A Great American Eagle Hunt Interlude

A True Story (allegedly): Five Tenderfoot Scouts. One summer hike. One medical emergency they will never forget, and have sworn to never speak of again.

On Friday the boys of Troop 904 pack for a weekend camping trip to Olympic National Forest thinking it will be a fun and simple getaway. The schedule includes a Friday night cookout, a seven-mile hike, and a Saturday night campfire complete with an apple and Heath Bar cobbler. What they don’t realize is that this weekend will become one of the most memorable, and maybe the most traumatizing, weekends of their entire scouting career. Maybe ever. Even though by Saturday night they swear to each other they will never discuss the events of the weekend ever again, in the privacy of their circle of friends and around their private campfires, that weekend becomes the lore of legends.

Friday night the Troop pulls into their camp sites just before sundown. At this time of year in mid-summer they can stretch the daylight until about 6:30pm. There are a total of 30 boys on this trip. The five boys of The Magnificent 7 patrol, Robbie, Sawyer, Alex, Adam and Arnav, work together to set up their tent and camping kitchen and stow away their trash. Even though they are one of the least respected patrols in the troop, they work together to get the job done first. Other troops like The Red Devils continue to argue with each other. It’s no surprise their tent is one of the last to get set up, in the dark. Even though they are supposed to be leaders of the troop, they are anything but a good example.

The boys of The Magnificent 7 patrol make themselves a big dinner of spaghetti. They clean their camping kitchen, wash up, change into their sleep shorts and dive into their tent. For these guys the camping evening ritual doesn’t consist of campfire songs, silly skits and working on merit badges. Their nightly ritual consists of poker, comic books and mass consumption of Dorito’s, Warheads candy and cans of soda, all forbidden by the Troop leadership.

Somewhere around midnight the action starts to wind down. The sugar crashes set in. The noise starts to settle until:

“Ffffffffftttt”

“Jesus Christ,” one of the boys yells.

“What the hell just died?” Sawyer gasps.

“Alex!” Adam yells. “Not again! On the last trip you promised you would step outside to do that!”

Tent flaps fly open, and bodies crawl out of the opening like soldiers in basic training learning how to deal with tear gas. Lungs are gasping. Eyes are welling up with tears.

As the toxic dust settles, and the tent airs out, the boys brush their teeth and wash their faces. Then if the toxic levels are low enough and it is safe, they crawl back into the tent, like a den of snakes fighting for position and fall asleep.

#

Saturday afternoon, the high noon sun beats down on the dusty trail. The boys are at mile three of the scheduled seven -mile hike. As usual, and by design, the Magnificent Seven patrol takes up the rear of the march. They prefer the back of the pack. They find that they are hassled the least by The Red Devils, who insist on a fast, no -rest -for -the -wicked pace. To the Red Devils, the hike is supposed to be a Dead Man’s Walk. For the Magnificent Seven, the journey is more important than the pace.

By mile three, the boys’ shirts are soaked through, sweat mixing with bug spray and pinña colada -scented sunscreen along with the unmistakable BO of fourteen -year-old boys who have not showered.

Deep in back fields, near the half way point where the trail loops back around to head home, in a field the map calls The Vortex, the five Scouts trudge along in a loose, laughing and casual clump.

They’d been grouped into the same patrol back in October, simply because they didn’t fit, or didn’t want to fit anywhere else. Robbie, their Patrol Leader. He’s the kid responsible for putting this patrol together. Sawyer, skinny, brash and sarcastic. His patrol doesn’t want him any other way. His quick wit and sharp tongue keeps the authoritarian Red Devils at bay. Alex is still making progress, yet limping from a soccer injury that is slowly healing. Adam, quiet and disciplined. He used to be a member of the Red Devils until he decided to take his life under his own control, to have some fun. In October he defected from the Red Devils, angering The Red Devils and surprising his military father. Arnav, freshly moved to the US from Bangalore, India. He found this safe place here in a school where he is only one of five “brown kids with funny accents” as he describes it. Five strangers, one patrol flag nobody could agree on, and somehow, it works.

Robbie stops to check their position and take a water break. He spots a stand of low bushes just off trail.

“Piss break,” he announces.

“Any excuse to let loose the trouser trout,” Sawyer says immediately, already unbuckling, already grinning, already regretting nothing.

Arnav mutters something about hydration and electrolyte balance. Alex leans on his hiking pole, giving his ankle a rest. Adam follows up behind the group into the tall grass towards a clump of bushes.

The boys fan out behind a thicket of blackberry bushes.

“Release the Kraken!” Sawyer bellows, unzipping with the theatrical flourish of a pirate drawing his sword. If there’s an opportunity for a dick joke, Sawyer’s gonna take it.

“Shut up,” Alex says, laughing anyway.

“Distance contest,” Sawyer announces, already adjusting his stance, leaning back, pushing his hips forward to get maximum stream arc.

“Stop,” Robbie says, laughing too hard to sound authoritative.

“Check it out,” Sawyer calls, writing in cursive. “Alex, someone wrote your name in the dirt.”

“Yeah, but, it’s in your mom’s handwriting,” Alex fires back.

At that moment, a shriek rips across The Vortex field.

“Fuuuuuuuuuccck!” Adam yells. His scream echoes across The Vortex. Two birds are startled and dart from the trees behind them.

“What the hell was that?” Robbie asks.

Adam bursts out from behind the bush, hopping foot to foot, two sets of shorts around his ankles, both hands cupped protectively over the family jewels. His face shows complete panic.

“What the hell?” Arnav says, adjusting his glasses to get a better look at whatever disaster this is.

Sawyer, zipping up, sizes up the situation immediately. “Dude, you know the rules, two shakes is okay, three shakes you’re playing with it. But this takes it to a whole new level.”

“NO.” Adam’s voice cracks. “I have a problem.” He points downward, trying to give the guys a hint.

“What. Tell us,” Robbie says, trying to keep Adam calm.

“You guys have to promise not to laugh,” Adam manages to squeak out. “I need the first aid kit.”

“Shit, dude, did you get it caught in your zipper?” Sawyer asks, causing all the boys to wince in gut-wrenching sympathy. “Because I’ve been there, my man. It’s the price we pay for…” Sawyer pauses. “Greatness,” he says with a flourish.

“No! Worse.” Adam’s whimper conveys the serious nature of his problem. Realizing there is no dignified way to tell the guys about what’s wrong, he slowly lowers his hands.

There is a full three seconds of total silence. All four boys stand in the middle of a wide -open field in complete stunned silence…staring at Adam’s balls.

“Oh, sweet mother of mercy,” Sawyer breaks the silence. “That’s a tick. That is a full-grown tick. And it’s not on his stick. It’s on his…” He can’t finish the sentence. Nobody can finish the sentence.

“Okay. Everyone stay calm,” Arnav says. “This is a medical situation. We follow protocol.”

“PROTOCOL?” Alex’s voice hits a register previously unheard. “It’s a tick on his nut, Arnav! What’s the protocol for that?!”

“We could use a lighter,” Sawyer adds, “or we can just flick it off. Robbie, go ahead, you’re Patrol Leader. Do your duty and flick this tick off Adam’s…”

“I’m not flicking anything,” Robbie yells. “Plus that won’t work. We have to get the entire tick out. Otherwise the wound will get infected.”

“So you have to pull the tick from his….” Sawyer laughs.

“Stop!” Adam yells.

“I’ve read about this in the Scout First Aid book,” Sawyer says. “I’ve got duct tape. We could just cover the tick and let it suffocate. Then you just rip the tape off really fast.”

All five boys cross their legs and wince at that suggestion.

“You are NOT putting duct tape on my balls!” Adam screams. Eventually that will be a quote that will be repeated every time the boys reminisce about the situation.

“Nobody is using duct tape,” Robbie says, already regretting every choice that led him to be patrol leader. “Arnav. What do we actually do?”

“According to the Boy Scout Handbook, a tick must be removed with fine-tipped tweezers. Grasp it as close to the skin as possible.”

“Ugggh!” the boys wince.

“Pull upward with slow, steady pressure.” The boys wince deeper.

“Do not twist.” The boys buckle at the knees.

“Do not jerk.” The pain of empathy is killing them.

“And, this part is critical, you must get the entire head out, or it can cause infection,” Arnav finishes.

“Be sure to get the head from his…” Sawyer laughs.

“Stop!” All the boys yell at Sawyer.

“Translation,” Sawyer says. “Don’t yank it or else…..”

“Stop!” four voices yell at once.

“I am not letting any of you near me with tweezers,” Adam says.

“Dude, relax, we’re Boy Scouts,” Robbie says, rummaging through the first aid kit. “How bad could we possibly mess this up?”

“That is exactly what I’m afraid of!” Adam wails.

“Alex,” Robbie says. “You work with the soccer team at school. What do we do?”

“Dude,” Alex replies. “I tape ankles, not pull bugs with giant pincers out of kids’ ball sacks. Okay. We need a treatment area. Everyone, lay your jacket down. That’s our table.”

The guys dig through their back packs and pull out their field jackets. They lay them down, creating a clean work area.

“Okay, Adam,” Alex says. “You lie here.”

“What!” Adam exclaims.

“You need to lie down so Robbie can work on you,” Alex says.

“Me?!” Robbie protests.

“Sorry dude,” Alex says. “You’re patrol leader. This is all you.”

Alex produces a magnifying glass and the world’s smallest pair of splinter tweezers from the first aid kit. Arnav is assigned lookout duty, a job he takes so seriously he forgets to actually look out, mostly just standing there wincing in horror. One by one they crouch around Adam, who is now lying flat on the jacket, shorts at his ankles, staring up at the sky with the look of a dead man. All dignity has been drained from his soul.

“Adam,” Sawyer says.

“Yes?” Adam replies.

“This may not be the best time to ask this. But are you wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants underwear?”

“Yes,” Adam answers. Now he’s reached rock bottom and zero dignity.

“Okay,” Sawyer says.

“Let’s get this done,” Robbie says. “Who is doing this?” Robbie says, holding out the tweezers, looking for a volunteer.

“Not it,” says Sawyer, touching his nose.

“Not it,” says Alex, backing up two full steps.

“Not it,” says Arnav, so fast the words blur together.

Sawyer’s grin returns, slow and evil. “Robbie. As Patrol Leader. I believe this one falls to you. It’s, like, page one of the handbook. ‘The Patrol Leader shall remove ticks from his patrol’s left nut.’”

“That is not in the handbook,” Robbie protests.

“Prove it isn’t,” Sawyer shoots back.

“Can we get on with it?” Adam protests. “My balls are going to get sunburned.”

“Well, if you need sunscreen, don’t look at me,” Sawyer jokes.

“Stop. Okay. I’ll do it,” Robbie sighs.

Robbie stares at Adam lying on the jacket. Then he sighs, kneels, and holds out his hand for the tweezers.

“Adam. Breathe. Try not to flinch. I’m going to, I’m just going to get in close and grab it.” Robbie points to the first aid kit. “I need that magnifying glass.”

“Poor guy,” Sawyer quips.

“We need to see and make sure we get the head and pincers fully out. Otherwise it will get infected,” Robbie says.

“And engorged,” Sawyer says. “Which sometimes may not be a bad thing.”

“WATCH IT with that glass,” Adam yelps. “Do not fry my nuts in this sun.”

Robbie goes in to start the procedure. The boys lean over his shoulder to watch. It’s like a car wreck. They shouldn’t look. But they can’t turn away.

Sawyer, looking over Robbie’s shoulder, drops into a hushed nature-documentary voice:

“And here we see the rare woodland nut-parasite, clinging valiantly to its host. The hunter closes in. Steady. Steady…”

“STOP TALKING,” the entire patrol yells at once.

Robbie’s hand trembles. Adam squeezes his eyes shut so tight his whole face scrunches in anticipation. .

Arnav, hovering, starts issuing commands like he’s landing a plane. “A little left, yes, perfect angle, now, steady, steady, we cannot leave the head…”

“That’s what your mom said,” Sawyer says.

Prick.

“AHHHH!” Adam screams in pain. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Robbie says. “I got skin, not the bug.”

All four remaining boys wince and cross their legs in instinctive, involuntary solidarity, as if the pain is contagious.

“You need to flatten out the skin,” Alex says.

“What!” Robbie balks.

“The skin, it’s too wrinkly. That makes it difficult to grasp. You need to use your other hand to flatten out the skin. Then the tick can’t burrow.”

Robbie sighs. “I am so sorry, Adam. One more try. Slow. I promise.”

Silence drops over the Vortex field like a held breath.

“Watch that hair,” Sawyer says. “He doesn’t have much to spare.” Alex punches Sawyer in the shoulder.

Robbie goes in with one clean, steady pull.

The tick comes free, wriggling on the end of the tweezers like a tiny, evil raisin. Robbie holds it aloft like a knight with a severed dragon’s head.

“WE DID IT,” Arnav shouts, both fists in the air. “Mission accomplished.”

“You’re a legend, Robbie,” Alex says.

Adam exhales the longest breath of his entire life, accepts a wet wipe from Sawyer, and pulls his shorts back up, trying to regain his dignity. “Thanks, Robbie.”

“How do I respond to that? My pleasure?” Robbie laughs. “Put antiseptic on it. Walk it off.”

Sawyer claps him on the back. “Congrats, man. You’re officially the bravest scout in troop history. You just earned your Bug-On-Balls Merit Badge.”

They hike the rest of The Vortex in near silence, partly out of exhaustion, mostly because none of them can think of a single thing to say that would top what just happened. By dinner, the story has already mutated, retold at the fire that night as “the time Robbie saved a guy’s life,” with the specifics carefully, deliberately, permanently vague.

The five of them swear a blood oath, right there over burned cobbler, never to speak of it again.

And somewhere out on the Vortex trail, in a Gatorade cap buried under a rock, lies the only physical evidence: one flattened tick, and the reputation of five Scouts who will absolutely, one hundred percent, never live this down.