When William “Bill” Arkwright, senior commander of the Ellwood City Assembly of God Royal Rangers, glanced at a trio of his young recruits, the familiar Japanese proverb sprang to mind.
David “Huck” Allen, Dirk Arkwright and this mild-mannered eighth grader sat beside the campfire, hands covering their eyes, ears, and mouth in perfect imitation of the old adage.
“The three wise monkeys?” Bill muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he reflected on his outpost’s spectacularly embarrassing performance at that morning’s festivities. “They looked more like ‘The Three Stooges’ after tumbling into that mud pit in front of the entire camp.”
“What was I thinking, placing those three hapless scalawags at the front of the line?” the church board member guffawed, already plotting out a new strategy for next year’s event.
Moments earlier, these slapstick comedians were locked in a pulse-pounding tug-of-war battle against another outpost — standing precariously over a trench of soft, gooey mud.
Overlooking the sloppy mess of muck and mire, made even worse by an overnight downpour, I felt the rope gradually slipping through my fingers. The bandanna — our fragile lifeline — teetered at the center of the trench, inching ever closer to the opponent’s side.
Unable to hold on any longer, I felt myself toppling over the edge, plunging straight into the slimy quagmire.
My self-appointed guardian angel latched onto the belt of my trousers, momentarily suspending me in midair before gravity won. The two of us tumbled, headfirst into the shallow pit, closely followed by the Huckmeister — who, in a heroic effort, tried to save us both.
Splat!
I’m pretty sure I heard a chorus of pig-like snorts erupting from the throng of cackling boys and men circling the mud-filled crater as my cohorts and I struggled to get our bearings before clawing our way out of the sticky sludge.
We were competing in the Battle of the Outposts, an Olympic-style tournament designed to foster camaraderie and teamwork among the ranks.
The event was part of the Royal Rangers Spring Jamboree, an annual gathering at Raccoon Creek State Park where church-sponsored boys’ ministry groups from across western Pennsylvania came together each Memorial Day weekend.
“Hopefully, this rain lets up soon,” Dirk sighed, hauling his duffel bag into the back seat of his dad’s orange Suburban before plopping down next to yours truly. “Otherwise, we’ll end up looking like a bunch of drowned rats, huddled around the campfire, eating soggy burgers and sipping watered-down iced tea.”
“Speak for yourself, sunshine,” Huck quipped, barely looking up from his handheld electronic football game. “I’ve got plenty of snacks and batteries for this nifty little gadget to last me the whole weekend. So, while youns are fighting over the last waterlogged cheeseburger, I’ll be kicking back in the tent, happy as a clam.”
“What kind of snacks do you have in that knapsack?” James “Jimmy” Bubb, Jr. asked, sneaking a peek at the burlap bag perched on the high school junior’s lap.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out!” Huck snickered.
“I’ve got Cheese Puffs and five different kinds of candy — including Reese’s Pieces, your favorite — and I’m open to negotiations,” the oldest of the bunch murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, ensuring the others wouldn’t overhear the private tête-à-tête.
“If you let me have the Reese’s Pieces, I’ll give you anything you like inside my bag,” Huck suggested.
“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Jimmy exclaimed.
“I’m sleeping between you two this weekend,” I declared as the utility vehicle pulled away from the church, leading a small caravan toward Beaver County. “I’m not about to wake up in the middle of the night thinking I peed my sleeping bag — only to find out that Jimbo forgot to trench the tent properly, and then we were all sloshing around an indoor pool.”
“You want to be sandwiched in the middle?” Huckleberry Finn smirked. “Why don’t we give you a free preview of the main attraction yet to come.”
With a couple of Lincoln Junior-Senior High School upperclassmen on one side and a Riverside sophomore on the other, they pressed in tight until I could almost hear the mechanical groan of a closing trash compactor.
In that moment, I knew exactly what Luke Skywalker and his friends must’ve felt in Star Wars: A New Hope — just minus the lurking dianoga and questionable intergalactic hygiene.
By the time we reached the state park, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains west of Pittsburgh, the sun finally broke through the clouds, making camp setup a breeze.
While the rest of us gathered around the campfire, savoring our tinfoil dinners — hamburger patties, sliced potatoes, and baby carrots roasted to perfection in the hot embers — a pair of Trail Rangers lurked behind the chuck wagon, conducting a mouthwatering exchange like would-be gangsters.
Despite Jimbo’s diligent trenching efforts keeping our sleeping quarters dry through the night’s torrential downpour, nothing could have prepared us for the unintended mud bath that awaited us at the height of the Battle of the Outposts.
After stripping down to our skivvies — a mix of tighty-whities, colorful bikini briefs, and one rather revealing thong — we hosed off the thick mud. Wrapped in blankets, we dried out by the fire before retreating to the tent to change into clean clothes.
“Oh crap!” I fumed, rifling through my duffel bag in a futile search for what I liked to call my bodybuilding posing trunks. “I totally forgot to pack underwear!”
“You can always go commando,” Dirk said, flashing those pearly whites. “I do that sometimes when I’m in a pinch — especially after gym class, when this smoking hot body needs a shower.”
“Since I’ve got plenty of extras, you can borrow a pair of mine,” Huckleberry Hound offered, before casually tossing me his favorite pair — the leopard print.
Taking one look at the yellow pouch — with black spots on one side and nothing more than a string on the other — something resembling butt floss, I decided to go commando, like the track star had suggested.
When I shot the stand-up comedian’s unmentionables back to him like a rubber band, they inadvertently hit him in the eye causing a chain reaction that ended with a black eye, boxed ears, and a bloody lip.
As this trio of purported combat casualties returned to the campfire to warm themselves up some more, they sat there covering their eyes, ears, and mouth, thinking that would somehow ease the pain.
I don’t know which was worse — last year’s drenched sleeping bag or this year’s mud bowl palooza!