Camp Black Mountain

He sat silently drifting on the surface of the lake. An ominous presence, scary and possibly deadly. We didn’t know. We stared at him from the shore. He gave the impression that he may be a crocodile waiting to strike. He wore sunglasses, had sunblock smeared heavily on his nose, an Army drill sergeant’s hat on his head, and a transistor radio which was playing softly from the bow seat. He didn’t smile, he didn’t speak, he just glared. Such was our introduction to Mr. Darson, the Black Mountain Waterfront Director.

“All right boys, listen up! I am Mr. Darson. I am the Waterfront Director this year at Black Mountain Scout Camp. Before any of you can participate in activities on the lake, you must first pass a swimming test which consists of jumping off the dock, swimming out around my canoe and back to the dock again. When you make it, put your name on a tag and put the tag on the buddy board. Afterward, you will take a shower. Are there any questions?”

All the scouts at this week’s camp were standing in their swimsuits on the shore of the lake. We were alternating swatting at mosquitoes and shivering. The morning sun had not cleared the top of the hill and there was a mist on the lake. I was standing next to my best friend, Chuck.

“Why would we take a shower after we swim?” I whispered to Chuck.

“Swimmer’s Itch,” he whispered back. “It’s a parasite from duck and goose poop that burrows into your skin and makes you itchy. I saw a kid once who had so many itch sores on him, he looked like he had chicken pox.”

The first five scouts went out on the dock and jumped into the lake. That early in the day, the lake was quiet except for the quacking of the ducks, the honking of geese, and the screaming of freezing boys. They swam out around the canoe under the watchful eye of Mr. Darson. Any boy who was a poor swimmer and couldn’t complete the course was given a red tag which meant he would have to wear a life jacket whenever he was on the waterfront.

“Next five!” Mr. Darson shouted.

Five more boys jumped into the lake followed by five loud screams. This time, on the way back to the dock, one of the boys floundered. Immediately, Mr. Darson paddled the canoe alongside him. He grabbed the swimmer by the arm and locked the swimmer’s cold hand onto the gunwale and towed him back to the dock.

“This one gets a red tag!” he yelled to the staff on the beach. He then paddled back to his spot on the lake.

“Next five!” he shouted.

“Let’s do it, Mitchell,” Chuck said and we walked out onto the dock.

Chuck was a good swimmer. I could swim too but I wasn’t as strong over long distances. We both jumped into the lake determined to tough out the cold water. There is though, no toughing out cold water. That’s like saying, “Go ahead and taser me. I won’t feel a thing.” We hit the surface of the water and screamed like little girls.

Our group of boys swam in a tight group. We were so eager to get back to the dock, we were producing five rooster tails. After we had rounded the canoe and were headed to the dock, one of the swimmers splashed me in the face at the same moment I was taking a breath. The water shot down my windpipe into my lungs. Now I couldn’t breathe. Panicking, I started to go under.

Immediately, Mr. Darson raced over with his canoe. He reached over and grabbed my arm at the same time I reached up with my hand and grabbed onto the gunwale to lift my head out of the water. This tipped the canoe causing him to lose balance. The canoe flipped upside down, tossing him into the lake.

For a few seconds, there was only me, the canoe, and his drill sergeant hat floating on the surface. Then Mr. Darson surfaced also. He could yell like a drill sergeant also. His dark glasses and transistor radio were on the bottom of the lake. Swimming back to the dock, I grabbed my tag, hooked it on the buddy board, and made a hasty retreat.

Later that night as I lay in my sleeping bag, I remembered . . .  I was supposed to take a shower. As a matter of fact, very few of the boys took Mr. Darson seriously and showered. About noon the next day, the boys started scratching their arms, legs, chests, and necks. It did look like an epidemic of Chickenpox had hit the camp. The remedy for the itch was Calamine lotion. Pink Calamine lotion. For the next three days at Black Mountain, the scout camp was filled with pink boys. It was an inauspicious beginning to a long week.

The dining hall was seven tenths of a mile from the camp. Every meal, we would walk .7 over and .7 back. This made for a great appetite and sore feet, but it also prepared the Scouts who wanted to earn their 50-mile hike patch.

There were quite a variety of merit badges to be earned at camp. Black Mountain offered Archery, Sailing, Canoeing, Rifle and Shotgun, Cooking, Swimming, Lifesaving, and First aid to name a few. Chuck, who played trumpet in the band, brought a bugle to pass his bugling merit badge. Every morning at 0700 he would blow reveille, ignoring the complaints of the other sleeping scouts. Every evening he would blow taps. There is much debate as to how the bugle got left on the ground below his bunk, but sometime around midnight one night he jumped out of his top bunk to use the latrine and landed squarely on the bugle, crushing the tubing and rendering the bugle useless. We remedied the loss by giving him a 12-inch-long piece of ¾” copper tubing with a funnel duct taped to the end. The tone was a bit off, but he was able to finish the requirements of the badge.

The staff, in the evenings, would provide skits, music, and demonstrations while we sat around the campfire by the lake. It was during one of these evenings that Mr. Darson put on a demonstration of how to gunwale jump a canoe.

He drifted up to the shore in front of the campfire wearing a new pair of sunglasses, his ‘Go Army‘ tee shirt, a pair of Boy Scout shorts, and his Army Drill Sergeant’s hat.

“Gunwale Jumping is a skill maneuver. It is a way to propel your canoe across the lake without using paddles. It will help you develop core strength and balance.”

“Now, the first thing you do is carefully make your way to the stern of the canoe.”

He stood in a stooped position and while holding on the two gunwales, he walked to the rear of the canoe.

“Next, you will turn around facing the bow and you will carefully stand up on the two outside gunwales without losing your balance.”

He placed first, his left foot on the left gunwale. Then he stepped with his right foot on the right gunwale and with the shakiness of a slackline walker he stood upright on the canoe.

“Now you will bend your knees into a squat and rapidly stand upright pushing the stern of the canoe down and raising the bow up out of the water. You will continue with this motion. Each time you pump, the canoe will gain momentum. Please watch!”

Mr. Darson squatted and pushed down on the stern of the canoe. The bow jumped up in the air. As it came back down, he squatted and pushed it up again. Each time he did the maneuver the canoe moved a little faster across the water. He did this ten times and was 40 feet from the scouts.

“Now, to make a slow turn, you will push with more pressure on one leg to lean the canoe in that direction. I will now make a slow turn to the left.”

He started pumping again. This time you could see the canoe lean slightly to the left as he pumped, and the bow swung to the left. And then he pumped too strong with his left foot, tipped the canoe at a steep angle and lost his balance. With a drill sergeant’s vocabulary, Mr. Darson went into the lake. For the next few seconds, the only sounds to be heard were the quack of ducks and the honking of geese on the lake. The canoe drifted slowly away, and his hat bobbed on the surface. Then he too surfaced, coughing and flailing his arms. It was evident that his new sunglasses were also on the bottom of the lake. It was only because of safety in numbers that the scouts started laughing and clapping. The angry, embarrassed drill sergeant grabbed the bow line of the canoe and pulled it back to shore.

On the last day of camp, after my backpack was refilled with dirty clothes and my sleeping bag was rolled, I had my last interaction with Mr. Darson. I had a brand-new jack knife in my pocket. I grabbed a two-inch diameter branch and thought I would try some whittling, in which I had no formal instruction. Placing my thumb on the blade, I pushed the knife down the branch, peeling off bark. When the blade came off the end of the branch, my thumb pushed the blade closed laying it across my right middle finger, cutting it down to the bone.

Remembering Mr. Darson’s drill sergeant vocabulary, I turned the camp blue. I don’t know where he came from, but up he walked.

“Did you call me, soldier?” he asked. “Let me look at that.”

“Oh, Cripes! That’s going to need some stitches. Until then, let me call over the boys from the First Aid merit badge.”

On the way home, I had the largest, most creative looking bandage on my middle finger I have ever seen.

Why would men give up their summer vacation, including Mr. Darson’s two weeks of leave to spend time with Boy Scouts? I think the answer is that boys need great men as role models. Many of the boys had no dad at home. Boys also need a place to be taught the skills of the woodsman which is what Black Mountain had to offer.

Black Mountain Scout Camp which was established in 1929 had its final camp in 2012 and was eventually sold to a private owner in 2013. In its 83 years of existence, the camp hosted 360 to 600 Tenderfoot through Eagle Scouts each season teaching every aspect of the Boy Scouts of America. In its prime in our county, there were so many Boy Scout and Cub Scout troops that everybody knew someone who was a Scout. Those men are now scattered around the county and the state. Each one has their own Camp Black Mountain story which they speak fondly of, remembering the cooks, the Troop Leaders, the Camp Directors, merit badge coaches, and the most interesting waterfront directors like Mr. Darson.

(All Camp Black Mountain photos were shared from the Friends of Camp Black Mountain site on Facebook)

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