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.
