1.
It was a Friday in
June, 1972, and my night off, well, sort of a night off. I was scheduled for
OD, which meant “Officer of the Day” and which, curiously, started at ten p.m.,
but it was routine for any counselor on OD to be free of any responsibilities
after dinner until his shift started. Lacking any money to go to town, and fed
up with being around 12 year old boys all day, I had decided to take a little
walk out to what looked like a trout stream I had spotted on a big, black and
white aerial photo tacked up in the main hall. At its center were the sprawling
grounds of Camp Crestwood, but it also included the surrounding country, about
a mile or so out.
As I headed past
the mess hall, Lindsay, the head cook’s daughter, was just coming out of the
swinging screen doors. “Where are you headed?” Lindsay was wearing a tight, white t-shirt, jeans and tennies, having shed the plastic apron and baseball cap I usually saw her in. We had spoken a few times, actually it seemed like she had a made a point of talking to me when we met at the serving line or something. She was 16 or 17 and a “townie,” meaning she didn’t come from Chicago’s north side and wasn’t Jewish, like mostly all the boys and counselors here.
“Just going for a walk. I’ve got OD tonight, so I’m free for a few hours. I want to check out a trout stream.”
“Jared, right?” I nodded. “Don’t you need a fishing pole and stuff?” Being a fly fisherman, I winced at the term “pole.” Trout fishermen use a rod, a “fishing pole’ is something your dad gives you when you’re fishing for bullheads with worms, but I let it go.
“I’m just going to see it, uh, you know, scouting, see if there’s anything in it.”
“Lindsay squinted at me for a minute as if processing whether I was being honest or just making up an excuse to go smoke some weed or something. The sun was taking on that kind of reddish cast that brought out her tan. I should mention that by a unanimous, if unspoken vote of the 180 or so men and boys, Lindsay was the cutest thing in camp.
“Want some company? Mom’s got another hour or so, and I’ve got to wait for her to finish.” Apparently either she believed my story or didn’t care.
“It looks like about two miles, there and back, are you sure?”
“I could use the exercise, and, God, it’s so nice out.” She spread her arms as if embracing the vista of the camp playing fields, the woods in the distance, all bathed in the fading light. She was pretty, maybe more than pretty, and you had the feeling she knew it. Standing there on the front steps of the mess hall, created a stage-like effect, with Lindsay, the stunning heroine in the leading role, and me, the lowly groundling. It occurred to me she had been working since before lunch, so probably she had gotten plenty of exercise, clearing tables, washing trays, taking care of the garbage, and all the other chores she probably had to do as kitchen help, but I had to agree, it was warm for June, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep it from being hot and sticky.
I was anxious to get started and out of the public camp eye, so I said, “Okay, be my guest.” I guess I should make one thing clear here: I’ve never been exactly a lady-killer. I’m about 5’9” and, in those days, a little on the gangly side, wire rim glasses, longish brown hair, prone to unbuttoned flannel shirts and faded jeans, maybe moccasins. Having someone with Lindsay’s looks actually flirting with me (if that’s what she was doing), would be a new experience. She appeared to be the kind of perky knockout that would be at the top of any popularity heap, one I would have considered out of my league. Don’t get me wrong, I guess I’d done okay with girls, done my share of fooling around in back seats and on assorted couches, but most of my relationships with girls hadn’t lasted too long, and I’d have to say the breakups had gone pretty crappy, whether it had been my idea or theirs.
There was a sandy lane that started on the other side of the main road which marked the east boundary of Camp Crestwood. It was probably an old logging road or fire lane, mainly just used by hunters and kids with dirt bikes now, but the camp used it for one of the many “nature hikes” with the kids, and Elliot, one of the older counselors had mentioned to me that it would cut the stream.
Once we got onto the logging road and the woods closed in on both sides, I felt less self-conscious. It was a little cooler here, but more humid. I’m generally kind of a fast walker, but Lindsay didn’t seem to mind. I glanced over to her and she smiled back. She was cute, there was no doubt about it. Her bra was clearly defined under her shirt and though she was petite, she wasn’t skinny or bony-looking, just filled out, athletic-looking, nice and curvy. She had sandy blonde hair, at the moment done up in a bouncy pony tail, probably to keep it out of her face in the kitchen. I reminded myself that I was 21 and she was probably going into her senior year in high school. She drew a lot leering in the mess hall from both counselors and campers alike, but never seemed to pay it any attention.
“So, how’re you liking being a Sachem?” For some reason, all kinds of supposedly Indian-sounding words were used at Camp Crestwood, counselors were “Sachems,” the campers were “Braves.” Though townies were never campers, after working summers here for a few years, Lindsay apparently had the lingo down.
“It’s a job, but I’m still feeling a little out of place I guess.”
“Really, why’s that?” She gave me a raised eyebrow, wide-eyed look. “Weren’t you ever a Brave?” She gave the word “Brave” just enough emphasis to imply a skeptical regard for the privileged boys she served at Crestwood every summer.
“Hardly, I grew up about 40 miles from here, not in the suburbs of Chicago, and, um, I’m not Jewish, either.”
“You are out of place. Why’d you apply here?” She was having no trouble keeping up, and seemed to have none of the nervous apprehension my campers had whenever they stepped foot into what they regarded as “the wilderness.” Most of the campers and counselors at Camp Crestwood had grown up in wealthy enclaves like North Brook, Skokie, and Highland Park, and their woodsy experience was probably limited to the local, carefully manicured park, but of course, Lindsay was a townie, and probably had had all kinds of adventures out here in the sticks of northern Wisconsin.
“I saw the ad for archery instructor, and I know something about that, plus I’m thinking of getting a teaching degree, and I thought this might be a good thing to have on my resume, you know, working with kids and everything…oh, and of course the huge salary and the opportunity to spend eight weeks in an unheated cabin with 10 kids who expect Sasquatch to appear any minute…” She laughed. So, I could make her laugh…
“I knew you were different the first time I saw you in the mess. Most of the counselors were campers here once, so I know a lot of them pretty well, plus you’re the only Sachem that hasn’t hit on me, at least not yet anyway.” She glanced my way and grinned, and I felt for a moment, speechless. At this point I should probably mention Lindsay’s eyes. They were a kind of a brilliant blue, like the blue on a beach ball. They were, in a word, stunning.
“Hey, is this a race or something?”
“Oh, sorry, I guess I walk kind of fast.” I searched for a way to go with the conversation, still turning over the thing about getting ‘hit on.’ “Um, it must be weird, being like the only girl in a camp full of boys, most them with raging hormones.” Lindsay, and her pert little body, were often hot topics for the boys in my cabin after lights out and had probably launched many a Camp Crestwood fantasy.
“I don’t really think about it anymore, Mom keeps me pretty busy. God, it’s only the fifth week of camp, and I’m sooo sick of washing those oatmeal pots.”
I had no response, but stepping over a deadfall in the road we sort of jostled shoulders together. Lindsay flashed me a smile, not a bit self-conscious.
On our right, the woods gave way to an open potato field. There was an irrigation pivot shooting streams of water, making little rainbows of mist. Lindsay seemed completely at ease, like she did this every night. She had kind of an intent walk, bent slightly forward, chin out, with her arms swinging wide. For some reason, I got the feeling Lindsay brought the kind of determination shown in her stride to everything she did.
“I don’t think the creek is too much farther now, you sure your mom’s okay on this?”
Lindsay turned to face me and rolled her eyes, probably taking this as the kind of thing I would say to a kid, and I instantly regretted it, but then again, she was an attractive little thing, stranded in the middle of maybe 160 over-sexed boys and about 20 mostly rich college guys who probably saw the local talent as fair game. If I was her mother, I’d be concerned. I wondered if her mom had laid down some rules about hanging out with the sachems.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m a big girl,” she said.
The woods closed in again on both sides and, with the sandy road starting to pitch down. I figured we were getting close to the creek.
“So, what are you gonna teach?”
“What?” I had slipped into kind of a fog, jumping back and forth between thinking about the curious case of Lindsay’s interest in me and my usual stream approach mode, keeping an eye out for hatches or trails that would indicate the stream was being pounded by local fishermen.
“What kind of teacher are you going to be?”
“English, I guess, high school, I don’t know, maybe go on to grad school and try teaching college. When I got out of high school, basically it was either college or the draft, but then I started thinking eventually I’d have to get a real job, and teaching seems like something I could probably handle without doing too much harm.” Actually, I had a lot of doubts about that. Was I just taking the path of least resistance?
“I had a great English teacher last year, Mr. Tolofson. He was cool.”
“Oh, yeah?” The image of Lindsay sitting in a high school classroom adoringly looking up at a Mr. Tolofson reminded me of how much younger she was. Just a kid, really, but still, I immediately felt a twinge of something like jealousy.
Before we could explore the topic of Mr. Tolofson and his apparent coolness; however, the road, now more of two parallel paths, took a sharp left and the stream came into view. There was an old bridge of weathered, rough cut planks fording it. We took a little trail down to the right of the bridge that led to an open, sandy area, salted with raccoon tracks, some beer bottles, and Styrofoam worm cartons.
“Looks like somebody’s been fishing here,” said Lindsay. She found a clean patch of sand and sat, wrapping her arms about her knees. I, on the other hand, inspected the stream, what I could see of it anyway, affecting the appearance of Jared Mathison, Ace Trout Detective, looking for clues. The water was plenty cool and quite clear (it hadn’t rained in a week), and the current was strong enough to scour the bottom down to gravel, especially where the bridge embankments narrowed it. It was about 20 feet across above and below the bridge. Just down from where Lindsay now sat gazing off into the sunset, it swept in a dogleg to the east and under a mess of overhanging tag alders. That’s where the big browns would be, I thought, if the locals hadn’t cleaned them out with gobs of nightcrawlers and, in all probability, cane poles. It looked to be fairly “fishy” but a real challenge with a fly rod. The brush on the banks and overhanging trees, coupled with the narrowness of the creek would demand some circus casts. Inspection complete, I returned to Lindsay and squatted beside her. She released her knees and lay back, her hands behind her head. She closed her eyes. For some reason her casualness with this whole situation made me feel even more awkward, out of place, like I was the younger one here or something.
“This is the best time of the year,” she said. Her eyes still closed, I was free to give her the same kind of treatment I had just given the creek. Her hair was cut at her collar with soft, blondish streaks, and she had long, full eyelashes. Her t-shirt had ridden up, revealing a strip of her midsection, firm, tan, and smooth, and I wondered if she was a cheerleader in school. She must have sensed my gawking and opened her eyes, but made no effort to pull her shirt down.
“I like it here,” she said. “It’s peaceful and if you close your eyes and listen, you can hear the creek.” I looked back to the creek, instinctively checking for any sign of feeding fish.
“Try it.” I turned back to her and closed my eyes.
“No, silly, lie down like this, and just relax.” I leaned back and spread my hands under the back of my head, imitating her. “Right, now close your eyes… there, now just listen.”
It was hard to concentrate; I knew exactly what she was talking about. You can hear a creek, the gurgle of the current, sometimes rocks tumbling on the bottom, but I was starting to worry about where this was going. I often have like a debate going on in my head, one whiny voice raising all kinds of worries, the other telling me to just relax a little, go with the flow.
We lay there, silent for a few minutes.
I said, “You know, I think I can hear the fish talking,”
Lindsay smirked. “Really? What are they talking about?”
“I don’t know, it’s something about a pretty girl and a guy in a flannel shirt—I can’t be sure—I I only speak bluegill, they’re speaking trouteese.”
I opened my eyes as Lindsay turned on her side toward me, propping her arm under her head.
“I think you should probably kiss me now.”
