“Mr. Mitchell,” came a soft voice behind me.
“What is it Cam,” I whispered.
We were in a movie theater. I had taken the middle school boys from the church as a reward for their achievements during the year. Cam was sitting in the theater seat directly behind me.
“I need a place to put my gum,” he said. “I don’t want to get my popcorn in it.”
“Wrap it up in your napkin,” I replied.
“But I want to chew it again after the movie,” he said.
“Well, you’re just going to have to be creative,” I said in an irritated tone. “Now watch the movie.”
A moment passed and then I felt fingers grab the upper part of my right ear. The flap was pushed forward and something wet, thick, and sticky was pushed into the crevice between the ear flap and my scalp.
“Thanks Mr. Mitchell,” said Cameron.
Doggone middle school kids!
What in the world was I thinking, wanting to be a leader of youth when I’m in my late 60s? I remember when I first volunteered to work with the youth group, my confusion was, what am I supposed to be to these kids? Am I to be a friend? Am I to be a teacher, or am I just a grandpa figure who stays off to the side and watches and waits for the youth to come to me?
The first mistake I made was to think that I could waltz into the group and be accepted as a peer, not knowing the background of any of the kids. Regardless of how cool I thought I was, being 55 years older than the oldest teen in the group was too much of an age gap. In my mind’s eye, I felt like Marty the leader, the life of the party. In their eyes I was Mr. Mitchell the creep. So now, recognizing where I stand, I have accepted my role as the old guy who sits in the corner and helps when help is needed.
It was only because of my background in Scouting that I was invited to tag along with the youth group for a five-day hike on the Pacific Crest Trail many summers ago. This was an invitation I reluctantly accepted since the thought of sleeping in a tent on the ground after hiking ten miles was something I swore after Scouting, I would never do again.
The group consisted of the youth pastor, five adult leaders, and 25 co-ed middle schoolers.
One of the adult leaders named Howard was ex-special forces, a veteran from Vietnam. For some reason, though he had been out of the service for some years, he thought he still had the physical strength of a twenty-year-old soldier. This week-long hike was going to be an opportunity for him to show the kids how to fish the high mountain lakes. In his backpack, Howard had placed a one-man raft with paddles, his complete tackle box and fishing pole, two cast iron skillets for frying fish and all his personal camping gear. I would estimate he was carrying 80 pounds.
The church bus ran us to the access of the Pacific Crest Trail at the end of a Forest Service Road. The thirty-one hikers climbed off. Immediately the kids scattered uncontrollably like feral cats with the girls forming small gossip groups and the boys throwing rocks into the trees. The six adults looked at the middle schoolers and longingly at the bus as if to make a last-minute dash for a ride back home, but surprisingly no one took the opportunity. After the last pack was removed, the driver aimed the bus for home and spun gravel as he took off down the hill. I had a hard time forgetting that “so long suckers” smirk on his face.
The first night’s camp was three miles into the woods. It was also at the first lake. Howard took the lead with his overstuffed backpack. The two fry pans dangling from the back occasionally banged together with a loud ringing sound. This served the same purpose as having bear bells. Because Howard sweated profusely, he served as the bear repellent.
At times, the group resembled a long line of pack horses. At other times a flock of sheep, with the shepherd adults working the perimeter to keep the kids from scattering on the hillsides. It was during the first leg of the journey that we also faced issues I hadn’t considered like bathroom breaks, overly heavy backpacks on middle school shoulders, and non-broken-in boots.
As tents were being constructed at the camp, Howard went to the lake and inflated his raft. The sound of “wheeze, wheeze, wheeze” could be heard as the raft filled with air. This was not the sound of a tire pump but instead the rattling lungs of a 20-year smoker. Howard did amaze the kids by catching three trout and frying them at dinner. It was during day two that he twisted his back on the trail and was unable to carry the 80 pounds in his pack. The raft, fishing gear, and bear-bell frying pans were carried off the trail and buried in the woods.
It was during day three that we experienced what will ever be known as the “Nancy Incident.” I know her name was Nancy because she had it monogrammed on the back flap of her pack. Nancy and two other women in their twenties came upon our group. They were traveling in the same direction and being fit hikers, wanted to pass us.
We all remember Nancy. She was very athletic, very fit, and very attractive. She had bright red curly hair which flowed down her shoulders and over her backpack. She also had the tattoo of a snake wrapped around her left bicep which I noticed but no one else did. What everyone did seem to notice was that Nancy was topless.
As Nancy’s group slowly passed our long line of hikers, I could hear the adults saying, “Oh, no!” It could be that Nancy was either a hippie or a nudist because obviously hiking through the crowd and greeting our group didn’t bother her a bit. It did though have some effect on the middle school boys who were falling out of line and over each other. The flustered youth pastor halted the group and gave Nancy’s trio the opportunity to pass and hike ahead of us, much to the disappointment of the boys who were only too eager to have them stay with our group. After an hour had passed and sandwiches had been eaten, we again started down the trail towards our day three camp.
Just as a note to those who don’t know the Pacific Crest trail systems; groups are staggered so the camps have enough room to hold everyone. It therefore was an unsuspected surprise to see two tents set up in our day three camp when we arrived. This would mean we would have to cram our tents tightly together for us all to fit in the campsite. As our group tossed their packs onto the ground and began setting up tents, the hikers who owned the other tents came into the clearing.
It was camp three. It was a warm summer evening, and it was Nancy who was just as topless as before. A sasquatch could have highland danced through the camp and it wouldn’t have pulled the boys’ eyes off the red-haired hiker.
While the adult men herded the boys out of the camp, the women staff came to an agreement with the Nancy crew to keep their shirts on for the rest of the night. The three even joined our campfire for marshmallows that evening with most of the boys eager to offer the ladies their burning blobs of confectionery goo. The middle school girls sat in their small groups looking with disdain at the attention-grabbing Nancy while they again gossiped.
The last day and a half really could only be summed up as anticlimactic for the boys because after all, how could you top the Nancy incident. Howard, now down to a few light articles in his backpack limped the rest of the way out of the woods and needed multiple trips to the chiropractor to fully recover.
When the bus met us at the end of the trail, the unknowing driver asked, “Did you run into any bear?”
“Bear?” I asked. “How do you mean that?”
The poor youth pastor knew there was no way to salvage the hike after Nancy. His Pacific Trail week with the kids would only be remembered, even to this day, as the Nancy Incident.
Rolling back into the church parking lot, which was filled with waiting cars and eager parents, the senior pastor strolled up to me as I stepped off the bus.
“Well Marty, was the hike a success or was it a bust?” he asked.
“A bust?” I asked. “I am 100% sure that you will hear all about it.”
(This story is dedicated to my wonderful proof reader)
(Title photo by Eric Sanman)
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One reply on “Nancy”
For a long time, I had no idea how much I had aged, except that my body felt older. While I did not give up sleeping on the ground quite as soon as my youthful days got left behind, I definitely got to that point about ten years ago where I wouldn’t even think of it. I think, “Hmm, camping … or Temperpedic mattress.” The mattress wins every time. I love the thought of how great it would be to sleep under the stars again, but last time I tried it even in hammock, I got out with a backache before the night was fully upon us an packed it in.
More recently my eyes have caught up with my body. I don’t know how this works, but for years, I saw myself as I looked in my early thirties whenever I thought of myself or had a dream where I was in it. About five years ago, I looked in a mirror and said, “Oh, my gosh, what has happened to you?” Somehow I never really noticed prior to that. But suddenly it was, “You look like an old man — like someone’s grampa!” About time my eyes and mind caught up, since I had already been a grampa for about five years prior to that.
As for Howard, I can’t believe he made that mistake twice. I was hiking with him once along the Pacific Crest Trail when he packed his raft and pans, and looked like he was about to die after one particularly long trek up to a pass. We were, like, “Howard. Next time, don’t bring the washing machine; we can just use the creek.”
I got to your Nancy part and thought, “I can’t believe it. I had that experience, too.” It was my first hike along the Crest Trail with Emmanuel Bible Church. I don’t know what her name was, but I was in in Middle School and was standing in the middle of trail while all the other hikers were sitting back against the mountain slope. I was talking and noticed the group had gone from talking to quiet murmurs and hidden snickers. Then one of the kids said, “David, someone wants to get around you.” I turned, and there was a beautiful college-age and very shapely woman, wearing only her backpack straps and hiking shorts. She, too, was part of a trio, only her companions were two guys. I just stood there and stared at her like a stunned dear as she waited to get around me. After a half an hour that was probably really on three seconds, she smiled nicely and said, “Excuse me,” and I clumsily got out of the way so she could pass. I have no idea what her name was but she became the talk of the group the rest of the way down the trail, and the group moved along much faster now, hoping to catch up. Like your Nancy she wasn’t the least bit bothered. I think I came of age that day. The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform is all I can say. Nancy is still the highlight of God’s natural wonders that I remember from my hiking days.