For what they may be worth, here are some reminiscences and anecdotes from three chapters in my early life involving Camp Drake. Memory is almost my only helper because I didn't keep a record of dates and events at the time. But maybe, when combined with the responses of others, more details about some of this history will emerge.
My first encounter with the camp was in about 1942 when I was a 12 year old member of troop 7 in Champaign. My scoutmaster was Ed Cline who, after returning from army service in World War II, became Dick Potter's assistant scout executive. I think that during those years a scout could attend camp for a week or more -- maybe even for the whole season. He didn't come with his own troop, but rather as an individual camper. We lived, of course, on cabin row where wily veterans had an empty orange crate for storage of odds and ends next to their cots.
Swim call (by bugle, I think, as for other activities) was twice a day. Those fortunate scouts who were "swimmers" crossed the Salt Fork on elevated planks to go to Poncho Pond. Those of us who were non-swimmers had to splash around in the shallow water of the river itself down below cabin row. Deep mud and clam shells come to mind as part of that not-so-great experience. Sometime later the floating "crib" made with 55 gallon oil drums and planks was constructed at Poncho Pond for the non-swimmers. The bottom boards became slick as grease after the accumulation of algae, but it was an excellent improvement. Ed Cline, I believe was the crib's architect and construction foreman.
Along with our meals in the dining hall (called mess hall then) went rotating duties for each table. Someone (can't remember the name for it) had to come in early to set the table. "Heavers" carried food from the kitchen counters to the tables. I can't recall who cleared things away, but the worst job of all was washing the dishes and cooking pans in the dish shack connected to the dining hall. They had to be done by hand in tubs. Years later, I think, a dishwashing machine took over this onerous chore, which was later performed by junior staff.
Some of the evening activities stand out in my memory. I especially liked the wide game called "release." The campers were divided into two teams. One team formed a big prison-like circle to contain captives hunted down (3 whacks on the back) from the other team. This team tried to break through the circle, thereby releasing the captives. The game took place at dusk and after dark -- great fun!
One memorable evening featured a treasure hunt with one clue leading to another. Clever me. I was absolutely certain the next clue was up inside to camp bell that was mounted on a pole. I reached up inside the bell and grabbed--- a live wasp nest. Oh, the pain, the pain!
And who can forget those wonderful, magical campfires! I can recall my first one, seated on a huge log at the old campfire circle. The details are long since forgotten, but I still can almost hear staff member Gus who began the campfire story by saying, "A wagon pulled by two horses was traveling down the dirt road. A man and a woman were sitting on the seat. Only they didn't have any heads!"
It might have been sometime during those years that the staff, lurching around in the campfire circle with heads down and hands clasped behind their backs, sang that woeful song containing the phrase, "The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out ..." At the song's end they leaped toward the wide-eyed campers with a frightful scream, leaving them twittering like birds for a few moments. Singing, skits, and even pillow fights --- they were all part of the fun.
Scouts were selected for the Order of the Arrow at that time in camp-wide elections as I recall --- not by their fellow scouts in their home troops. The "night alone" locations were assigned to the newly elected by active OA members with something less than regard for sleeping comfort. When my turn came (can't remember after how many years at camp) my guide put me on some clay steps that led down to the Poncho Pond dock. Needless to say, it was a restless night. Sometime after falling asleep, to my befuddled consternation, I awoke to dimly see a body lying a few feet away. Being sworn to silence, and only half awake, I mentally wrestled with this problem during much of the night. At daybreak, of course, it became apparent that it was all in my imagination. But I never forgot it.
All of this happened when camp activities centered around the end of the plateau adjacent to the bridge that crossed over to cabin row. Structures included the dining hall, trading post, cook's cabin, a bulletin board shelter, and a four hole latrine (later called the roadmaster after the decorative holes in the fenders of Buicks). The latrine was the summer home of large, scary wolf spiders that compelled watchful attention while sitting. Sometime later the first aid and handicraft buildings were added. And so it was later when I was on the camp staff in the late 1940's and early 1950's, and when, as a field executive in Arrowhead Council, I was the camp director in the mid 1950's. Several years ago my wife and I revisited and explored Camp Drake. No one else was there. Nor were the buildings, bulletin board, and that camp bell that had once occupied the grassless, hard packed ground so memorable from those early chapters in my life. The old campfire circle with its big logs was also gone as were the cabins on cabin row. Only photographs can now show the settings for that part of the camp's vibrant history.
The next chapter in my Camp Drake experience began, I believe, in 1949. Some scouts were coming to camp with their troops at that time, but I don't think they had their own leaders with them. Other boys who came from several different troops were put into camp troops. Either way, staff served as their camp scoutmasters. The boys still lived in the cabins on cabin row, non-swimmers now swam in the floating crib at Poncho Pond, and R.J. Walston was our nature counselor. R.J. served on the staff for many years, and those who went to camp during that time will remember him with fondness and appreciation.
I wish I had kept a journal detailing my experiences on the camp staff for the next few years. It would include an event on visitors' night when everyone up by the flagpole was treated to the sight of an Indian, in full costume, who was suddenly illuminated by a fire high up in a tall tree. Raising his arms, he then sang the Omaha Tribal Prayer. At the song's conclusion, the entire fire, pushed off the platform by a hidden accomplice, fell out of the tree and cascaded to the ground below. Boy, talk about a dramatic effect! On our revisit to the camp several years ago, my wife and I found the remains of the wooden cleats attached to the tree for climbing to the platform. The tree was located in the vicinity of where the handicraft lodge used to be. I'll bet the remains of the cleats are still there.
The journal would also include the sight of another camp staff Indian careening wildly through the trees toward the campfire circle with a kerosine torch. Might have been an Order of the Arrow ceremony. No matter. His mistake was holding the torch in front of him, thus blinding him completely. How he avoided an ignominious crash was truly an act of grace. Lesson learned? Always carry the torch above or behind ;your head.
Another inclusion would be the mysterious, awe inspiring chemical starting of the fire in the campfire circle. Wish I could but I can't remember the chemical --- probably sodium of potassium something or other that was mixed with sugar. When the string was pulled, and the hidden can of water spilled into the mix --- wow! With a crackle and a burst of flame, the campfire ignited all by itself. One year we had stupidly stored the chemical up at the flagpole. A camper found it and put some of it into his pocket. His body perspiration, of course, ignited the stuff and caused a serious burn.
And the journal definitely would have included my falling crazily in love for the first time. Louie Pope was the scout executive during part of that time, and his daughter visited camp with an out of town girl friend. As the saying goes, I was smitten and romance blossomed. Letters began arriving with "sealed with a kiss" written on the envelopes. Whew! Irresistible stuff! But silly me. A year or so later she sent a final letter announcing that she was going to marry a guy in her home town. And just when I thought things were going so well. Oh, the pain.
After graduating from the U. of I. and serving a two year hitch in the army that was mandated by an ROTC commitment, I got married and joined the council professional staff in the summer of 1955. Dick Lebetsamer was the scout executive but soon departed to be replaced by Elmer Taake. Also that summer a campaign to raise funds to build a swimming pool at Camp Drake was launched. Except for boating and canoeing, it was time for venerable Poncho Pond to go.
I had the privilege and enjoyment of being the camp director for two or three years, beginning in 1956. The scouts no longer lived on cabin row. Big ex-army tents on wooden platforms were now their camp homes. Also, they all came to camp now with their own troops and with their own leaders. The new swimming pool up near the flagpole provided a safer and more convenient facility. One relic of the past, however, was the pump that supplied our water. Located along side the river down from the plateau where the buildings were, it was sometimes a source of great concern. On one 4th of July holiday, when all repair businesses were closed, lightning struck the pump, and the camp was without water. Luckily it was a weekend. I can't remember all of what followed except to recall going up and down the steep hillside from the pump to the pump house many times, trying to fix the thing. It was an exercise of futility, of course, but a great workout.
Well, this reminiscing is going on far too long. Pleasurable as it is, it's time to wrap it up. After leaving Arrowhead Council, I directed summer camps in another of the two councils in which I served before leaving the profession. Satisfying as these experiences were, they don't hold a place in my affections as deep as for the people and experiences in my old home camp.
A long time ago I decided to transform the story of the Old Man of the Pollywogs into an epic poem. It began:
"Have you ever stood by the blasted dam and thought to wonder why,
What the water worn secret the old stones hold as the river eddies by.
When the cold pale moon peers down through the trees, and a distant hound bays out
And the night wind whispers along the trail as it rustles the leaves about.
Have you ever gazed at that ruined dam in the dark of the river trail
And sort of wished that the stones could speak and tell their fearful tale."
I pecked at it for awhile but finally put it aside. Time eventually erased much of the story from my memory so I put it away for good. Like the story, the events of my experiences at Camp Drake have faded somewhat. But many recollections of that wonderful part of my life will never fade. And I'm absolutely thrilled that the council is putting together this 75th anniversary celebration.
With warmest regards,
Jim Sampson