Belligerent Labor Day Kids, Then and Now
Then:
When I was growing up, Labor Day was always the last time for my family to take a trip to the mountains of North Carolina. Every year we would return to the misty Blue Ridge Mountains as summer wound down and the school year approached. My cousins, sisters and I would fish for trout in the South Toe River, watching in amazement as their dark shapes would gobble up all of our canned corn chum; except the one kernel with the tiny hook in it. We'd jump into the icy water below the old log dam, swimming away from the face quickly to avoid the copperheads and occasional timber rattler that liked to rest in the cracks. Our parents turned us kids loose, the main rule being not to make any trouble for the grownups that mostly stayed in camp and talked. That was a pretty high expectation for my cousins and I. Before lunch one day the three of us hiked the familiar nature trail that wound about 2 miles up the ridge above the campground. About half way up we sat on a wooden footbridge that spanned a steep cove in the forest. The slope dropped below us, with giant douglas fir blocking any distant view. It seemed a natural spot to practice whistling with our hands. The technique involves cupping your hands together and blowing into the hollow at your thumbs to make a low-pitched dove sound. We'd been told to stop doing it in camp by my mom. For twenty minutes we sat on that bridge trying to top each other. We'd see who could make the strangest warbling sound. We'd see who could make the loudest sound. The forest resonated with pseudo wildlife. Hunger called, so we ceased and headed to camp for lunch. When we got there my mom fronted the angry parent contingent. It seems our secluded spot actually formed a natural amphitheater, with the campground in the prime location for maximum acoustical amplification. Our whistles had been interminably echoing around the campground, as angry campers tried to figure out where they were coming from. Our parents recognized the hoots as a retaliatory strike for being kicked out of camp earlier. No amount of explanation would convince them otherwise.
Now:
Kids are allowed to push into higher levels of disrespect than when I grew up. This Labor Day weekend I invited a friend down from Phoenix to join our camp. He brought his daughter and a delightful Korean friend who is doing postgraduate work at ASU. I camp in the Santa Ritas often, enjoying riding and relaxing in the semi-wooded, rolling hills below the Mt. Wrightson wilderness. I headed up with the girls and the mules Friday to get a site. I knew it was going to be a busy weekend when I started spotting blaze pink flagging tape tied to trees along the dirt roads. I'm sorry, but anyone who needs to use flagging to find his way along a road is an idiot. That's what odometers are for. You can bet they don't remove the tape. My favorite giant oak was already taken, so I started looking for alternates. The best was off the main dirt road, far enough into the mountains to keep the average car out, 100 yards into the juniper up a side 4wd path. I "might" get some seclusion there, the flipping pink flagging suggesting otherwise. Sure enough by sundown truck after truck had worked past my camp to stop just out of sight through the junipers. The tejano music started, as always, signifying the end of solitude. This particular part to the Coronado National Forest is multi-use, meaning that quad-wheelers and dirt bikes are allowed as are mules and hikers. Each trucked pulled a trailer full of quads, which were promptly unloaded and given to the kids. For the next 24 hours it was like a scene out of Road Warrior. The kids, none of whom were older than about 12, rode back and forth in front of my camp, blowing dust and scaring the mules. Now keep in mind there are miles of roads that go in all directions. The parents must have told the kids to keep away from their camp (they didn't want to be disturbed) but not to go too far. Those instructions meant about a dozen quads rode round and round my site. Those as young as 7 or 8 couldn't even restart their vehicle when it stalled. One trio of three 9-year-old girls rode together on one larger quad. None wore helmets. The oldest boys made a point of revving and spinning out every time they passed. Which was every 2-3 minutes, their circuit was so small. I finally got out of my chair and looked at what they were doing. They would ride a few dozen yards beyond my camp to the main road, turn around and come back. They never thought to explore the miles the path went in the other direction. It's fun to show off. Over and over and over. Of course we got angry and embarrassed for the Korean girl's first camping experience. But I don't enjoy approaching a camp full of dozens of heavy drinkers. Stopping the kids in the road and negotiating a better riding area only made it worse. An adult led the next pass in review with the boy we stopped waving his butt as he rode by. Thankfully the riding stopped at dark, and the trees muted their music. I kid you not, at 0730 the first one fired up and it started all over again. What a great baby sitter, each child gets a motor vehicle so they never really have to learn to walk. They'll remain occupied for hours, except for when they need to eat or gas up. Another equestrian camp packed up and moved on. We trailered the mules 2 miles further and took a needed hike into the wilderness. When we came back it was like the kids had never stopped riding. The final pass we noticed a bigger quad chasing up their rear. It had flashing lights on it. Oh yeah, the Calvary! Little did I know the Forest service patrols this area for improper OHV use. They need help, their area covers from Nogales to New Mexico. After our detailed statements the belligerent quad camp received a long lecture on respectful use. Thanks to Rangers Ricky and Chris peace returned to the forest for the first time in 36 hours.
When I was growing up, Labor Day was always the last time for my family to take a trip to the mountains of North Carolina. Every year we would return to the misty Blue Ridge Mountains as summer wound down and the school year approached. My cousins, sisters and I would fish for trout in the South Toe River, watching in amazement as their dark shapes would gobble up all of our canned corn chum; except the one kernel with the tiny hook in it. We'd jump into the icy water below the old log dam, swimming away from the face quickly to avoid the copperheads and occasional timber rattler that liked to rest in the cracks. Our parents turned us kids loose, the main rule being not to make any trouble for the grownups that mostly stayed in camp and talked. That was a pretty high expectation for my cousins and I. Before lunch one day the three of us hiked the familiar nature trail that wound about 2 miles up the ridge above the campground. About half way up we sat on a wooden footbridge that spanned a steep cove in the forest. The slope dropped below us, with giant douglas fir blocking any distant view. It seemed a natural spot to practice whistling with our hands. The technique involves cupping your hands together and blowing into the hollow at your thumbs to make a low-pitched dove sound. We'd been told to stop doing it in camp by my mom. For twenty minutes we sat on that bridge trying to top each other. We'd see who could make the strangest warbling sound. We'd see who could make the loudest sound. The forest resonated with pseudo wildlife. Hunger called, so we ceased and headed to camp for lunch. When we got there my mom fronted the angry parent contingent. It seems our secluded spot actually formed a natural amphitheater, with the campground in the prime location for maximum acoustical amplification. Our whistles had been interminably echoing around the campground, as angry campers tried to figure out where they were coming from. Our parents recognized the hoots as a retaliatory strike for being kicked out of camp earlier. No amount of explanation would convince them otherwise.
Now:
Kids are allowed to push into higher levels of disrespect than when I grew up. This Labor Day weekend I invited a friend down from Phoenix to join our camp. He brought his daughter and a delightful Korean friend who is doing postgraduate work at ASU. I camp in the Santa Ritas often, enjoying riding and relaxing in the semi-wooded, rolling hills below the Mt. Wrightson wilderness. I headed up with the girls and the mules Friday to get a site. I knew it was going to be a busy weekend when I started spotting blaze pink flagging tape tied to trees along the dirt roads. I'm sorry, but anyone who needs to use flagging to find his way along a road is an idiot. That's what odometers are for. You can bet they don't remove the tape. My favorite giant oak was already taken, so I started looking for alternates. The best was off the main dirt road, far enough into the mountains to keep the average car out, 100 yards into the juniper up a side 4wd path. I "might" get some seclusion there, the flipping pink flagging suggesting otherwise. Sure enough by sundown truck after truck had worked past my camp to stop just out of sight through the junipers. The tejano music started, as always, signifying the end of solitude. This particular part to the Coronado National Forest is multi-use, meaning that quad-wheelers and dirt bikes are allowed as are mules and hikers. Each trucked pulled a trailer full of quads, which were promptly unloaded and given to the kids. For the next 24 hours it was like a scene out of Road Warrior. The kids, none of whom were older than about 12, rode back and forth in front of my camp, blowing dust and scaring the mules. Now keep in mind there are miles of roads that go in all directions. The parents must have told the kids to keep away from their camp (they didn't want to be disturbed) but not to go too far. Those instructions meant about a dozen quads rode round and round my site. Those as young as 7 or 8 couldn't even restart their vehicle when it stalled. One trio of three 9-year-old girls rode together on one larger quad. None wore helmets. The oldest boys made a point of revving and spinning out every time they passed. Which was every 2-3 minutes, their circuit was so small. I finally got out of my chair and looked at what they were doing. They would ride a few dozen yards beyond my camp to the main road, turn around and come back. They never thought to explore the miles the path went in the other direction. It's fun to show off. Over and over and over. Of course we got angry and embarrassed for the Korean girl's first camping experience. But I don't enjoy approaching a camp full of dozens of heavy drinkers. Stopping the kids in the road and negotiating a better riding area only made it worse. An adult led the next pass in review with the boy we stopped waving his butt as he rode by. Thankfully the riding stopped at dark, and the trees muted their music. I kid you not, at 0730 the first one fired up and it started all over again. What a great baby sitter, each child gets a motor vehicle so they never really have to learn to walk. They'll remain occupied for hours, except for when they need to eat or gas up. Another equestrian camp packed up and moved on. We trailered the mules 2 miles further and took a needed hike into the wilderness. When we came back it was like the kids had never stopped riding. The final pass we noticed a bigger quad chasing up their rear. It had flashing lights on it. Oh yeah, the Calvary! Little did I know the Forest service patrols this area for improper OHV use. They need help, their area covers from Nogales to New Mexico. After our detailed statements the belligerent quad camp received a long lecture on respectful use. Thanks to Rangers Ricky and Chris peace returned to the forest for the first time in 36 hours.
posted by Garrett | 1:21 PM
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