Last weekend Carolyn and I helped staff a big Boy Scout camporee. It's held on a large campground just north of the straits of Mackinac and its big attraction is a day trip to Mackinac Island. I took the troop there once or twice when I was Scoutmaster, but this was the first time the two of us went there as staff members. I think it's a sign that age is advancing on us that we like to go camping with the Scouts but don't really care to deal with the boys. But no matter, we're still young enough to enjoy a few days of fresh air, cramped quarters, communal showers, and limited wardrobe that is Tent Camping.

Before the camporee started we took a day for ourselves and stayed in a nice hotel at St. Ignace, just north of the Mackinac Bridge. (I'm going to pause a moment for those of you who aren't schooled in northern Michigan's French roots. The island, the straits that surround it and the bridge that spans the straits spell their names "Mackinac" but they're all pronounced "Mackinaw." The city on the tip of Michigan's Lower Peninsula is spelled "Mackinaw," as it was Anglicized in the mid-1700s.) I slept as well as I usually do in hotels, which means that I lay there and listened to the air conditioner hum while I wished that I'd brought sleeping pills. Eventually I dozed off, just about the time I could distinguish the tree line outside our patio door.

After breakfast we packed our gear and left for the camporee. We arrived just in time to help unload the enormous wooden poles and big vinyl and canvas tents that would house the Trading Post and the Commissary. We joined a crew of about twenty weekend roustabouts and helped steady the poles while the big boys pulled the canvas. In about two hours we not only had the two big tents pitched but some smaller ones for First Aid and Security. We also pitched three tiny dining flies over picnic tables for each of the three subcamps' check-in points. Carolyn and I, along with Carolyn's friend Mary, had charge of the Blue subcamp. Two other teams covered the Red and Green subcamps.

At exactly 3 PM, Boy Scouts and leaders from all over western Michigan started pouring into camp. They came in minivans, SUVs, sedans and trucks. They brought their gear in storage trailers, toy haulers, and trailers made from pickup-truck boxes. Carolyn kept track of the troops' arrivals and site assignments. Mary and I escorted them back to their campsites and gave them their instructions. Ten minutes was all the time they got to unload and then all their vehicles had to be off camp. Trailer-haulers had special parking in a local park across the expressway; everyone else got to leave their vehicles in the state park's parking area. Most of the leaders complied cheerfully, though a few had to be urged to finish unloading their gear and then make camp. One or two ignored the rules completely. I even woke up a couple of stragglers who'd turned in for the night and made them move. It's funny, I thought, how my perspective changed over a few short years. As a Scoutmaster I wondered what was wrong with those staffers and why they couldn't cut us a little slack. This time I wondered, "What's wrong with these Scoutmasters? Can't they handle a few simple rules?"

By about 9 PM every troop on our roster had someone in camp. When no one showed up for an hour we figured we were done and closed down our stations. A breeze blew from the west as a few of us hiked out to a scenic overlook to enjoy the view of the bridge. Carolyn turned in for the night. I was about to join her when Dirk, the leader in charge of physical arrangements, dropped by. Dirk heard from the folks in Registration that about thirty cars' worth of Scouts hadn't checked in yet and we'd need to stay open for them. The good news was that we were only needed until midnight; after that Security could handle them.

Mary and I, along with Roger from the Green subcamp, went back to our station under the dining fly and waited. We played Scrabble to pass the time. The breeze blew stronger as a gentle rain pitter-pattered on our canvas roof. One or two large groups rolled in but most of our business came from single-vehicle arrivals. One of our late-arrivers brought a weather report. She'd been watching a rather large storm work its way across the Upper Peninsula. If it stayed on track it would hit us around midnight. "Just what I wanted," I thought, "to weather a big storm in a little tent."

Midnight arrived. As we finished our game, several poncho-clad Scouts passed our tent. The wind had grown potent. As we shut down our station again an older Scout, who'd just come back from the overlook, told us that the Mackinac Bridge was moving. We hurried down the trail, stepping carefully over roots and rocks. We stared at the two towers. Sure enough, you could see the bridge move, just slightly, if you watched carefully. I glanced at a flagpole near the tollbooth on the road below. The flag stuck straight out, so the wind had to be blowing at least at forty miles per hour.

Rain continued to sprinkle as we hurried back up the trail. We said our goodnights and made our separate ways to our tents. I unzipped the rain cover and screen door and stepped in to ours. Carolyn lay in her sleeping bag, her eyes wide as silver dollars. "I've never been so scared in a tent!" she gasped. The sides snapped and popped as the wind tore at it. "Don't worry," I told her. "I've been in this in bad weather before. It's always held together." I stripped off and hopped in my bag, kicking off my socks. Rain fell harder as gust after gust slapped at our campsite, snapping the vinyl dome and bending the fiberglass poles. I snuggled down in my bag, listening to the wind as it whistled through the cedar trees behind us. "There are 1400 Scouts in this campground," Carolyn gasped as the side of the tent blew down hard, nearly laying on top of us. It snapped back into place with a bang. "Are there any emergency plans?" she asked. "What do we do if there's a tornado?"

"What we're doing right now," I said. "We'll ride the storm out!" The answer didn't comfort her much but it was all I had. Campgrounds are notoriously short on storm cellars.

Then the unthinkable happened, something that never happened in that tent ever before. A big drop of water rolled down the from the screen at the top of the tent and plopped on my bag! Then came another. The wind snapped the rain fly so hard it pulled its stake out of the ground. That allowed rain to blow up underneath it all the way to the screen at the top of the roof. That's when I got ticked.

"Dad gummit!" I cried. "This tent has never leaked and it's not going to now!" I stepped over Carolyn, pulled my pants back on, and lurched back outside. Thunder followed great lightning bolts as I ran around to the windward side of the tent. Cold rain slapped me on the back as I bent down, grabbed the tent stake and shoved it hard back into the rocky ground. The wind picked up again, seemingly enraged that I dared to fight it. I gave the tent a quick look. The little hooks that keep the dome taut on its poles had popped off in three places. I popped them back on. The tent tightened. Despite the storm the little dome tent stood its ground.

I crawled back inside, soaked but triumphant. The dome still popped and dipped in the wind but the leak stopped. I grabbed a slightly-damp T-shirt and daubed off what water and mud I could find before I slid back into my bag. The storm continued to crash and pour for an hour. As suddenly as it was on us, it finally moved off, just trailing a gentle rain. My bag started to warm up around me. The whistling in the cedar trees stopped. And the younger Scouts in the next campsite started tittering like tree frogs. Years of Scouting experience told me that this was worse than the passing storm. They'd whispered quietly at first. Then they spoke in very low tones, increasing their volume over several minutes. And unlike the storm, they wouldn't wind down. I snuggled down low in my bag and tried to shut them out.

A few minutes later I said, in my best Scoutmasterly tones, "Guys? It's late. Hold it down, please." Carolyn had dozed off, purring quietly on the next cot. I lay back down as the campground quieted. And then they started again: Whisper-whisper, titter-titter, talking-almost-out-loud. Then an older, much deeper voice sounded in their campgound: "Gentlemen, it's 3 AM. Go to sleep!" The Scouts complied, recognizing the voice as a much more real threat than some old-goat leader next door.

Peace at last! I turned over and stretched, waiting for slumber to come. I drew a deep breath and fluffed my pillow. "Yup," I thought, "I'm off to Dreamland. Annnnny second now." I rolled over a time or two, impatiently re-fluffing my pillow as sleep hung just out of reach.

Just then, WHAM! went something. It sounded like a shotgun blast. I jumped. WHAM! it went again. Light poured through the side of my tent. Voices murmured from across the road. Another WHAM! Footsteps hurried past on the gravel trail. I squinted at my watch. It was 6 AM. All around us cooks were starting their troops' breakfasts. They made quick stops in the porta-potty before beginning their duties, apparently not realizing that letting the door slam over and over inspires murderous thoughts in even the kindliest and most tender-hearted Scouters.

I knew I was licked. I dug around and found a pair of semi-dry shorts and two just-damp socks, pulled on my uniform, and went to find breakfast on Staff Row, where I'll definitely set us up next time. Oh yes, there'll be a next time. In spite of the big storm we had fun working staff. In a way it was kind of like being a Scout again. We had jobs to do, we did our best at them, and when the work was done we got to hang out with our friends.