Boo!

[published originally on my old blog, circa October 2006]

Tricks and treats abound as we’re getting into the good time of the year starting this weekend, a stretch I lovingly call “the candy season.”

Obviously, Halloween kicks it off—the treats accrued here usually last till Thanksgiving, which of course, rings in the holiday sugarplums and goodies juggernaut which rolls right into January. Just when you think you’ve managed to rid yourself of all the confectionery temptations—usually around the Super Bowl, which, by the way, will not be including the Jets this year (again)—up pops Valentine’s Day. Even if you don’t buy your sweetie a box of Godiva, there’s plenty of sweets around. And then, depending on the full moon, Easter comes hopping down the bunny trail with baskets full of chocolate rabbits, jellybeans and Peeps, although for the life of me, I have no idea why any human would eat Peeps. I mean, does anyone really know what they’re made of? I tend to think they’re a variant of the Cheetoes formula, another snack food I shy away from simply because they don’t look natural; potato chips at least look like they could be sliced potatoes, pretzels are a form of baked bread, but Cheetos? I’m pretty sure packing peanuts are involved somewhere in their creation.

But I digress.

Halloween is in the air, and everyone has a scary story or two to share. And last time I checked, I’m still technically part of “everyone.”

My tale of terror, like so many others, is set at a woodsy Connecticut summer camp—boy scout Camp Sequassen, to be specific. Located at the feet of the Litchfield Hills in New Hartford, it’s only 20 short miles from Lake Waramaug, where scenes from the original Friday the 13th were actually filmed. Set on 540 forested acres along the shores of West Hill Lake, Camp Sequassen is an idyllic haven for young boys to camp, boat, hike, fish and burn things. . . .

Quick aside: I am a pyromaniac. Period.

No joking. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent building perfect one-match camp fires that I would ignite, stoke into raging (yet contained) infernos, then use to burn anything else that I could find around the campsite. This is where I learned that almost anything sent with a child to camp—extra underwear, cereal boxes, cereal—will eventually burn, with the possible exception of toothpaste tubes, and by the flames of Hades, I tried everything to melt those b#stards! (Plastic garbage bags, if wrapped around a stick and properly torched, will drip drops of bright blue-orange flame that are absolutely mesmerizing.) Earlier this year, I took my family to Sequassen for a visit, and even some 20 years later, I was able to build a fire with only bark and sticks that lit with two matches. Then we toasted marshmallows. My kids were a little disturbed that I liked to set my marshmallows lovingly on fire for a few seconds, charring them ever so slightly, before blowing them out and eating them .. .

What?

Anyway, like many other camps, Camp Sequassen has many myths and legends that have been passed down from generation to generation, starting with the founding of the camp. The story goes that the land was inhabited by an eccentric man known only as The Hermit, who lived in a simple shack on a hillside by a pure, natural spring. After spending many happy and quiet years in the woods he adored, The Hermit died, leaving stewardship of the property to the Boy Scouts because he felt that they would best protect the land and preserve it as it was. He was buried in a grave near his home by the spring, in the woods he loved, and if you go there today, you can really see the spring (the water is not potable), the shack (since refurbished) and The Hermit’s actual final resting spot.

Now, on The Hermit’s headstone is this inscription:

I will rest peacefully
No matter how long
If the pines bend over
To sing the wind’s song;
If the birds and the chipmunks,
Will play over me still,
In the forest I loved
Near the spring on the hill.

And out of respect for The Hermit, when you visit, you are supposed to put something live and green—usually twigs or small branches—on the grave. By mid-summer, there’s normally quite an unruly (yet respectful) mound of shrubbery there.

Like any good tale of horror, there’s also a ghostly creature in the mix: The Wampus. Protector of the forest and The Hermit’s legacy, this alleged Bigfoot-meets-Swampthing-like apparation is full-on bogeyman, capable of either eating your eyes out if they are open at night or just taking your soul, if available. If you are alone in the dark woods after midnight, so the story goes, and you hear something walking behind you, well . . . let’s just say itisn’t Papa Smurf looking to sell you life insurance.

So one innocent summer, back in the early 80s when the world wasn’t such a litigious place, my boy scout troop was camping at Sequassen. We were enjoying all the aforementioned activities; I had been doing some serious burning this week, so I was in an exceptionally bold and adventurous spirit. For whatever reason, it seemed many of my fellow scouts were of the same humor.

From past years, I’d come to learn that Thursday night was usually a quiet night around camp because: a. Friday night was the big inter-troop competition and final bonfire, so many scouts spent Thursday night resting and coming up with skits, and b. even the most enthusiastic scouts, having gone full tilt from Sunday when they were dropped off, would hit the wall and be pretty worn out by then. Many a leader would also pick that night to leave camp and go into town for “a break” (read: “escape the lunacy of watching a dozen or so adolescent boys and get hammered”), and this particular Thursday was no exception. Or two assistant scoutmasters—a pair of 21-year-olds, coincidentally both named Joe (Joe M. & Joe P.)—headed off as the sun set to “refresh” themselves to the extent that the law would allow them. We were left in the trust of two scoutmaster/dads (including mine) to prepare for the next day’s activities.

Round about what feels like midnight—but according to my dad, was probably only about 9:30—our scoutmasters suggests we go for a little night hike . . to The Hermit’s cabin and spring! Now, when you’re 12 and such a challenge is laid before you, even though part of your brain is saying, “Uh, go out there? In the pitch-black woods? Where The Wampus is? In the middle of the night? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” there’s the other, smaller part of your brain that you wind up listening to anyway saying, “Well, unless I want to be ridiculed forever, if everyone else is going, so am I . . . GULP!”

I quickly grab my canteen, my flashlight and fall into line.

Now I had my canteen because back in the day, the legend was that if you drank from The Hermit’s spring, you would someday return to the camp. As I said previously, the water has since been tested and deemed unfit for human consumption, but back then, we were all eager to fill our canteens and drink the cold, pure spring water rather than the “bug juice” they served in the mess hall. (To this day, I still assume genuine bugs were involved in the preparation of it.) It really was a treat.

So we hike away from the brightness of our camp—lit by a Grade A campfire I had engineered—and into the gloom of the forest primeval. As the night around us gets deeper and darker, the initial exuberance we all have begins to wane. By the time we’re close to The Hermit’s shack, spring and grave, our laughs and shouts have pretty much dwindled to a few nervous chuckles. Funny how quickly the beam of your trusty scout flashlight seems very small when surrounded by the complete dark of the deep woods. Every rock, every tree—

WAS THAT THE WAMPUS?!!!

No, just a raccoon. I think.

So we finally get to the spring, and we quietly fill our mouths and canteens. The scoutmaster then suggests, that since we’re there, we should visit the grave and pay our respects.

Visit The Hermit’s grave in the middle of the deep, dark woods?! At midnight?! Uh, sure. …okay.

We walk past The Hermit’s abandoned shack and to the grave, a dark mound of branches, leaves and sticks. We gather around the grave, the scoutmaster makes us all turn off our flashlights (except his) and he reads the inscription aloud.

Now I don’t know how many of you had the opportunity at the age of 12 to be huddled around a grave in the middle of the Wampus-lurking woods at what seems to be the stroke of midnight, but to say we were all a bit on edge might be an understatement.

As the scoutmaster finishes reading, he asks for a moment of silence and turns off his flashlight. After what seems like forever (“A coward dies a thousand deaths . ..”), he turns his light back on. It’s right about then when my friend Bobby, who had been sorta poking the grave mound with his walking stick made a horrific discovery in it. We all instantly turn our flashlights on it.

“Is that a . . . BOOT!”

Suddenly, the mound of leaves and sticks starts shifting, there’s an unholy roar and SOMETHING SPRINGS UP FROM THE GRAVE!!!

It’s at this moment when I discover that I will never crap my pants at a moment of extreme duress. (By the laundry hanging around camp the next day, not all my fellow scouts could make this claim.) I stumble backward while the rest of the other scouts either are screaming and running full speed off into the woods or have just fallen dead over in terror and shock. The creature—a human figure—is now on its feet standing amid the funeral mound, screaming and waving its arms, an image forever burned into my mind. It has on boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet . .. a helmet like .. . like .. . JOE P., the assistant scoutmaster has!

THE WAMPUS HAS GOTTEN JOE P.!

No, wait! The other Joe pops out from behind a tree . .. and the scoutmasters (including my dad) are all laughing their khaki-clad asses off . .so is the Wampus . . . who is . ..

Joe P.!!!

To this, I will give that guy all the credit in the world: To lay on a grave at midnight and let yourself be buried alive under a heap of leaves and branches, just to scare the bejeebus out of a bunch of kids, takes a certain amout of . .. testicular fortitude, as Mick Foley used to say. Now that’s someone committed to a great prank!

And apparently, the really funny part was that a different troop had been to the grave a few minutes before we had, and Joe had to lay there unmoving while they paid their respects! The leader of that troop later said if Joe had jumped out at them, he probably would’ve died on the spot of a heart attack . . . another victim . . of The Wampus!

Happy Halloween!