In the fall of 1953, me and the kid across the street were practicing our camp crafts for an upcoming merit badge. Everett Snyder was a stocky muscular kid, and I figured it was good to have somebody bigger and stonger than me to team up with. Kind of do the heavy work your see!
We came to the conclusion we needed to have our own campout to sort of practice for the real thing, Mr. Van being a strict kind of guy. It was deceided on that we'd spend a overnight camp at a place called Hike Millers woods. Nobody ever knew why they were called Hike Millers woods, exept there were some ruins of an old foundation and some falled in outbuildings all overgrown by the forest. If there was ever a farm or house there belonging to a Hike Miller, it was'nt in the 20th century.
On that crisp Saturday morning me and Ev packed our gear on our bicycles. In those days bikes were made by Schwinn, had baloon tires, and a large basket on the front. That basket was a tight fit for our regulation Yucca packs, but we made them fit. We were well supplied by our parents with canned chille, cookies, and about enough other food to supply about one half of Lewis and Clarks expedition of discovery. We also had Lucky.
Lucky was our dog. Dad made the declaration in a tone of voice that we were not going unless we took Lucky. We'd gotten Lucky out of the pound when we moved out from Washington D.C. to the country. He was nothing special to look at, a plain mutt, kind of stocky build about 50 pounds, some brown, some white, a bit black here and there. The vet said he was about two years old when we got him, and he must have had a rough life. Soon as he figured he had a home with a regular meal, he set about defending it from all visitors with a passion. He tried to eat the gas man once for reading our meter, and wanted to tear the mailman assunder for always dumping those papers in our mailbox. But he loved his family. Dad said Lucky had to go along.
So off we set on our baloon tired bikes with Lucky trotting alongside exept for a interesting sniff here and there. It was a pleasent sunny trip to the Hike Miller woods. On arriving, we thoughtfully selected our camp site with the pointers inour Official Boyscout handbook. We used some leafy limbs to sweep out our site, trimed some offending branches out of the way with our Official scout knives. Being fall, we planned on a chilly night and gathered what we thought would be an ample amount of firewood. Then it was work time.
Knowing Mr. Van well by now, we planned on making our camp furnature using only our pocket knives. He had been teaching us to depend on what we always had in our pockets, so we'd hopefully buy a few points of mercy on our test by using only pocket knives. By mid afternoon we had one chair and a table made out of green poplar, using the notching method of Mr. Van and just our Official Boy scout knives. To avoid temptation we left our offical hatchets at home. The growling of hungrey bellies brought the practice to a stop..
We had made a firepit that could have been in a photo of the perfect firepit in the Official boyscout handbook, so we set it going and was just turning to our supplies when someone hailed the campsite.
"Hallo the camp!" came a loud voice and started the dickens out of us. We thought we had the Hike Miller woods to ourselves.
A rough, down at the heels man came into the clearing with an old army canvas pack over one shoulder, and Lucky let out a really deep growl with hair standing up on his back. Maybe he figured if me and Ev were making furnature, it must be a new home, and he was going to defend it. I stepped towards him to grab for his collar, then the dammdest thing happened.
Like I said, Lucky was not a real friendly dog if he did'nt know you. But the rough dressed man whistled a high pitch tone and got down on one knee, holding out the back of his hand to Lucky. Lucky walked a bit closer with that stiff legged wary way, and I thought this man is about to loose a hand. But nothing of the sort happened. Lucky sniffed, looked the man over and the man slowly reached under Luckys chin and scratched his thick neck fur. Luckys tail twitched right, then a little left. Then right and left, then a real wag. Me and Ev were amazed.
"See, it's okay, I get along with dogs real well" said the man.
The strange man told us his name was Tom, and he was passing through, on the way south, to catch a frieght train out of the rail yard. It turned out he was a real hobo. Hike Millers woods were a stop off point because of the nice creek for water, and camping. It was obvious he wanted to camp there. By this point of my life I'd read alot of Louis LaAmore westerns, and he always talked about how a cowboy watched and trusted his horse. I did'nt have a horse, but I had Lucky, and something told me if Lucky liked him, he must be alright. I invited him to camp with us.
Tom the hobo set his pack down on the other side of the firepit, and took stock of our camp. He looked at our wood supply.
"Planning on wintering over?" he asked.
I looked at our wood, and had to admit Ev and me had stocked up real well. It said in the handbook to be preparded, so we prepared for a cold night. Okay, we did have quite a wood pile, gathered with the enthusiasim of youth. We went back to setting up our dinner and Tom took out his supplies, including a fire blackened large coffee can. This was the night we'd learn about hobo stew.
While making dinner, Tom told us about his life as a hobo in responce to our boyishly blunt questions. He'd gotten into wandering after the war, and just felt the need to keep moving. He made it pay by picking apples and cherrys in New England, then apples in the Maryland-Virginia area, the peaches in Georgia, and citrus in Florida. Now with the coming winter he was on the way south. As he talked we watched him rig a wire hanger to a wood tripod he made by tying three limbs together. Out of a brown grocery bag he took some ground beef, a bell pepper, an onion, a potoato, and some spices out of a small tobbaco tin. A can of mushroom soup was opened with an old military issue metal handle scout knife, and the contents dumped into the coffee can hung over the low fire. The onion and potato and bell pepper were cut up with a large wood handle knife the like of which Ev or me had never seen before. He told us real hobo stew was a treat, and we could share it with him if we split some of our canned chille with him. It was a done deal.
While dinner cooked we talked pocket knives. Ev and me told him about Mr. Van, and he told us that it sounded like we had a good leader. Tom carried three different knives on him and he showed us each one and we showed him our treasure scout knives. He had an old well used hawkbill in his coat pocket he used to make bough beds, harvest work. It has a razor sharp edge I remember well to this day. He made the passing comment that sometimes you run into a not so nice person on the rails, and the hawkbill in his right coat pocket was easy to get out.
Then he showed us a fixed blade knife he used for his kichen knife. A long leaf shaped blade with a plain wood handle, and a wooden sheath. It had a rough look to it, and we'd never seen a wooden sheath before. He told us how he'd picked it up in Thailand where he was wandering around after he got out of the service. He spoke of old Ankor Wat temples in the jungles, and the open friendly villigers.
The hobo stew was giving off a wonderfull meaty smell, and our cans of chille were steaming on the coals by the side of the fire. Tom spooned some of his stew onto our official boy scout mess kit plates, and we gave him some of our chille in his tin bowl. At the first spoonfull of the stew, I was hooked. The meat, and pepper and onion and potato had melded into a simple but wonderfull dish.
We talked well into the dark, and when the stars were bright in the sky we rolled into our sack's. As it was a real chilly night I had no objection to Lucky worming his way into my bedroll. With visions of strange temples in deep jungles I fell deep asleep.
It was the smell of coffee that woke me.
"Come on boys, are ya sleeping in cause it's Sunday?" Tom's voice broke the morniig stillness.
Me and Ev rolled out of our bedrolls to find Tom had already stired up the coals and had coffee in the washed out coffee can. Hot strong, and black as the Earl of Hells riding boots. I must have made a face at the bit of coffee grind in my teeth, or maybe I was'nt used to coffee strong enough to hold a spoon up strait.
"What's the matter boy? Don't like good coffee?"
"Coffees good, I'm just not used to chewing it" I told him from the other side of the fire.
Tom showed us how to sprinkle just a bit of cool water from a canteen on the coffee to settle the grinds. As I did so, I saw Tom was already packed up and ready to move out. It was just barely past that soft grey light of the dawn when you could still see some of the stars overhead.
"Its been great camping with you boys, I've enjoyed the good conversation and company" he told us. "I got to be catching that train south, there's peaches to pick in Georga and its gettin too cold up here".
He slung the old army canvas pack over one shoulder and reached down to pat Lucky on the head. "Watch over these boys old hound" he said to Lucky. Lucky wagged his tail a bit, and then Tom walked off down the creek bank toward the railroad tracks we knew were the other side of the woods. He walked like he did'nt have a care in the world.
Me and Ev packed up our gear and started home on our bikes with lucky trotting along behind us, stopping now and then for a interesting sniff.
We came to the conclusion we needed to have our own campout to sort of practice for the real thing, Mr. Van being a strict kind of guy. It was deceided on that we'd spend a overnight camp at a place called Hike Millers woods. Nobody ever knew why they were called Hike Millers woods, exept there were some ruins of an old foundation and some falled in outbuildings all overgrown by the forest. If there was ever a farm or house there belonging to a Hike Miller, it was'nt in the 20th century.
On that crisp Saturday morning me and Ev packed our gear on our bicycles. In those days bikes were made by Schwinn, had baloon tires, and a large basket on the front. That basket was a tight fit for our regulation Yucca packs, but we made them fit. We were well supplied by our parents with canned chille, cookies, and about enough other food to supply about one half of Lewis and Clarks expedition of discovery. We also had Lucky.
Lucky was our dog. Dad made the declaration in a tone of voice that we were not going unless we took Lucky. We'd gotten Lucky out of the pound when we moved out from Washington D.C. to the country. He was nothing special to look at, a plain mutt, kind of stocky build about 50 pounds, some brown, some white, a bit black here and there. The vet said he was about two years old when we got him, and he must have had a rough life. Soon as he figured he had a home with a regular meal, he set about defending it from all visitors with a passion. He tried to eat the gas man once for reading our meter, and wanted to tear the mailman assunder for always dumping those papers in our mailbox. But he loved his family. Dad said Lucky had to go along.
So off we set on our baloon tired bikes with Lucky trotting alongside exept for a interesting sniff here and there. It was a pleasent sunny trip to the Hike Miller woods. On arriving, we thoughtfully selected our camp site with the pointers inour Official Boyscout handbook. We used some leafy limbs to sweep out our site, trimed some offending branches out of the way with our Official scout knives. Being fall, we planned on a chilly night and gathered what we thought would be an ample amount of firewood. Then it was work time.
Knowing Mr. Van well by now, we planned on making our camp furnature using only our pocket knives. He had been teaching us to depend on what we always had in our pockets, so we'd hopefully buy a few points of mercy on our test by using only pocket knives. By mid afternoon we had one chair and a table made out of green poplar, using the notching method of Mr. Van and just our Official Boy scout knives. To avoid temptation we left our offical hatchets at home. The growling of hungrey bellies brought the practice to a stop..
We had made a firepit that could have been in a photo of the perfect firepit in the Official boyscout handbook, so we set it going and was just turning to our supplies when someone hailed the campsite.
"Hallo the camp!" came a loud voice and started the dickens out of us. We thought we had the Hike Miller woods to ourselves.
A rough, down at the heels man came into the clearing with an old army canvas pack over one shoulder, and Lucky let out a really deep growl with hair standing up on his back. Maybe he figured if me and Ev were making furnature, it must be a new home, and he was going to defend it. I stepped towards him to grab for his collar, then the dammdest thing happened.
Like I said, Lucky was not a real friendly dog if he did'nt know you. But the rough dressed man whistled a high pitch tone and got down on one knee, holding out the back of his hand to Lucky. Lucky walked a bit closer with that stiff legged wary way, and I thought this man is about to loose a hand. But nothing of the sort happened. Lucky sniffed, looked the man over and the man slowly reached under Luckys chin and scratched his thick neck fur. Luckys tail twitched right, then a little left. Then right and left, then a real wag. Me and Ev were amazed.
"See, it's okay, I get along with dogs real well" said the man.
The strange man told us his name was Tom, and he was passing through, on the way south, to catch a frieght train out of the rail yard. It turned out he was a real hobo. Hike Millers woods were a stop off point because of the nice creek for water, and camping. It was obvious he wanted to camp there. By this point of my life I'd read alot of Louis LaAmore westerns, and he always talked about how a cowboy watched and trusted his horse. I did'nt have a horse, but I had Lucky, and something told me if Lucky liked him, he must be alright. I invited him to camp with us.
Tom the hobo set his pack down on the other side of the firepit, and took stock of our camp. He looked at our wood supply.
"Planning on wintering over?" he asked.
I looked at our wood, and had to admit Ev and me had stocked up real well. It said in the handbook to be preparded, so we prepared for a cold night. Okay, we did have quite a wood pile, gathered with the enthusiasim of youth. We went back to setting up our dinner and Tom took out his supplies, including a fire blackened large coffee can. This was the night we'd learn about hobo stew.
While making dinner, Tom told us about his life as a hobo in responce to our boyishly blunt questions. He'd gotten into wandering after the war, and just felt the need to keep moving. He made it pay by picking apples and cherrys in New England, then apples in the Maryland-Virginia area, the peaches in Georgia, and citrus in Florida. Now with the coming winter he was on the way south. As he talked we watched him rig a wire hanger to a wood tripod he made by tying three limbs together. Out of a brown grocery bag he took some ground beef, a bell pepper, an onion, a potoato, and some spices out of a small tobbaco tin. A can of mushroom soup was opened with an old military issue metal handle scout knife, and the contents dumped into the coffee can hung over the low fire. The onion and potato and bell pepper were cut up with a large wood handle knife the like of which Ev or me had never seen before. He told us real hobo stew was a treat, and we could share it with him if we split some of our canned chille with him. It was a done deal.
While dinner cooked we talked pocket knives. Ev and me told him about Mr. Van, and he told us that it sounded like we had a good leader. Tom carried three different knives on him and he showed us each one and we showed him our treasure scout knives. He had an old well used hawkbill in his coat pocket he used to make bough beds, harvest work. It has a razor sharp edge I remember well to this day. He made the passing comment that sometimes you run into a not so nice person on the rails, and the hawkbill in his right coat pocket was easy to get out.
Then he showed us a fixed blade knife he used for his kichen knife. A long leaf shaped blade with a plain wood handle, and a wooden sheath. It had a rough look to it, and we'd never seen a wooden sheath before. He told us how he'd picked it up in Thailand where he was wandering around after he got out of the service. He spoke of old Ankor Wat temples in the jungles, and the open friendly villigers.
The hobo stew was giving off a wonderfull meaty smell, and our cans of chille were steaming on the coals by the side of the fire. Tom spooned some of his stew onto our official boy scout mess kit plates, and we gave him some of our chille in his tin bowl. At the first spoonfull of the stew, I was hooked. The meat, and pepper and onion and potato had melded into a simple but wonderfull dish.
We talked well into the dark, and when the stars were bright in the sky we rolled into our sack's. As it was a real chilly night I had no objection to Lucky worming his way into my bedroll. With visions of strange temples in deep jungles I fell deep asleep.
It was the smell of coffee that woke me.
"Come on boys, are ya sleeping in cause it's Sunday?" Tom's voice broke the morniig stillness.
Me and Ev rolled out of our bedrolls to find Tom had already stired up the coals and had coffee in the washed out coffee can. Hot strong, and black as the Earl of Hells riding boots. I must have made a face at the bit of coffee grind in my teeth, or maybe I was'nt used to coffee strong enough to hold a spoon up strait.
"What's the matter boy? Don't like good coffee?"
"Coffees good, I'm just not used to chewing it" I told him from the other side of the fire.
Tom showed us how to sprinkle just a bit of cool water from a canteen on the coffee to settle the grinds. As I did so, I saw Tom was already packed up and ready to move out. It was just barely past that soft grey light of the dawn when you could still see some of the stars overhead.
"Its been great camping with you boys, I've enjoyed the good conversation and company" he told us. "I got to be catching that train south, there's peaches to pick in Georga and its gettin too cold up here".
He slung the old army canvas pack over one shoulder and reached down to pat Lucky on the head. "Watch over these boys old hound" he said to Lucky. Lucky wagged his tail a bit, and then Tom walked off down the creek bank toward the railroad tracks we knew were the other side of the woods. He walked like he did'nt have a care in the world.
Me and Ev packed up our gear and started home on our bikes with lucky trotting along behind us, stopping now and then for a interesting sniff.
bunch very well. Thanks again:thumbup:
