Kids’ Camp
Willy Whitefeather
Willy Whitefeather is a river guide and the author of an outdoor survival handbook for kids. He is a mixed-blood Cherokee who believes that if we learn from our heritage roots, we can create a more beautiful world for the next fourteen generations. He is currently teaching desert survival classes to the U.S. Army.
Cariy-all Rover at the head of a whole line of cars and trucks snaking the summer dusty mountain road.
BAM!
KABAM!
JANGLE...
Laughter as they roll over the bumps and...
SKOOOWASH!
... each time they cross the creek.
Arrival, creek water dripping from axles.
Reevis Mountain School.
The Best. Peter Bigfoot, founder, greeter.
Kids, moms, dads, backpacks sill unload.
Dinner together, everybody talks at once.
Sunset. A chorus of "Kumbayah.”
Waves and good-byes as the caravan of moms and dads leaves.
Teaching in the Wild
Stars you can touch. Introductions around the campfire.
Stories. Sleepy eyes stare into flickering coals.
Campfire-smoky kids crawl into sleeping bags.
Then it begins ...
Giggles.
"Hey, that's my flashlight. ”
“Naw, it’s mine.”
"Givvitback, nerdturd!"
"Oh yeah, sure, uh-huh, boogerbrain!”
Laughter.
"Hey, give it back or I’m tellin’!”
“Oh yeah, sure, fishface.”
Louder laughter. Laughter from all tents.
"ALL RIGHT, YOU KIDS!” (Counselor Johnny)
"KNOCK IT OFF! GO TO SLEEP!"
Dawn. Mountains glow. Creek chuckles and sings its
greeting. Coyotes now quiet, bellies rabbit full.
Breakfast gong. Kids stir. Some pull sleeping bags over heads. Scorpions go back under rocks.
Second gonnnnnnnngggg. Breakfast line ...
“Hey, get outta my way, fishface, I was here first."
"No, you weren’t, lamebrain!”
“Was too, boogerhead!”
“HEY! HEY! HEY!” (Counselor) "Knock it off, or you go to the back of the line! ”
I hear these verbal arrows piercing young spirits—city smog words polluting young minds.
ENOUGH! I say to myself.
I go get my shovel, and while they’re eating breakfast, I dig a mud hole, big enough, and fill it with creek water. Ten paces away from my mud hole I put the first pole with feathers on top. Seven paces away the second pole goes into the ground.
I put on my swim trunks. I mix the red clay mud, making it thick, removing the rocks. Good mud.
I go get my small bag of turquoise stones.
Breakfast over. Bigfoot’s teaching a wild plant class. Kids wander by, "Whatcha doin’, Willy?"
"You’ll know soon,” I reply.
Plant class over. Midday sun.
"HEYYYYY! HIYOHHH, OHHHHH SEEEEE OHHHH* HIYOHHHH1" I shout. "You kids all gather round. Here is m and here is turquoise in this bag. I challenge you. Everyone w1 hits me with a mudball, I'm going to give a free piece of turquois (With a stick I draw a line on the ground*) "And don't step o this line while you throw, and just throw as I run between th two poles over there. You kids couldn’t hit me if you tried!”
Twenty screaming kids.
Forty hands in mud, making big, round mudballs.
I run.
WHAP—WHAP—WHAP. Only three hits—an arm, a leg,, and ear. City kids, my luck, they don’t know how to lead a movi target. I make a U-turn, running, and they all let loose at me.
Mud flies before my eyes.
"HA-HAH! You kids can't hit me!” I egg them on.
Mudballs fly past.
WHAP—WHAP. Two more hits. Still running, I make another U-
Round three.
They’re ready this time.
I clear the first pole.
WHAP— SPLOOK—WHAP—SPLAT! I get slaughtered. I cir~ round, covered in red clay.
"OKAY! WHO HIT ME? "
Twenty voices: "I DID!”
I hand out the turquoise.
Back to running, I pick up a beat-up old.briefcase. I run with it, screech to a stop between the two poles.
“STOP!" I shout. "Don’t any of you kids dare to throw mud at me You see this briefcase, it’s full of important papers. If any mu touches them. I’ll call your parents. I’ll call the police. I’ll put yo- on report!”
Silence. Some of the kids look unsure, mudballs on standby read; alert ...
“YAHHHH!” I yell (tongue out, thumbs in my ears, fingers waggling) "YOU BOUGHT IT!"
I run—too late.
WHAP! SPLAT! WHAP! Me and the briefcase become dripping re clay.
The seventh time around I’m thinking, I'm getting too old for this, bu this is a class city schools don’t teach.
One more time around, then I stop.
"Okay,” I say, “how many of you kids hit me and got free turquoise?”
Twenty hands go up, followed by a din of "I DID!”
“Okay," I say, as I reach into the mud hole and round out a mudball, “now you all get to run, and I get to throw! ”
"NO WAY! ” they shout. They tiy to give their turquoise away. There are no takers. They throw it on the ground. They start to walk away. You can cut the air with a knife ...
"Okay,” I say, “so I hear you kids calling each other ‘lamebrain,’ ‘fishface,’ ‘boogerhead,’ and lots of four-letter words. I did this mud run because I wanted you to know those words go through your skin and into your spirit and damage you for the rest of your life. This mud you threw at me is only on my skin, it washes off, it’s fun. Since you won’t run, it shows me YOU CAN DISH IT OUT, BUT YOU CAN’T TAKE IT!”
I walk away (pretending to be angiy). Now you need a machete to cut the air.
About an hour later they come around to my tent and say sheepishly, "Hey, uh, Willy?"
"Yeah?” I say.
"We kinda, uh, well ...”
"That’s okay,” I say. “No apologies needed. You guys wanna go backpackin' along the creek?"
"Yeah! All right! ” And soon we head up the trail. Lesson learned.
A Note: I do the mud run because I feel kids today have a lot of stress and no outlet for their hostility and resentments. Spray-can painting on walls and shootings in restaurants are their release valve for anger and pent-up emotions—instead of mudballs, it’s bullets, booze, and drugs.
Politicians with briefcases use the word "mudslinging,” but that’s till it is, just a word. Tiy throwing a real mudball at one of them and you’ll do jail time. You can’t throw mud at a grown man in this country without being beat up, shot, or jailed. They have lost joy. Mud is joy. Joy is laughing children throwing mudballs at you and forgetting the cutting words they use on each other, learned from grown-ups.
As for you. Dear Reader, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a bam — YA-HAH!