25. The Ouibache Experience ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

As Charles had once spent a week at an experimental camp called Ouibache, a French word on which the English word Wabash was coined, Robert decided to look into it. He persuaded his cousin Pam to apply with him to become counselors, and they were accepted. They were to have training for a week at the end of May. Working with the staff, they would select any two weeks in the summer to return to the camp and to serve as leaders.

Many years earlier, the location had been a forestry station run by Purdue University. The grounds numbered some hundred acres of rugged land, heavily wooded, leading down to the Wabash River and including a small island in the stream. Purdue had built many well-appointed structures, including barracks for men, barracks for women, a cafeteria, a laboratory, and an amphitheater. At some point, the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center had established a new purpose for the old outpost.

In that May between their sophomore and junior years, when Pam and Robert arrived at the camp, they were assigned rooms in a large A-frame fronting the west. They hardly knew what to expect. In the orientation session, the permanent staff introduced the thirty-odd counselors to one another and to their objective, which was to help children from farms, from cities, and from everywhere in between farms and cities to discover the joys of collaboration in the peaceful stewardship and preservation of nature.

It was 1970, a pivotal year. The Kent State shootings had just occurred, and it felt as if the lofty aims of the Sixties would never be attained. The staff members ranged in age from two to thirty years older than Robert and Pam, with many of them having graduated in the 1960s. Like strong ships, they had remained upright on the stormy seas of that disappointing decade. They eschewed empty platitudes; they had learned that it was wrong to promise Xanadu to brokenhearted people. They focused their attention not on the world but on the individual.

“We have one of the youngest counselors we have ever had,” Mick, a thin, guitar-playing fellow, began, smiling at Robert. “Welcome!”

Robert felt a little on the spot during the light applause, but he sensed that everyone was supportive.

A friendly Purdue student named Paul and a woman nicknamed “Mouse” said a few words. In no time, people felt at home.

As twilight fell, Paul stood a flashlight on end so that its beam struck the ceiling of the A-frame high above. All other lights were extinguished. Everyone sat cross-legged on the carpet.

“What makes you vulnerable?” Paul asked. “No one has to speak, but everyone can speak, if he or she feels so moved.”

Slowly, people admitted their fears. Paul thanked them and said, “Remember that the youngsters who come to the camp share your vulnerabilities but most likely are not equipped to identify them or to talk about them. Don’t ask them to try. For you to recognize their vulnerabilities is what matters.”

“What makes you invincible?” Paul asked next. Soon, people began responding.

Robert said nothing. He was fascinated by how easily others could express themselves without worrying about what someone else might think. He began to ponder what listening means: how vitally important it is to hear exactly what another person is saying and to filter the utterances through the self without using criticism as a weapon to destroy the exchange. Before long, he would begin to discover the power of expression and the grave responsibilities that accompany that power.

On the first night, as Robert and others had fallen asleep, suddenly there came a racket of fists pounding on doors while Paul’s voice was heard shouting “Night hike! Night hike! Put on your oldest clothes! Night hike!”

An other-worldly experience was transpiring! Groggy and disoriented, Robert put on old jeans and a sweatshirt. He joined the other counselors outside the A-frame as Paul’s flashlight raked the ground.

“Is this everybody?” he asked. “Mick, our able-bodied Night hike leader, will explain.”

Mick said, “I will be the only person with a flashlight, but I won’t use it, unless I have to. Everyone take the hand of the person behind you. Always remember that your duty is to help that person. Never let go of that person’s hand! We will be slipping and sliding over rough terrain, and, many times, the person behind you will need your helping hand. Let’s go!”

In single file with hands clasped, the group quickly entered the forested hills. Pam was three people ahead of Robert. In the deep darkness of the woods, the counselors snaked along on a trail so thin that only Mick new where it was. Twice, they crossed ravines on logs, and no one fell! At first, everyone chatted, but, after a while, there were only occasional statements that offered assistance. Robert heard Pam say to the person behind her, “There’s a muddy hole to your right, so keep to your left.”

Suddenly, Robert emerged from the velvety shadows. Moonlight filtered downward and sparkled on the ripples of the Wabash River. The air itself seemed aglow from the moonbeams. No one spoke. The water murmured and whispered where it lapped the shore.

Everyone walked in beauty.

Eventually, the now silent line reentered the forest.

To the tune of shuffling feet, thoughts ran in deep channels. Robert felt increasingly responsible for the counselors behind him and, symmetrically, for the counselors before him. He was beginning to understand the paramount significance of connection to others. When the group crossed a log in the night, they were one person with hands clasped, and no pearl could fall from the necklace.

Arriving back at the A-frame, counselors were eager to talk about the experience. Many stayed up half of the night, Robert among them.

The next morning, Robert felt invigorated, not fatigued. He watched the golden sunlight bathe the breathing leaves of the trees. The staff and the counselors took part in a flag-raising ceremony before filing into the cafeteria for breakfast. Robert sat across from Pam in her peasant dress and pigtails.

“And how is Robert this morning?” Pam asked.

“I slept great,” Robert replied.

“I did, too,” Pam said. “After the Night Hike, I wasn’t sure I could go back to sleep, but the conversation afterward was so peaceful I could feel myself drifting.”

Just then, Pam’s older cousin Bonnie came past the table and said hello. Bonnie was on the staff as a recreation leader in charge of the swimming pool, ball courts, and playing fields. The sun had bleached Bonnie’s blonde hair almost white.

Turning to Pam, Bonnie said in her customary tone of frank good nature, “I heard you went on a Night Hike. Now you understand the expression ‘easy as falling off a log.’”

Pam laughed. “What are you up to today?”

Bonnie said, “I have to drive into Lafayette for some pool supplies. Let me know if you need anything.”

Pam said, “I think I have everything I need, but it’s kind of you to offer.”

“If you think of anything, catch me at the pool office in the next half hour,” Bonnie said, moving on in her usual energetic way.

“I wonder what’s in store for us this morning,” Pam said to Robert.

They soon found out, as Bill, a roly-poly recreation leader in his forties, ran the counselors and staff through an hour of hilarious games. He explained that, throughout the summer, he would be keeping the campers in similar good spirits through music and fun. Packing his speech with lingo like “far out,” “can you dig it,” and “outa sight”—all such expressions uttered with an ironic nod to popular culture—Bill kept everybody laughing. Robert needed no encouragement to unleash his sense of humor, but he was learning from Bill to be “laid back” and not take everything so seriously.

The three hours before dinner had been set aside for socializing or quiet reflection, so Pam and Robert invited any interested counselors to visit their hometown. A group of seven, counting Robert and Pam, took bicycles from the recreation building and began the ten-mile ride to Pine Village. The others were from such places as Aurora, Anderson, and Shelbyville. Gliding between flat or gently rolling land with small corn and bean plants in neat green rows, the bicyclists coasted along like a family of barn swallows sailing on outstretched wings. Picture-perfect white clouds drifted beneath the azure dome. Cows with lowered heads grazed the meadows. Reaching the town, Pam and Robert invited the riders into the corner grocery for soft drinks. After pedaling around the town and strolling past the businesses, they walked their bikes to the Methodist Church, parked them, went up the stairs, and through the unlocked door. Everyone admired the stained glass windows while Robert played Bach on the piano. Finally, the group rode to the school and entered the gymnasium to see the diamond pattern of the ceiling beams reflected in the highly varnished floor.

“No wonder you love it here!” said a counselor named Jill. “Everything is so pretty and peaceful.”

The others nodded their approval of Jill’s observation.

Then the group made the ten-mile return trip. The riders were tired—but not too tired—when they rolled into the Hoosier 4-H Leadership Center. Over dinner, the excursionists talked excitedly about what they had seen in Pine Village.

Mike said, “It’s exactly what you want a town to be.”

On the evening of the fourth day of their training, the counselors enacted Native American stories that they had rehearsed. Carefully researched through Purdue University’s extensive anthropology collections, the narratives included personified animals and cosmic myths. The light from the flickering campfire reflected on their faces as the counselors performed. Later in the summer, they would lead campers to share the same stories.

As the firelight began to die down and the stories were finished, everyone had to remain silent for the rest of the night. Communication by hand signals was permitted, but talking was prohibited.

Back at the A-frame building, the counselors fought the temptation to speak. To utter words was an incredibly powerful urge—nearly involuntary! Like most of breathing, itself, using the breath to intone words was so natural that the act of remaining silent felt unnatural—at first.

Again and again catching himself before he broke the rule, Robert began to notice his breath. He could not recall a time when he had thought about breathing, except when he was a little boy and had tripped over a wire supporting a clothesline pole, thus knocking the air out of his lungs and having to fight for the next breath.

Robert thought, “I am alive now because of each breath I take.” He next thought, “This time will never come again.” Then he thought, “As long as I keep breathing, my life will go on from this place and time.” The subsequent thought was this: “This night will become only a memory.” Then: “It is already becoming a memory.” And: “Each memory is a construction of the mind because it no longer exists.” Suddenly: “The past and the future are unreal.” All at once: “This instant—this breath—this, alone, is real.”

Robert looked around at the other counselors, all silent and trying to communicate by gestures. Abruptly, the injunction to love your neighbor popped into his mind and resonated with a sense of urgency that it had never had previously.

The next morning, when talking had resumed, Robert felt he had glimpsed the peace that surpasses all words and that cannot be contained by them.

The training sessions had reached their conclusion. Pam and Robert served as counselors together during one of their two weeks of leading, guiding, and inspiring campers. Each had a separate second week. All went well. A year later, Robert returned to Ouibache for another training week and two weeks leading campers before he began his first fall semester as a college freshman.

Ever after that, Robert readily called to mind an image of spangles of moonlight dappling the Wabash River, of a campfire lighting the faces of counselors pretending to be crows or coyotes, and of the breath entering and leaving each person’s body.