night in Kansas, and I remember the innocence of youth before the realities of life that overtake us all.
Only now do I understand what I missed, the sense of wonder and awe that I had been too young to appreciate. I realize that I had been a part of something special, something timeless, something that connected me to the past, the present, and the future. And I wonder how many of those with me that day in addition to my father and brother have passed on into eternity. So much has happened since then that I have learned to appreciate the simple things, the beauty of my surroundings, the importance of rewarding experiences and the presence of others to share them with.
I now understand that life is a journey, not a destination, and that the most important thing is to be present in each moment, to savor the experiences, to appreciate the wonders of God’s creation and travel each day with Him at my side. I am grateful for that day, that ten-mile hike in Kansas, that had taught me so much, even though I didn’t realize it at the time.