Bright and
early, the seniors arise to make their way to one of two buses. As
people assemble, they dump their stuff into an unruly pile. The
announcement is made and we all pack our belongings into the bottom
of the bus and climb aboard. Mysteriously, the senior prefects stroll
into the middle of the aisle and whisper that, If anybody has any
contraband items, that they will dispose of them and nothing will be
said. After half-heartedly checking our persons, they exit and
peruse our full gear. Most of us are embarrassed that other people
are going through our underwear; others might have been worried for
different reasons. Nothing appears to turn up.
The female bus driver decides to turn the radio volume to an almost uncomfortable level. I find this rude as one third of the seniors are sleeping, the other third listening to music, and the last third either reading or day dreaming. Nobody wants to be bothered by noise. I ask \"Can we just skip the radio?\" The driver replies with an emphatic \"No!\" This makes me a little pissed off, but I grit my teeth and take it. After a couple of hours chatting with Puls and Butke about movies, art, and pop culture, I am ready to get my feet on the ground. It is only a few more miles of waggly road to Gardner Dam, a Boy Scout camp I stayed at when I was younger.
Jumping off the bus, we receive our cabin assignments, drop off our stuff, pick up a bag lunch, and step back on the bus. A few round about turns and we arrive at the rafting company. The mass of seniors pair up and crowd around the instructors. Taking the lead with Shihab, we manage a good start.
The river is low, at less than a foot in some areas. Even in the deeper areas, tall rocks block your passage. The rafting is more out-of-the-boat-pushing, than in-the-raft-paddling. Handfuls of Seniors endure cuts, bruises, and scrapes from the boulders.
Supposedly, our path is 6 miles long at an estimated 4 hours. Around the 3rd hour, Mac is hungry and I am thirsty. Having brought some of his lunch along, Shihab grabs a sandwich and hands me an orange. Feeling dehydrated, I thank the orange for being my savior. Not missing a beat, Mac calls it my Jesus Orange. He also named our paddles; ask him for details.
With our last ounce of energy, we make it to the ending pier, climb up a slope, and impatiently wait at the top for the rest of the class. The mosquitoes found us; no explanation needed. I small talk with Ms. Moe, but when Ms. Alpaugh and Dr. Lake return in the van and bring strawberry and chocolate ice cream, generously scooped out by Shihab and ~Spelling~ Bardlemier, the talking ends and the face feeding begins.
After boarding the buses, all the Seniors have to wait for Mr. Osvald and Mr. Dore to get off the river. We head back to camp, arrive, and decide what to do next. Some Seniors remain in their swim gear and head out to the pond, perching on a rock as if sea gulls. Others change into dry clothes. I take this opportunity to interview a few Seniors.
Jill Neitzel declares that \"rafting with the awesome Lark Jackson\" was the best part of the trip. With glee, Mary Miller replies that \"Me [sic] and Katie Shank are the best rafters ever!\" The One and Only Animwaa Sampong offers that \"[The trip] was a great experience for the Senior Class to bond..but the distance [of the river] was too long...[although] the surroundings are beautiful and very peaceful...a perfect place to get away...\"
When asked if there is anything he would change about the trip, Phil Swain replied, \"not at all...I think it was a good way for people to get closer together...[because] people in the boats have to save each other.\" After prodding by Miller, Phil decides that there is one change to be made. Desiring to eat S'Mores later, Phil pleads for vegetarian marshmallows, because the regular ones have gelatin that comes from horse hooves. [ http://fitsugar.com/84889 verifies that gelatin is made from animal byproducts.]
After hanging around, dinner preparations begin. The famous Senior dinner of grilled steaks and baked potatoes commences, and people become ravenous wolves, attacking their steak as if it were live prey. After clean up and the setting of the sun, groups wander off into the darkness in search of adventure. Most head left, while Puls, Butke, Shihab, and I head right. Already having been at this camp, I take them to a well hidden amphitheater. Sitting on the steps, we play the story came. Starting off with a scorpion as the main character, the cast soon includes unicorns and angels. Ever full of philosophy, Puls pulls out the Scholastic question of “How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?” Hiking back toward camp, we come to the end and find a couple starting toward us. I creep low in the bushes, spring up, and growl like a rabid werewolf angry at the moon. The girl hides behind her boy friend and we slide back to the main area of camp.
The bonfire, from Middle English banefire (1483), originally a fire in which bones were burned, has begun (www.etymonline.com). Teachers and students gather around to roast marshmallows and Christine Pryme roasts carrots. After a gluttonous affair with S'Mores, Shihab's first time eating roasted marshmallows, groups sporadically leave the bonfire. Mr. Osvald and Edgar remain debating over the dress code and Cassie McLeod stays to articulate opinions on “Race” with Ms. Alpaugh and Dr. Lake. I leave to find out what happened to everybody else and find Burtis, Corbin, and a few others lying on the grass, gazing at the stars.
Returning to the fire, I expect to find Cassie M. and Edgar E. still there; Instead, I find Alpaugh and Lake. I chat for a bit, yawn, and then bedtime dawns, so I head to the cabin.
Once in my sleeping bag, I wait for a rowdy crowd of guys to finish their card games. {Schaalma!}Within a minute of the lights being out, the giant begins to saw redwoods. Mr. Osvald bursts our ear drums with his thunderous sleep-snorting, or snoring. Being asleep, Osvald doesn't hear the guys swear at him, threaten to smoother him, or wonder if they could stick tissue up his nose. The next morning, in reference to Mr. Osvald's snoring, Alejandro De La Rosa remarked \"It was pretty much like an earthquake!\"
[Lucky for me, I drowned out the snoring with ear plugs my mother packed. I advise ALL future rafters to bring ear plugs.]
Awaking around 6:45, I sneak into the bathroom, wash my hair, put in my contacts, and dress. Getting permission to hike around camp, I journey and discover pheasants, chipmunks, a deer, and various flora. After my hike, I return for a scrumptious breakfast of pancakes and sausage.
Afterward, my chore is to make the sandwich lunches for the way home. Dr. Lake and Ms. Hutchison manage the ham and turkey, and the PB&J is produced in assembly line fashion. Ready to return home, everybody grabs two sandwiches, waits for the buses, and then board to settle in for the ride. On the way home, the bus driver or the GPS becomes momentarily disoriented, causing us to detour. Mr. Osvald and Mr. Nelson save the day by reading a good 'ole paper map.
Once back at Wayland, people wander off....
The female bus driver decides to turn the radio volume to an almost uncomfortable level. I find this rude as one third of the seniors are sleeping, the other third listening to music, and the last third either reading or day dreaming. Nobody wants to be bothered by noise. I ask \"Can we just skip the radio?\" The driver replies with an emphatic \"No!\" This makes me a little pissed off, but I grit my teeth and take it. After a couple of hours chatting with Puls and Butke about movies, art, and pop culture, I am ready to get my feet on the ground. It is only a few more miles of waggly road to Gardner Dam, a Boy Scout camp I stayed at when I was younger.
Jumping off the bus, we receive our cabin assignments, drop off our stuff, pick up a bag lunch, and step back on the bus. A few round about turns and we arrive at the rafting company. The mass of seniors pair up and crowd around the instructors. Taking the lead with Shihab, we manage a good start.
The river is low, at less than a foot in some areas. Even in the deeper areas, tall rocks block your passage. The rafting is more out-of-the-boat-pushing, than in-the-raft-paddling. Handfuls of Seniors endure cuts, bruises, and scrapes from the boulders.
Supposedly, our path is 6 miles long at an estimated 4 hours. Around the 3rd hour, Mac is hungry and I am thirsty. Having brought some of his lunch along, Shihab grabs a sandwich and hands me an orange. Feeling dehydrated, I thank the orange for being my savior. Not missing a beat, Mac calls it my Jesus Orange. He also named our paddles; ask him for details.
With our last ounce of energy, we make it to the ending pier, climb up a slope, and impatiently wait at the top for the rest of the class. The mosquitoes found us; no explanation needed. I small talk with Ms. Moe, but when Ms. Alpaugh and Dr. Lake return in the van and bring strawberry and chocolate ice cream, generously scooped out by Shihab and ~Spelling~ Bardlemier, the talking ends and the face feeding begins.
After boarding the buses, all the Seniors have to wait for Mr. Osvald and Mr. Dore to get off the river. We head back to camp, arrive, and decide what to do next. Some Seniors remain in their swim gear and head out to the pond, perching on a rock as if sea gulls. Others change into dry clothes. I take this opportunity to interview a few Seniors.
Jill Neitzel declares that \"rafting with the awesome Lark Jackson\" was the best part of the trip. With glee, Mary Miller replies that \"Me [sic] and Katie Shank are the best rafters ever!\" The One and Only Animwaa Sampong offers that \"[The trip] was a great experience for the Senior Class to bond..but the distance [of the river] was too long...[although] the surroundings are beautiful and very peaceful...a perfect place to get away...\"
When asked if there is anything he would change about the trip, Phil Swain replied, \"not at all...I think it was a good way for people to get closer together...[because] people in the boats have to save each other.\" After prodding by Miller, Phil decides that there is one change to be made. Desiring to eat S'Mores later, Phil pleads for vegetarian marshmallows, because the regular ones have gelatin that comes from horse hooves. [ http://fitsugar.com/84889 verifies that gelatin is made from animal byproducts.]
After hanging around, dinner preparations begin. The famous Senior dinner of grilled steaks and baked potatoes commences, and people become ravenous wolves, attacking their steak as if it were live prey. After clean up and the setting of the sun, groups wander off into the darkness in search of adventure. Most head left, while Puls, Butke, Shihab, and I head right. Already having been at this camp, I take them to a well hidden amphitheater. Sitting on the steps, we play the story came. Starting off with a scorpion as the main character, the cast soon includes unicorns and angels. Ever full of philosophy, Puls pulls out the Scholastic question of “How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?” Hiking back toward camp, we come to the end and find a couple starting toward us. I creep low in the bushes, spring up, and growl like a rabid werewolf angry at the moon. The girl hides behind her boy friend and we slide back to the main area of camp.
The bonfire, from Middle English banefire (1483), originally a fire in which bones were burned, has begun (www.etymonline.com). Teachers and students gather around to roast marshmallows and Christine Pryme roasts carrots. After a gluttonous affair with S'Mores, Shihab's first time eating roasted marshmallows, groups sporadically leave the bonfire. Mr. Osvald and Edgar remain debating over the dress code and Cassie McLeod stays to articulate opinions on “Race” with Ms. Alpaugh and Dr. Lake. I leave to find out what happened to everybody else and find Burtis, Corbin, and a few others lying on the grass, gazing at the stars.
Returning to the fire, I expect to find Cassie M. and Edgar E. still there; Instead, I find Alpaugh and Lake. I chat for a bit, yawn, and then bedtime dawns, so I head to the cabin.
Once in my sleeping bag, I wait for a rowdy crowd of guys to finish their card games. {Schaalma!}Within a minute of the lights being out, the giant begins to saw redwoods. Mr. Osvald bursts our ear drums with his thunderous sleep-snorting, or snoring. Being asleep, Osvald doesn't hear the guys swear at him, threaten to smoother him, or wonder if they could stick tissue up his nose. The next morning, in reference to Mr. Osvald's snoring, Alejandro De La Rosa remarked \"It was pretty much like an earthquake!\"
[Lucky for me, I drowned out the snoring with ear plugs my mother packed. I advise ALL future rafters to bring ear plugs.]
Awaking around 6:45, I sneak into the bathroom, wash my hair, put in my contacts, and dress. Getting permission to hike around camp, I journey and discover pheasants, chipmunks, a deer, and various flora. After my hike, I return for a scrumptious breakfast of pancakes and sausage.
Afterward, my chore is to make the sandwich lunches for the way home. Dr. Lake and Ms. Hutchison manage the ham and turkey, and the PB&J is produced in assembly line fashion. Ready to return home, everybody grabs two sandwiches, waits for the buses, and then board to settle in for the ride. On the way home, the bus driver or the GPS becomes momentarily disoriented, causing us to detour. Mr. Osvald and Mr. Nelson save the day by reading a good 'ole paper map.
Once back at Wayland, people wander off....
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