Forestry Summer Camp

That was what we called it back then. Eight weeks of concentrated outdoors in the South Alabama summer heat. They call it "Practicum" these days, cloaking it in Latin and (probably) air conditioning. Theirs is now coeducational. Ours was definitely and totally Southern Country Male. Our air conditioning was two large wall fans and let-up window covers, which sometimes let in the night breezes, the sounds of a million crickets and the occasional lonely car traveling between Uriah and Atmore, or heading to Blueberry Hill.

We were sort of an adjunct to Little River State Park, which consisted, and still does, of Little River, a nice fishing and swimming lake, a dance pavillion and store, and summer cabins. They were across the highway and "down the road a piece." We were directly across the highway from the ranger's residence, which gave him no end of headache.

We were firmly a party crowd, weeknights at Blueberry Hill and weekends at the Wagon Wheel (across the Florida—Alabama border; we were in a dry county for hard liquor). Blueberry Hill was the local juke joint, about five miles south of our Summer Camp. It was, in order, beer, country music and rock'n'roll. Somehow, we managed Blueberry Hill and study, but we were young and foolish enough to pull it off. Several years after our camp, Blueberry Hill was declared off limits to students—one of the boys that year took on way too much beer and straightened out "Dead Man's Curve," Sadly, he contributed to its legend.

Here then, the stage is set.

The park ranger had complained bitterly from the start of summer camp. Our boisterousness was loud and obnoxious, interfering with the quiet orderliness he cherished. An 8-foot chainlink fence separated us, but did nothing to muffle the noise. So Blueberry Hill was declared off limits, except for the weekends. Most of the boys went home on the weekends, so the noise was dramatically lessened. Other forms of nightly entertainment during the week were sought.

Several of the boys were local, at least being from approximately close by. They had been hunters and river rats all their young lives. One Friday evening they spent on the Alabama River, trapping alligators. They came back to camp with several young alligators, between two and three feet long. They had their jaws kept closed with clothes-hanger wire. Much whispered planning and muffled snickering went on all through the weekend. That Sunday night, the 'gators were quietly slipped into the Prof's shack (where the Professors bunked during their stay). Paper bags were tied to the 'gator's feet. Muffled shouts, yells, bangs and thumps delighted the hastily departing culprits, as the Profs and the 'gators both tried to leave the premises at the same time.

The students were stiffly and firmly reprimanded and told to get rid of the alligators. Instead, the alligators were tied to a tree out of sight.

Monday came and went. That night, one of the students, call him JD, decided to break curfew and head to Blueberry Hill. This started the remainder of the alligator plan, as JD was known both for his drinking habits (to excess) and his willingness to ignore curfew. Somehow he never got caught. He would cut out his lights before entering camp, cut his engine and coast up to the student barracks. The 'gator boys were waiting.

JD staggered into the barracks and somehow managed to crawl into his top bunk and pass out. The 'gator boys waited until they heard his snoring, then quietly slipped the jaw-wired alligator into his bunk, under the blankets. JD snored on, oblivious. The 'gator moved. One red and bleary eye half-opened.

"That thing's alive, ishn't it?" The eye closed. Giggles and choked back guffaws mingled with the snoring. The 'gator moved again.

Two red and bleary eyes opened. "Dang. That thing's alive, ain't it." The eyes closed. The snoring resumed. Boys were rolling on the floor, almost crying with the effort to remain silent.

Two eyes popped open to the maximum capable, like red stained silver dollars. "Gawddayum, that thang's alive!" As the words rushed out, JD's feet hit the floor, took him out the barracks and propelled him over the chainlink fence, running up the highway, only to collapse after ten or twenty yards. After shaking for more than a few minutes, he calmed down, then began stomping back toward the barracks with blood in his eye and on his mind. The culprits had fled—gone into hiding. JD climbed into his bed and pulled the covers tight around him and over his head. We could hear muffled curses coming from his blankets far into the night.