An underdog Scout patrol, one wild elk, and a very questionable plan.

(A hilarious true-to-life story from the Young Adult novel “The Great American Eagle Hunt” about friendship, quick thinking, and the moment one quiet Scout became a legend.)

Olympic National Park: Pacific Northwest: Sunday Morning

This is the last event of the weekend. The All-District Boy Scout Troop Camporee Competition comes down to this last all-day event, a twelve mile hiking, map reading and, orienteering scavenger hunt. The patrol with the fastest time finding the five waypoint flags wins the trophy. If our patrol, a bunch of first years that no other patrol wants, pulls this off, it will be the upset of the century!

We’ve been competing since Friday evening; fastest tent set up, cleanest camp site, obstacle courses, first aid tests, fire building challenges. It’s a tough competition and the points are too close to predict who will take home the trophy. It all comes down to this last challenge.

The instructions of this challenge are simple. It’s an orienteering challenge. Each of the five competing patrols receives a topographical map. On the map are marked four separate way points. Each way point is approximately 1 mile apart.

Each patrol must read the map and find the targets, a large staff, planted upright somewhere along the trails. Attached to the staff are five different color pennant flags. When we find the staff, remove the pennant of the color of our patrol. Return to the starting point with all four pennants. The patrol to return with all 4 pennants in the shortest time wins the event. If done correctly, this will be a five-mile hike challenge.

As the day passes we find the first four waypoints. This is our last target before we head back to base camp. We’re happy with our time and think we have a real shot at winning this thing.

We follow the last trail and pause as it opens into a massive high grass field. Sawyer, the recklessly adventurous member of our patrol, bounds into the ankle high grass, heading across the field to the far fence line. The afternoon heat instantly hits us as we leave the shaded comfort of the tree line. About 10 minutes later, we make it across the field and arrive at the fence. 

“This is it.” Arnaub, our navigator and smartest member of our group, says looking at the maps. “This is as far as the park goes. This is the boundary. On the other side of this fence is private land.” 

“OK. Which way from here?” Alex, the athletic soccer player of the group asks. 

“This way.” I point. This is my first time ever being a Senior Patrol Leader. So I try to sound like I know what I’m doing. “We hit the fence and head east, turn right. Now all we need to do is keep an eye open for the staff. Let’s go. I think we are doing well on time. We can still do this.” 

My excitement grows. Victory seems within our grasp. I turn east and start walking. I pick up the pace, hoping the guys will follow me and pick up some time. 

We find the goal on the map. It’s right on the fence line. We’re doing the right thing by heading east against the fence. 

“Where the hell is it?” Sawyer asks. 

“We should be standing right next to it,” Alex adds. 

“It has to be within 5 ft of us.” Adam notices. 

“More like 100,” I mumble in shock. 

“100? How do you figure? Are you looking at a different map?” Arnaub asks. 

“No.” I tell him. “I’m looking right at it.” 

While the other guys are looking down at the map, I’m staring right at it. 

“There.” I point. 

The guys look up and see me pointing, due north. I’m pointing over the barbed wire fence into the private property. The guys follow my arm and look. 

“Oh, crap.” They all gasp in unison.  

“This is why the other patrols took a forfeit.” I say, my voice trembling. 

“Crap. So are we.” Alex says. 

“Yeah. Let’s forfeit this one.” Adam agrees. 

As we look over the fence, we see three things; first, the sign. It’s a large home-made sign about 4 feet high and 8 feet wide, patched together from scrap pieces of wood nailed together. Obviously, the owner of this land made this sign. Spray painted on big white letters are the words:  

PRIVATE PROPERTY. 

 NO TRESPASSING. NO HUNTING. 

 NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR TRESPASSER PERSONAL INJURY. 

 YOU’VE BEEN WARNED. -Dublin Y Ranch. 

To the right of the sign, we see the second thing. Stuck in the mud about 50 feet past the sign is the staff with the four remaining pennants. Missing from the staff is the red pennant, the color of Kyle’s patrol. Obviously, they were here first. 

“What the hell is it doing in that field? Why would they place it outside the boundary of the park?” Alex asks. 

“They didn’t place it there. They threw it there.” I tell the group. 

“What?” Adam asks. 

“We are in the right place. We read the maps correctly. Kyle’s patrol got here first. They picked up the staff and threw it like a spear over the barbed wire into that field.” I tell the group. 

And then we see the third thing. Standing about 50 feet beyond the warning sign is the biggest bull elk any of us has ever seen. It stands about 7 feet tall, from the hoof to the top of its head. And on top of his head are his massive antlers. They must add another five feet to his height. There must be 12 to 15 points total on the antlers.  This massive monster is directly between us and the last flag that secures our victory.

“We need to distract it,” Arnaub says.

“We need to lure it far enough away so that one of us can run in there and grab the flag without getting gorged by that thing,” Adam explains.

“We need to make a trail of food. Something that the elk will follow step by step away from Robbie,” Alex suggests.  

Sawyer’s face lights up.

“SNACKS!” he yells. “Let’s distract it with snacks. That’s how we move it.” 

“Everyone, dump out your backpacks. Let’s see what we’ve got,” Alex jumps in. 

We open our backpacks and dump everything into one massive pile of snacks as well as, extra socks, maps, water bottles, a few rolls of gauze bandages, and a bottle of sunscreen. 

“Ok, this is perfect,” Sawyer starts, picking up one snack. “Perfect Valley Peanut Butter Granola Bar,” he reads the label. “There’s got to be something in here an elk likes.” Sawyer rips off the packaging. 

“Food bombs. We need to make food bombs,” Sawyer explodes with excitement. 

“What the hell is a food bomb?” Alex asks. 

“I have no idea. I’m making this up as I go,” Sawyer quips.

 “We start by smashing things together.”

We get to work, frantically unwrapping all the granola bars and snacks in the pile, smashing items together.  

“We need to make this stick together,” Sawyer calls out. “What do we have that’s sticky?” 

“Here.” Adam reaches into the pile and pulls out a small jar of peanut butter. He opens it and sticks his fingers right in the gooey mess. He starts smearing the peanut butter on whatever’s in Sawyer’s hands. Sawyer keeps packing it together, shaping it into a softball sized bomb covered in peanut butter.   

Arnaub reaches into the pile and grabs a pack of jellybeans. He rips it open and starts smashing the beans into the peanut butter coating of the food bomb.  

“Jellybeans?” Alex asks. 

“Why not?” Arnaub laughs. It was on. Anything that can stick to the softball sized food bomb is now fair game. Chips, popcorn, jellybeans. If it sticks, it’s going.  Peanut butter, chips, jellybeans, and string cheese all smashed into one softball-sized bomb.

“Make sure it doesn’t come apart in midair when you throw it,” Adam cautions. 

“We need a slingshot,” Arnaub adds. 

“We don’t have one of those,” Adam laments. 

Sawyer pops his head up. “Who said?” He smirks. With the peanut butter softball still in his hands. “I’m sorry, guys, but we need someone to take one for the team.  It’s for the good of the patrol.” 

“What are you talking about?” Adam’s confused. 

Sawyer looks right at him. “I need a pair of shorts. ” Sawyer laughs. “We need to build a slingshot.” 

“What?” Alex scratches his head confused. “That will never work. The elastic isn’t strong enough.” 

“Yes, it will. But not a slingshot like you’re thinking with a stick and piece of elastic.  We’ll make a slingshot, nut old school. You put the stone, or in our case the ball, whirl it around over your head and let it fly.” 

“Like David and Goliath style,” Adam realizes. 

Arnaub nods. “He’s right. Ancient slings. Centrifugal force. It could work.”

Sawyer nods. “Exactly.”  

“So, we need a pair of shorts. We put the ball in the pouch and let it fly. Who’s volunteering?” 

Nobody volunteers.  Every one of us stays quiet and stares at the ground waiting for someone else to speak up. 

“Screw it. We’ll use mine.” Sawyer breaks the ice.  He starts unbundling his belt and drops his pants.  

Sawyer shimmied halfway out of his pants before Alex stopped him.

“Dude, boxers don’t have a pouch. The bomb’ll fall out. He’s wearing boxers.” He points to Sawyer pants halfway down his thighs.  You need a pouch.  To hold the… you know. Otherwise, the bomb will fall out.” 

“Yeah, he’s right,” Arnaub confirms. 

Everyone turned to Adam.

He knew before they even said it. He’s the smallest.

“Adam, we will never forget this.” Sawyer laughs while trying to make Adam Feel better. 

“Adam,” Alex adds in. “We all promise none of us will ever mention this to anyone. This stays here.” 

“Agree,” the gang all promise. 

“Fine.” Adam grudgingly agrees.  He undoes his belt and drops his hiking shorts. The guys are instantly silent and staring.  The mood over the group turns awkward. 

“What?” Adm asks. 

“Dude,” Sawyer asks. “Are those…” 

“Dude,” Alex interrupts.  “Are you wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants underwear?” 

Adam realizes what he’s wearing and tries to pull his shirt down to cover them up. 

“Yes,” he pushes back.  “And don’t you dare laugh!  It’s a great show and I know every one of you watch it.”  

This shuts the guys up. “True.” 

“Otherwise, if you don’t want them, I can pull my pants back up and we can see what you are wearing.” 

“No! That’s fine!” Alex yells. 

“Sponge Bog works for me!” Arnaub chimes in trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. 

“Yeah! Sponge Bob is cool.” Sayer adds in. 

“Good.” Adam takes his shorts off and quickly gets his hiking pants back on. He takes his Sponge Bob underwear and throws them to Sawyer, hitting him square in the face. 

Sawyer gives out a yell in protest. Grabbing the shorts from his face as fast as possible. He drops the gooey softball directly into the pouch of the underwear. Now that the Sponge Bob bomb is ready, he starts twisting the sling shot until it winds and tightens up around what we dub it as the Crabby Patty! 

Sawyer stands up and, holding the shorts by the elastic, starts swinging the contraption over his head. It’s a blend of an Olympic hammer, and an old school sling biblical David used to slay the giant. Sawyer runs down the fence line to the elk. His arms wildly swinging overhead, giving the food bomb more momentum. With one last swing, Sawyer releases the food bomb in a high arc. It lands perfectly, 10 feet in front of the elk.  

The elk turned, sniffed, and lumbered away toward the treat.

“It worked!” Robbie yelled.

We exploded, cheering, laughing, collapsing in the dirt. Peanut butter everywhere.

Alex and Sawyer found a large stick and pried up the bottom line of barbed wire in the fence. I crawled under and sprinted toward the staff holing our pennant. After a quick 50 yard dash I was back at the fence with the staff in hand.

We made it back to camp and had the fastest time, wining the trophy. A first year tenderfoot upset. Even though we promised to never talk about Adam’s underpants, we kept retelling the story to anyone who’d listen. And he didn’t mind. The smallest, quietest kid took one for the team and became a hero.

By nightfall, the legend had evolved:

“Adam fought off a ten-point buck with his bare hands!”
“He used his underwear as a catapult grenade!”
“He lassoed the elk with his shorts and rode it back to camp!”

That night, sitting by the fire, we looked down at the shiny trophy in the dirt. We remembered the promise we made to ourselves when we first formed up as a patrol, the patrol nobody wanted.

Speak up. Fix what’s broken. Don’t wait for permission. Be who you are. And when someone’s in trouble, you stand up for them.

I guess that’s what Adam did.
Not with a speech. Not with muscles.
Just with a pair of SpongeBob underwear and the nerve to say “I’ll do it.”

And maybe that’s what being friends, and being a Scout, is all about.