My first-grade grandson joined the Cub Scouts this year. Right now, he’s a Tiger, but he’s planning to move steadily up through the Wolf and Bear packs, changing out his hat and neckerchief as needed, until he achieves the exalted level of Webelo. Harold and I are very proud.
His dad will move up, too, because the man bravely took on the job of leading the Cubs. In his own hat and neckerchief, he’s responsible for organizing outings and activities for the young Tigers and their older Tiger dads. I like to think of him as the Scoutmeister.
I’m big on scouting. My daughters started as snaggle-toothed Brownies and made their way up to Senior Gold Status, the equivalent of the BSA Eagle Scout. During those first years, they would return home from each weekly meeting with a new craft and song, some of which are still rattling around in my brain. After meticulous lessons in fire-building and campsite safety, their troops attended day camp and finally (ta-da!) they went off on a big overnight adventure.
Not so the little Tigers. The first thing they did was go camping. Yep, the very first weekend, the dads loaded their young sons into their SUV’s and headed out into the Florida campground semi-wilderness. I was impressed with their chutzpah, particularly because my son-in-law had never been camping. Ever. Neither had a lot of the other dads. Even the Big Kahuna, the leader-in-chief of the exalted Webelos, is an ER doctor who recently moved to suburban Florida from New York. As otherwise talented as this group may be, they are not woodsmen, yet they bravely set out with their young heirs carrying tents that had never been out of the box.
Oh, and a package of hotdogs. Two nights of camping, two packages of hotdogs, all cooked over Quick Mart fireplace logs that turned the entire meal black. Did this deter the fledgling Scouts? No. The second weekend, my son-in-law introduced the cheese quesadilla and was pronounced a camping gourmet. You live and you learn.
The group has made a number of excursions since then, each time returning home tired and dusty, their soap and toothbrushes untouched. Yep, just a bunch of guys out in the wilderness with their cell phones.
Thank goodness, before they first set out, my daughter, who made it through the Brownie song/craft initiation to become an experienced, though not enthusiastic, camper, asked her Tiger leader husband for some of the planning particulars. Would there be bathrooms at the campsite? Was there refrigeration available? No one seemed to know, or care, for that matter, a point that caused a flurry of worried phone calls among the Tiger moms. Since no one wanted to dampen the group’s enthusiasm, it was decided to simply tuck an extra cell phone charger and a vat of bug repellant into the duffle bags and hope for the best. My daughter later added the caveat that she not be texted about any hilarious camp hijinks, like the appearance of an alligator 10 feet from Bobby Winslow’s tent, until everyone was safely home.
Fair enough.
The Tigers are a greenhorn crew, to be sure, which is what makes the adventure so wonderful. The fact that these otherwise accomplished dads would voluntarily leap out of their comfort zones to make weekend memories with their sons makes me smile. Way to go, dads.
Oh, and don’t you worry about this group. They ran rings around the other packs during the annual popcorn sale. ABC: Always Be Closing – and Camping.