The Trail Crew camp at Sawmill Camp was located about 100 feet below the hill where the ranger's cabin resided. Above and behind the ranger's cabin were the other camps that the standard backpacking crews used. Our camp was picturesquely located in a small field a couple of feet above the river and just above it, was the camp's access road.

On the other side of the stream and our campsite, were two mountains that came together with tall cliff faces that jutted out. Where we were, couldn't have been more picturesque. Most of the group was camping out with tarps or a small tent. As a change in pace, Norm, Vern and I had a large Eureka Timberline tent, which we pitched on the other side of the cook area and fire pit.

A suitable distance away was the latrine, a box-style, pilot, and navigator (back to back) setup. The official Trail Crew table was made from full-grown and length Ponderosa pine logs, which were great for holding our cook gear and butts. It had enough room for you to rest on, as many of us did from time to time. Our equipment shed was about ¾ of a mile up the road and was rustic and well marked with bear claws.

Our wounded survivor had left on the truck there to supply us. It was our opinion; he simply was getting homesick and didn't want to be with us. Later in the day, Sawmill's ranger made an appearance with, "I hope you like your camp. If you haven't noticed, we put your camp away from the other crews, because they don't need bad influences like you hanging around."

We told him that we appreciate it, and he turned out to be quite cool and easy going. He then mentioned that the supply truck forgot to include our wounded scout's gear and that it would be picked up by tomorrow. He also mentioned Medical at base camp signed him out.

We went over to his equipment and noticed that he had also left his camera, with a full roll of film hanging off his backpack. That was too easy a take for us and the entire crew smiled with designs for it. Yet, we had to vocalize our logic, "You know, it would be a shame to let him go without official Philmont photographs..."

Making sure that he would realize our kindness and never forget about us, we labeled every picture that we took with, "Official Philmont ... Rock, Stone, Branch, Pee Tree (which was three feet behind our tent), latrine, and latrine contents.

We had only two frames left when we got the idea of an, "Official Philmont Trail Crew Photograph." The 29 members of the Trail Crew a line, while I also grabbed my camera, and with their backs turned, dropped their pants and mooned the camera. I could only get one shot in before I rolled on the ground with laughter.

The chores were easy; your name came up and you did them. Basically, while a full complement of thirty, with all of our combined experience, operated like a standard patrol. No one shirked or dawdled on their chores. For the rest of the members, it was free time.

As soon as breakfast was done, we headed off to our work, climbing the switch backs of the hundred foot high hill to the ranger's cabin would get your heart pumping, and then trough camp. Next was the ¾ mile of trail that the previous crew blazed.

It was amazing just how hard the work was, and we had to do it Boy Scout style. First, it was on the side of the mountain and the earth had to be exposed, trees in the way had to be removed and boulders sticking out had to be smoothed. It was amazing what a complication of adding six inches to the trail's width was.

We were also told the trail had to be perfect as it was designed to be used with crews that used horses and pack mules. We got it! We had finally been privy to the problem with the Philmont trail system. Most of the ones used are for scouts were always steep and rocky, but Scouts don't cost any money, but be it a bartered animal and the Philmont hiking had to be smooth sailing.

What's Boy Scout style? That means the way we had to do things, the grade had to a six percent one and the clinometer he had, lost its liquid in the bubble gauge, so we resorted to strings and poles to estimate the grade.

Removing the trees, were also an engineering trip. Forget using chainsaws like present day axe-men have. We had to cut out the 150 foot tall, two- three foot diameter trees out by the roots, making our own version of wedges out of logs. The fronts of the trees would be cut flush, and the back of the tree's roots were cut longer, so we could place the wedges under them. Then you would hit them until the tree started to fall and look out!

It wasn't good enough to leave the tree hanging off of the side of the trail; they wanted them out of sight, so we would buck the limbs off and slide them down the mountain. The rest of the trail crew would climb aboard the tree for a ride of your life. One time, it almost ended in lives as partway down the mountain, one of the bucked limbs caught on a rock and the entire tree rolled over on us, with ourselves jumping off and hoping that we cleared the branches

There was also a rock reducing injury, which resulted in a little, impromptu surgery to remove the errant piece. With our spirits and lack of common sense, it was slap of a BandAid and back to work. If someone got too tired up at the front of the line, then he would replace a member of the trail finishing crew. In finishing the trail, one would use the McCloud to rake, scrape and tamp down the trail. Also, the evidence of our handiwork would be fixed up or hidden.

The only thing that got in the way of our project was it was monsoon season, and when the rain came, it came with a vengeance. Usually, we lucked out as the rains came later in the day, but one time it came early, leaving us running from our trail to the ranger's cabin, while our camp went under water. Norm, Vern and I lucked out as the tent acted as a break and our gear was protected, but many of the members had to mount a downstream expedition to retrieve their equipment.

Most people enjoyed the free time that they got and I made good use of it in climbing the cliffs that crowned our camp. These were 100-150 foot cliffs, but I basically had to free climb them, so I picked fairly easy routes. To me, it was like a spirit was calling me to the rocks, and despite the vertigo that I suffered with, was amazed when I looked down and saw the perspective.

One time, I was up on the cliff, when the ranger visited and spotted me. Being pissed off, he yelled, "Hey, don't you know that rock climbing isn't permitted at Philmont except at a rock climbing camp."

I yelled back, "I asked them and the only thing they wrote back was I couldn't use my equipment when I rock climb."

"Jesus Christ!" Was the only reply that I got back. It's a good thing that I didn't mention freestyle. I got good at simply holding on, as there was always something that was happening in our camp below to almost make me fall of the cliff face.

My first time up, I had an entire crack of the rock move on me. Not expecting a crack to move, I had to investigate. It turned out that the 12 foot long; three inch crack was entirely filled with this red backed daddy-long-leggers. Just the slightest puff of the breath, caused a wave like effect though to the depths of the crack.

There were other instances of my rock climbing that were near fatal for me. The previous trail crew left a pornographic book behind called, "Gang Bang Girl Scouts," in case we need the fruit of a different food. Our crew decided to read it publically in fine Shakespearian Fashion. The two really didn't mix, except for comedy.

I basically had to reach for a jamb hold and just hang on and laugh. The reading lasted though three days, before the books contents got so sick, the readers threw it in the cooking fire. Then there was my Cajun friend, who got me hooked on Cajun-style coffee.

Well, I managed to get myself hooked on the snuff known as Copenhagen and the first time, the slightest pinch I took, had everything swirling around in circles. Well the Cajun had to try it with a four finger dip, which had him acting like a madman and eventually throwing up, which didn't stop until the umpteenth dry heave. The life and death considerations of the Trail Crew camp had me ascending at a record pace.


On the next mountain over, there was another rock face that I explored and found an old, knotted and knurly pine tree on a ledge shelf. I had found the wandering, "Kung Fu," within myself, and it became a great meditative place for me. I enjoyed the delight of finding a spot that also emulated the western/oriental theme that was contained in the show.

This rugged romanticism really dogged me and following the Cajun's advice, I penned the poem, "Up High, In The Mountain Air," and submitted it to the camp's newspaper. Needless to say, I also wrote my parents and sent a postcard and letter to my pen pal Lee (Elizabeth).

I also thought a lot about Jean and felt that she would love a letter sent by me from this rocky outcrop of the wilds of New Mexico, but it just reminded me of just how stupid I was. Though I walked past her house over a hundred times, I never thought to write down her address. I opined about the fact that I missed this grand opportunity to contact her. What a moment this may have opened up.

However and for reason, unknown yet felt by me, I decided to write another girl from school. This girl's address remained fresh in my mind as she was the girl that Dave pointed out to me, way back at the end of sixth grade who lived by Parkville Middle School. Unfortunately, I considered my stay at camp an opportunity that I shouldn't miss. I agonized in my conscience for three straight days whether or not to write and send a letter to her.

I wrote a letter and mailed it to the girl for the following reasons: As much as I loved and wanted to truly be with Jean, there was the frustration factor of things going to hell. Because of my frustrations over Jean, I knew that I lost many opportunities to explore other relationships and meet new friends.

The girl that Dave pointed out to me, was more naturally social. Even if she wouldn't go out with me, maybe she would be able point me in the direction of someone who would be willing.
It was a simple letter, reintroducing myself to her, and telling her about what I am doing in New Mexico, also stating my desires for friendship and possibility of going out on a date.

Still, there was a lot of apprehension and fears over this, namely Jean finding out and ultimately rejecting me. Oh, what was done was done so I left my love and social life in God's hand.

I loved my Godlike perch and saw many wondrous sights play out. One day we escaped the monsoon rains, but I watched the lightning wreak its havoc on the next ridge over, pinning the traversing crew on its top in absolute fear.

With the experimental food delivered to us, I attempted to snare us a wild turkey dinner. The beast had no problem springing the snare to get his goodies, but plain, didn't care as he got jerked six feet off the ground, he must of hung, cooingly slipped away from his death as the noose slipped.

Apparently other members of the trail crew got the same idea and chased the turkey up the mountain. Our mighty hunters announced with glee that they had him trapped and his ass was theirs! Then, with a series of stomps from his left foot and then his right, the turkey then proceed to chase each member off of the cliff with their explanation of, "Oh shit!"

From that perch, I also saw a deer wandering about looking for food. I then snuck back to camp and grabbed my camera and proceed to stalk her. It was a prolonged adventure of me scaring her and then tracking her. After quite a stalk, totally exhausted, she simply sat down and relented that she would give her life to me. Luckily, I had a camera instead of a spear and I made full use of the opportunity to convert her into my model.

Another trail crew activity was hanging around the Sawmill's camp cabin, especially when we were suffered from the monsoon rains. One particular afternoon, we switched over a trail head and were greeted by a Japanese crew. To them, we became instant celebrities that included one hell of a lot of shaking hands and even photo ops.

That night, we were reintroduced to the Japanese crew at the ranger's cabin with upset and excited members showing up yelling something at us in Japanese. We thought it was a medical emergency and showed them the first aid kit and considered pulling down the Stokes liter, but they just kept yelling.

We were increasingly alarmed until the adult Japanese crew advisor showed up and taught us the Japanese word for bear, by putting his arms straight up and making a roar. That morning after the crew got extra food to get them to the next camp, the cabin's staff was busy adding a rising sun flag to their bear attack calendar.

That gave us the idea that we should be on the calendar also, so since most of our food was at the shack, we got some extra food from the bear box and added it to our smelly personal effects already in the bear bag, which is normally suspended about forty feet up in the trees.

Ours was now ten feet from the ground and we even attempted to lure the bear with leaving food below it. Well damn if that bear wouldn't bite, he was happy with the food above the Sawmill Cabin. The ranger let it be known that a bear bag attack will only be counted if the bear bag is in our camping area, forcing us to ditch our plans to place it near were the other one's have been hit.

There was another unusual completion that I participated in, sort of a game of chess using one's self. The Sawmill camp latrine was a pilot, co-pilot configuration, and I was happily seated for business when an older Scouter came in, dropped his pants and was all too happy to jump his butt on the seat. I immediately jumped up.

He said, "I say there, you are apparently very well versed in the particularities of Philmont's latrines and have camped here before." We stared each other down, eye to eye, with our bums in the air.

"I was here in 1979 and now I have been here for two weeks as a member of the Trail Crew."

"I see now. Well we better get down to business." Since he wanted for all of his life for me to go first, I did just that. I eased back to my hole in a sitting position, slowly as if expecting the pinch, but it only looked like I was sitting. Trail crew developed in me the darndest of muscles that allowed me to appear comfortably sitting on the hole, while not even one butt hair would be pinched.

The English man, then seemly the victor, jumped his bum on the seat. I even said, "Ouch!" As he smiled, I quickly jumped up and then hammered the seat with my butt. The poor man exclaimed my victory with a scream! "Ooh we-ee!"

The particularity that the gent was talking about was the fact that all Philmont latrines are two-seaters. Whether back to back, or side by side, there is a crack in the board between the two holes in the central board connecting them. Most of Philmont's latrines do a great job of pinching the person that was seated first when the second sits down.

We talked about the Revolutionary War and the pride that both countries still had, as well that sense of the continuing war, in a friendly fashion, between two people. I also found a great consolation prize, when the camp staff was jubilantly drawing in the second Union Jack on the bear attack calendar. Yet it added to Trail Crews disgrace of not being mentioned themselves.

There was one facet of camp life where no quarter would be given, Sawmill was one of the few camps that had hot showers available. We protected our spots with clubs, daring anyone to cut in without their due supply of wood and a thirty minute wait. The water was heated with a line running through a pot bellied stove.

It is so dry in New Mexico that you rarely sweat, but with our work, we not only sweated like pigs, we ended up covered in wood chips and dirt. The result was that any new traveling crew knew who trail crew was. While we never really cut in line for the shower, we made sure to protect our place in it.

I also detected certain affection from Sawmill's ranger, but as he put it, "In limited doses." Sawmill camp was the high powered rifle range for many of the crews. This involved gun safety instruction, and the crew learning about how to make the bullets, then a trip out to the rifle range. Basically, while the camped talked about the 30-06 being fired, most were actually of 30-30 strength to give the smaller kids a good, sharp kick, yet keep the recoil pleasant.

You were given three rounds to fire, then it would cost more for the individual scout to shoot or up to an extra $1.25 round to fire a commercially produced 30-06 round, that many first time adults relished for the experience.

We were asked to produce about 500 extra rounds, for camp use. This involved casting the bullets, cleaning the cartridges and putting it all together. It made for a fun afternoon while we waited for the monsoon rains to clear out so we could get back to camp.

Unfortunately for the camp, we found the "Ballistics Manual," brought some of the rounds not only up to strength, but peppered them up a bit. The ranger expressed his displeasure as it turned out, our limited number of peppered rounds, rolled three kids after they pulled the trigger to the gun.

The only sad part to our being trail crew members came, when Philmont's camp director came to collect Rick, the ranger foreman in charge of us. Midway through our tour as trail crew, he told us to wake up and got the usually protestation. To which we were brought to our feet when he fired his 32-30 (a cowboy pistol load) into a tree.

Needless to say, we were immediately to our feet. Halfway though our stay at Sawmill, both of our assigned rangers had a day off where they went into town for us and procured necessities for us at over inflated, black market prices. We couldn't keep our mouths shut about our adventures and mentioned our adventures to the substitute rangers, not realizing the ramifications. One of our substitutes looked like a character from a James Bond movie called, "Jaws."

He too, couldn't keep his mouth shut and blabbed everything back to base camp. Unwittingly, we had betrayed Rick to the people who had deemed us, "Assholes." For discharging a firearm in camp illegally, Rick was picked up by the staff director and fired.

Our assistant foreman would become in charge, but luckily while the staff director removed him from command over us, he allowed him not only to stay in base camp, but also to visit us from time to time. In the meantime, Rick aided the director.

The base camp leader visited us in the course of the project and was highly impressed to see us cutting out the Ponderosa pine by hand. He told us the he would fix the situation and get a couple of chainsaws to us. The problem was in the person delivering them to us.

He was known to have penchant for cutting out tree cancer to collect the burls, and dynamiting the entrances to abandoned mines. The chainsaws made it out of the truck and to the ground, but then he got a call from another camp that spotted more burl.

Just there for five minutes, he put the chainsaws back into the truck and started to take off. We confronted him and he gave us a smaller 18 inch chainsaw that sounded like it had tuberculosis. Being on its last legs, it was of no good to use at all. In fact a two man, cross-cut saw won out in our John Henry style contest of man and machine competing side by side. Our cross-cut crew left that chain saw, dead and smoking.

Like the forest around us, we tended to supersize many of our thoughts. Our crew talked about splitting up and playing a, "Capture the Flag" game. Normally the game is conducted in an open area about the size of a football field. At each end, each team had a flag and the idea is to capture it and to tag out the other team members trying to do the same.

Ours was conducted between the two mountains and with fifteen skilled members each, it was an hour before anyone saw another from the other side. Our flags were on top of the cliffs. I got yelled at because I acted like an animal, but it alerted that there was a problem in the area around our flag and another member who was quiet, circled back and got him.

Around midnight, with none of our members succeeding in getting even close to the other teams flag, I scaled the hundred foot high cliffs by moonlight. I pretty much had the route up in my memory, but near the top, ended up hanging by one hand as something got the other. It noticed a soft squishy feeling, right before the bee-like sting and considering I had an ulcer that wouldn't heal for three weeks; I surmised it was a scorpion.

I made it to the top of the cliff, by 2:00, but no one was there. I captured the flag and took it back to camp. All the other members got bored and quit the game. They had the flag so well hid, that they couldn't find it.

Work on the trail wrapped up well and left the camp with the trail a mile in a quarter longer. They decided to pack up our camp at Sawmill and to start the trail project on the other side for next year. Sawmill's ranger reminded us about removing all signs of camp craft and pointed to our immense table saying, "That too."

Of course he was joking, but tell us that and we will get done. In half a day, using the cross cut saw with a two man team of six people who alternated, and we got it cut into ten foot lengths. We then got together and made a huge Tepee fire lay where our cooking fire was. With our resident from Texas describing the Aggie bonfire, that Texas A&M University holds.

When that fire took off, it sounded like a roaring monster and sent flames over a hundred feet in air. Sawmill's ranger came running down the hill after he was eye to eye with the blaze from his cabin. He exclaimed, "Jesus Christ guys! Philmont fires are supposed to be made with inch in a half wood, not foot in a half."

"Well, you told us to get rid of that table!"

"Christ, I was joking. That thing can burn down the entire camp."

"With all of this rain, we doubt that. Besides, check out the Baltimore boy's tent. It's just ten feet away and this fire produces such a draft that it is actually cooler then the air." We were proud, to have produced a fire that could melt both aluminum and steel cans.

The next morning, we had to put it out. Forget the individual fireman's method, we tried and not even urine from all of us would do anything, but make steam. It took half of the creek's water to put the coals out. It was both a relief and disappointment to pack up and hike out to our pick up point to head back to base camp.