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Battlefield
Illuminations
December
1999
Antietam is a name that occurs each year on our calendar.
Each December, 23,110 candles are placed in the fields of
Antietam to commemorate the terrible loss of life that occurred in
September 1862, a day which remains, hopefully forever, the worst
carnage in American history. Volunteers,
many scouts, spend the day carefully placing a candle every 15 feet in a
grid and, with cooperating weather, lighting them in the late afternoon
prior to the public access to the Battlefield. It is a most sobering
sight to see candles flickering in the darkness as far as the eye can
see. Troop 396 is proud to be a part of this event and for the last
couple of years has enjoyed magnificent weather, as a bonus, with
temperatures in the 60's and 70's.
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Old
Rag
December
1999
Two days before the end of the century, and the end
of the world according to some, the Troop set out on its last activity
of the year. Eric, at home
from his studies in the UK, and Gordon, Philip B. and newly bridged
scout Ryan E. with parents set out to climb Old Rag on the east face of
the Blue Ridge mountains. The
weather prospects were magnificent for the turn of the year with a high
near 50 degrees. It wasn't only the weather that cooperated, the traffic
through Washington was almost non-existent, with the holidays, and we
were at the base of the hiking trail by 10:30.
Day packs were the order of business, but each
carried enough layer and shell clothing to pay homage to the fact that
it was December, despite the promised temperatures.
The trail up was most pleasant in the late morning sunlight, and
we reached easily "the Rocks".
At this point the trail becomes a scramble over, through, down,
in-between, or underneath the bare face of the mountain using all parts
of your body for support, voluntarily or not, as they were squeezed or
otherwise coaxed through seemingly impenetrable crevices.
The boys, of course, were delighted, but others had more sobering
thoughts and premonitions of tomorrow morning's aches and pains. One by
one we reached the summit, some 3,000 feet above sea level and were
afforded a magnificently clear view of the Blue Ridge and beyond the
Virginia apple growing and horse-riding countryside.
As
we ate lunch, we could discern below the forest fire road that marked
our descent. The trail down
avoids the rocky outcroppings and we made excellent time as we enjoyed
our conversations and the opportunity of being out in the woods on such
a magnificent day.
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Chesapeake and Ohio Canal
August
1999
Scouting
is a sparse business in August with family vacations, assorted camps,
and the like. Six scouts:
Jeremy H., Eric S., Philip K., Nick B., Philip B., and Gordon S. with
Scoutmasters Don B, Warwick B, and Paul S took a trip to Cumberland
one Wednesday morning. Eric,
Jeremy, and Philip B were keen to complete the whole of the Chesapeake
and Ohio Canal trail they had begun last year - cycling from
Georgetown to Williamsport. For
the remainder, it was a new adventure.
Shortly after noon, wheels back on the bikes, cars suitably
positioned, we set off in the heat of the day determined to average 46
miles a day to complete the whole trail in 4 days.
In the shade of the trees, the 100 degree weather and clear
blue skies were not as overbearing as if we were cycling across Iowa.
Nevertheless, water soon became a problem.
Fortunately, the trail’s hand pumps were still able to bring
water to our bottles despite the drought.
We were dubious about the water quality later in the day, when
Philip K and Don felt somewhat queasy, but failing to deliver on the
promise of diarrhea and heartfelt vomiting, we decided that a mild
case of heat exhaustion/dehydration was the most likely culprit.
We pulled our bikes, in groups, into Little Orleans sometime
around 7 pm - 42 miles to the better.
Aside from one other tent, we had the campsite to ourselves and
we made full use of the little store, otherwise known as the mayor’s
office, for our evening meal and assorted goodies masquerading as
wholesome food. Next came
the chore of repositioning our vehicles, which as daily ritual soon
became tedious to say the least, but it was our only real chance of
being able to maintain our daily average.
Carrying a full load of camping gear would have slowed us too
much. Anyway, tedium or
not, we had made our decision and so shuttle cars we did.
The
following morning another hot day was in the offering.
We were reassured to find Mr. Ranger coming to check on the
quality of the well water pumps. It
passed in Little Orleans and presumably along the trail, since there
were none of those skulls, dangling from the pumps, seen in every
cowboy movie yawning “you’ll be sorry”.
In fact, Mr. Ranger told us that they check the pumps every ten
days and treat the well with iodine, which probably accounted for the
taste of the water.
Relieved
with the water situation, we turned our attention back to the bikes.
Who on earth devised a means of transport that is intent on
ramming a metal spike covered by a so called seat through your rear
end, also probably coined the phrase back in the saddle.
So, saddled up, our destination Williamsport was another 43
miles downstream at milepost 99.
The sprinters in the group were soon off to the races and were
found, around lunchtime, perched on the bridge at Hancock, where the
canal is fully restored. Having
time on their hands waiting for the tortoises, they had discovered
that a smooth alternate path paralleled the C&O for 15 miles or so
as part of a new trail formed from the old Western Maryland rail bed.
The only problem was that the link back to the C&O was not
well posted and poor Mr. Browning got to see more of the rail bed than
he wanted. One glutton
for punishment opted for the bumps and the ruts of the C&O.
By
mid-afternoon, we were all reassembled at Fort Frederick and the
consumption of more goodies plus cheese slices that even the
Scoutmaster said:
“tasted weird”. Off
again and by the time the strugglers made Williamsport, Warwick had
already met the mayor and conned him into letting us stay the night at
his City park. Is there no end to what a fancy accent will get you?
The boys offered their services in helping some young girls
play soccer, but were rebuffed by the coaches who lent them a ball to
go away. The mayor did
not tell Warwick that the local fishermen stored their unwanted bait
and entrails at the park creating a permeating odor of putrid stench.
In an attempt at escape from this aroma, we exchanged it for
that of pizza - “not much of a change” was heard to be muttered by
one of our group. It
turned out to be a re-enactment of sorts, this being the end of the
road for Eric, Jeremy, and Philip B on last year’s jaunt - at least
they could now claim to have cycled the whole route.
By now, however, a mutiny was fully under way. Eric had a prior commitment to leave for his job at the Bowie
Baysox, and Warwick had to leave for a ski extravaganza of all things
in mid summer (some people will not miss an opportunity for a
bargain). Provided with a
chance of escape from that saddle - did I mention this before? -
Jeremy and Philip K joined the mutinous hoard and the prospect of a
soft seat. So waving
farewell, the four remaining stalwarts set off south to DC.
A
short detour caused by the Potomac floods brought us back to the trail
at Dam No. 6, lunch at Antietam followed by afternoon snacks at
Harper’s Ferry. We were
making excellent time and met Mrs. Scoutmaster in the late afternoon
at Point of Rocks. By the
miracle of cell phones, Warwick reappeared back in his familiar
Spandex and not sporting, thank goodness, crampons, ski boot, or other
winter paraphernalia.
Our
campsite for the night was strategically placed beside the railroad
station and we soon discovered the trains whistle, once at the
station, and once again at the grade crossing, a quarter of a mile
away, plus a few blasts in between for good measure.
Gordon and Nick got an extra shot, as the train pulled away
from the station, while they were listening for the oncoming train
with their ears placed on the tracks.
By the way, the trains run through the night.
However, we had a surprise in store, as we disappeared into
Leesburg, and savored an Italian meal before returning to camp and a
thunderstorm. We were
sharing the campsite with a group of Boy Scouts from Severna Park, who
spent all of Friday evening listening to their leader proclaim the
merits of the Lord. In
fact, there were more leaders than Boy Scouts in this group of
Mormons. By 5 am, they
were proclaiming their presence to the world - we figured they had not
had the “leave no trace” camping sermon.
A morning trip to the Whistle Stop café - did we say the
trains run all night - for bacon and egg sandwiches set us on our way,
only 45 miles to Georgetown.
Don
seemed a little on the weary side and, upon questioning, said he had
got little sleep. Was it
the thunderstorm? No. Was
it the trains? - they run
all night you know. No. Was it the Mormons? No.
Well for crying out loud, what?
Well it was those mosquitoes that got into our tent.
Where did they come from?
The
last leg really started to fly by and we reached White’s Ferry by
mid-morning and Warwick was off in search of one of his favorites - hot
chocolate, apparently, he tells me, it is, for cyclists, something like
chicken soup for the soul. By
this point in the ride, most were more concerned about a more physical,
rather than spiritual, part of their makeup.
The overnight rains made some of the ruts more interesting, but
the biggest change was the number of people on the trail.
It was Saturday. By
the time we had passed through some spectacular scenery and reached
Great Falls - people were everywhere.
Lunch and a visit to the Falls refreshed us for the final sprint
into Georgetown. The
Beltway droned above our heads and we pedaled and enjoyed a magnificent
ride, in the afternoon sunshine, past Fletcher’s boathouse into DC.
Down to the final mile, we were faced with having to cross the
canal. In for a penny, in
for a pound, found us carrying our bikes across the bridge before we
negotiated the final yards across busy city streets.
Somehow or other we met Mrs. Scoutmaster in all this city bustle.
Despite all our protestations: “they’ll never fit”, she
managed to get three bikes, gear, and riders into her minivan for the
long ride back to Point of Rocks to collect Don’s car.
Left on their own for a couple of hours, Gordon and his dad
discovered the Capital Crescent Trail and biked their way uphill to
Bethesda. What a breeze
coming back down to Georgetown.
In
tribute to Don, who used his pillow for better results than sound
slumber, this ride will be forever remembered as one of those items
found on the last pages of Boy’s Life, Books Never Written: “184
miles in the saddle” by Major Bumsaw.
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Little
Creek Amphibious Base
June
1999
Two o’clock in the morning is not the best time to answer the question
“Are you in charge?” Always
a debatable point at any hour! Nevertheless,
on our first night at Little Creek, firmly entrenched in tents on Scout
Island, past the guard house, three hours away from home, scouting gear
in abundance, Mr. Plod, the policeman, was not assuaged by our response
that we adults, Jim Mc. and Paul S. were indeed in charge.
He wanted documentation that we had permission to be on his piece
of turf. Attempts to
validate our claims by dropping names of the people in the recreation
office were to no avail. Donning
our scout shirts, we hiked out a quarter of a mile to our vehicles and
retrieved said documentation much to his satisfaction and a promise that
he would tell the officer of the watch that the individuals on Scout
Island were indeed scouts and not intruders in fancy dress.
(I made the last bit up!)
An
auspicious start to a weekend full of activity.
We ate a combination of meals in camp and at the general mess -
needless to say which the scouts preferred.
Eric S, John D, Gordon S, Christian M, Evan M, Danny G, and Josh
A were the beneficiaries of several activities arranged by Jim and.
Our first stop was a tour of the USS Bristow, a Spruance class
destroyer, courtesy of Evan’s uncle who was in charge of the squadron. The Bristow was in the news soon after as the ship used for
the naval burial of John F. Kennedy Jr.
Adm. Bristow distinguished himself sufficiently in World War I it
seems to get a ship named after him.
We toured the ship from top to bottom before taking our leave and
seeing what other ships were in port.
Three aircraft carriers and a couple of helicopter carriers were
the largest along with Arleigh Burke destroyers.
At the far end of the wharf rested the Wisconsin, with its 16
inch guns, being prepared for mothballing for the second time in its
career. In the afternoon,
we found ourselves at the Air Traffic control tower and watched a Galaxy
C5A depart. Our final stop
was the weather office where Jim was in his element, although we did
forget to check the forecast for the evening.
There was nothing we could do to change it anyway.
We left the Norfolk base by taking a ride past the old that once
were “state houses” for the Jamestown exposition, prior to the land
being bought by the government for a naval base.
The
next day started out wet and windy - just the weather for a first aid
demonstration by a Corpsman, who in reality did not fit the description
too well, since this man was female. After reminding ourselves of cuts, bruises, and other
assorted traumas, we thanked the Corpsman, returned to pack our camp gear
away and set off for the Nautica exhibit in Norfolk.
This turned out to be a great way to spend a rainy afternoon,
before we made our way back to the base for a final meal in the mess and
the long trip home.
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Bike
Rides
March
1999
March 14 – Muddy Creek Road
Well,
with one thing or another conflicting, Nick and Eric decided to make a
bike ride rather that sit at home moaning about the loss of a wilderness
survival weekend. So off it
was with Don and Toni B. and Paul S. for a round trip featuring Muddy
Creek Road. The trouble with scouts is that they are impatient and not
willing to settle for a pace which allows them to smell the roses.
They were chomping at the bit and eventually, they were given their
head and were off to the races. Paul
did make them stop to look at a couple of fine cedar trees, and after a
dog joined our group we did a good turn by doubling back and returning it
to its home. Anyway another
22 miles under our belts.
March 28 – Kent Island – 25
miles
Josh, Eric, Gordon, Philip,
Nick, Jeremy, Brev, Rosemary, Toni and Don
The
second “come as you are” bike ride was held on Kent Island – a
suitably flat piece of ground for us to get our cycling anatomy in shape.
The meeting point at Stevensville Middle School was suddenly
illuminated by a green flash – unfortunately not the astronomical event
– with the arrival of Brev M. Brev
was wearing a bright green jacket, and do we mean bright green – you
could have read the newspaper by it after dark.
For the rest of the afternoon, we all knew Brev’s whereabouts.
Kidding aside, Brev’s jacket was just the ticket from a safety
point of view and we should all follow suit and don such attire.
Speaking of Don, he was there too with Toni and Nick.
Jeremy H. after scrambling his brains with mathematical contusions
on a Saturday afternoon all spring was ready to exercise a less auspicious
part of his anatomy. Joshua, or Josh as I believe he prefers, came on his
inaugural scout outing. Rounding
out the bunch were Eric and Gordon, accompanied by Rosemary and Paul.
Enough
of the electric tire inflators, it was time to head off down the road. Our initial goal was north to Love Point and a return down
Route 8 to the Route 50 crossover. This
part of the trip had no hard shoulder, but traffic was very light. Before
pushing further south, the lure of the gas station rest room proved
irresistible for most of our motley crew.
Suitably relieved, Brev was soon setting a comfortable pace down
the shoulder and the promised sun finally started to break through the
clouds and the beacon of our lead dog lit up even brighter.
The road here was much busier and we were appreciative of the
shoulder.
Passing
the site of the first Christian church in Maryland – obviously replaced
by a modern structure - and Matapeake State Park where the ferries used to
leave to cross the Bay, we were soon at our destination and walking down
Romancoke pier. Fortunately,
there was no head wind to contend with in either direction and our trip
north was interrupted by a short stop to watch a pair of Bald Eagles and
two immature eagles as they bounced around the tree top and showed off
their plumage. We polished
off the final miles enjoying the descent down the overpass from Route 50
and winding our way back into Stevensville.
Loaded up, we set off back across the Bay Bridge, with Paul Smith
calculating by the time he arrived home, it would be an excuse to party,
as his car would be four miles short of the 300,000 mile barrier.
That’s how many times around the world Jeremy?
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Grachur
Cabins
February 1999
Vague
directions of “Follow Lake Shore to the end, near the Girl Scout Camp,
and look for Gratcher, or something like that” was no deterrent to Eric,
Philip K, Nick, Jeremy, Philip E, Christian, Daniel, John, Danny, and
David, who were ably supported by adults Rick E., Don and Toni B., Taylor
M., Reggie C., and Scoutmaster Paul S.
Somehow or other we found the place which is actually called
“Grachur” a corruption of Grace Church in north west Baltimore to
which Grachur owes its origins long before any of the aforesaid party were
born. By the time former
Scoutmaster Brev M. joined us, we had a blazing fire, the boys had
established their territory for the weekend, and hot chocolate was on the
stove.
We
were here for what has turned out to be an annual pilgrimage to Grachur to
hone our fundamental scouting skills, primarily of the fire building and
pioneering sort. This year we
were joined at various times by Webelos in search of a day’s outing with
the Boy Scouts as a requirement for their Order of the Arrow award. Dens from Packs 249, 771, and two dens from Pack 366 spent
portions of the morning or afternoon with us.
James,
fresh from a week with the JROTC and the Navy, came out and helped set up
the fire strings. Making a
wide clearance in the leaves, fire buckets at the ready, two strings were
strung between trees at 18 inches and 2 feet off the ground.
Meanwhile Brev was instructing our scouts and Webelos of the subtle
difference between tinder, kindling, and fuel, and the need for the fire
to breathe. Twenty minutes is
not a long time to go and find appropriate material, get back to the fire
line and have a fire built and ready for the arrival of the “two
matches”. At the appointed
hour, matches were dispensed and applied to these potential infernos. For many the loss of the first match with no apparent flames
was followed by a second match and retirement with less than a blaze of
glory. Others, however, were
more successful and were challenging last year’s lower string champion
Philip K. John, Nick, and the
Philips had promising fires alight, but none to compare with the Webelos
of Pack 771 consortium assisted by Michael "call me Pyro” H.
Yes we were outdone by the Cub Scouts, but the strings were quickly
reset and Nick managed to be the first solo participant to burn the lower
strings, but try as he might, even willing to sacrifice his jacket, he
could not get enough fuel and height to his flames.
John and Philip E were quickly gaining and it was only a matter of
time before the mound of material Philip had assembled caught fire and
took down the upper string.
A
second setting of the strings offered a second chance to those whose
initial efforts fizzled. With
the help of successful fire builders and the leaders, everyone was able to
get a fire started this time and leave in the glow of their
accomplishment. Our final
task was to make certain all embers were completely out and to remove all
evidence of our fire building activity.
Boy Scouts has embraced a new policy of Leave No Trace and we took
it to heart - even hauling the charred remains for our evening fire.
After
lunch, we were joined by RT and Gordon for our afternoon pioneering
project. The task was to
build a platform, about ten feet above the ground, between three trees.
The first challenge was to get the cross members secured to the
trees. The only problem is
that the scouts are not 10 feet tall. It did not take long for a stick to be tied around the end of
the rope and thrown between a branch and the trunk. The second problem is that this never works because the stick
goes anywhere but between the branch and the trunk. Eric was soon gaining a significant advantage by climbing the
tree and from his elevated position duly deposited said stick through the
appointed gap. Now we’re
cooking and the cross member rose through the wintry air.
The third problem is that the other end is on the ground.
A quick temporary lashing to a prop got this taken care of, but
it’s amazing how heavy tree limbs become when you are trying to hold
them above your head for a significant amount of time.
Problem number four took no time at all.
An old ladder found in the woods and a picnic table was all the
lift the boys needed to get into place to start lashing.
And problem number five – how do you tie a lashing? – did not
materialize I am very glad to report.
Having solved all the problems, the second cross member did not
take long to hoist and secure into position.
Now it was a piece of cake placing the platform in place.
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This page was last updated on
05 October 2009
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