SLEEP WELL

Let me tell you a true story that really happened to me as a boy scout back in the 60’s. Just like today, we used to camp often, but unlike our troop we used to split up into patrols so that, aside from our evening campfire, each patrol was separated from the others and the adult scouters; a few hundred yards between each patrol.  Not so much that you couldn’t get help rapidly in the event of an emergency – or so we thought.

One summer in the 60’s, we were in western Maryland, which even today is pretty remote in parts, but at that time, before the interstates, it was a very rural area nestled in the middle of the Appalachians.  During the day we did our patrol things, had a great time and met with the rest of the troop around the campfire for our evening get together, which of course included stories.  We had a number of very young scouts and some of the stories were pretty wild and scary - to the point that some boys were really beginning to wonder about having to spend the night out there.  As the fire died, we said goodnight to the other patrols and separated into our sites.

All things considered, I had a nice group of scouts – my patrol having four tents, each with two scouts. I was the patrol leader and shared my tent with my assistant. Why he decided to remind us of the Park Ranger’s anecdote just before bedtime, I’ll never understand – I guess he wanted to blood the young scouts – remember, this is before all the youth protection and hazing guidelines we employ in scouting today.   Before we got into our sleeping bags, this dumb mutt recounted the story the Park Ranger had told us during the day about the history of the area.  Apparently, some 200 years ago, this region of America – long before it was known as Maryland – was the home of the Wasaukee Indians, who because of their remote location were an isolated tribe that feared contact with others – be they Indian or not.  They had particularly brutal rituals for those who infringed upon their territory, rites, or as the white man would have it, their property.  Decapitations were common, but only by the most gruesome means following a long terrifying ordeal of disemboweling.  Anyway, over the years as the frontier was pushed westward, the tribe was either wiped out or otherwise assimilated into the present Indian tribes of the area.  All through these woods are the burial grounds of the Wasaukee and the sites of their sacred, gruesome rituals.  And to cap it all off, APL Dumb Mutt reminded us of the Park Ranger’s admonition to keep a watchful eye and not to wander off alone.  Only last year, a couple of hunters went missing and were never found except for one of them who turned up very close to here in the spring following the winter thaw – decapitated.  If it were not for his wedding ring, the police would not have been able to identify him.  His buddy is still out there – presumably dead.

Well, as you can imagine, it took all my persuasive powers to settle my young guys and to bolster their courage – that they had their buddy in the tent and that hundreds of people camped up here every weekend.  Finally, all is quiet – that is until around 12:30 or 1am, when I heard – well we all heard - this blood curdling scream from the tent to my right.  I’m a light sleeper at the best of times, but this would have woken the dead and as we later surmised – probably did.  As I was rushing to find my boots and flashlight, all I could hear was this scout crying out – screaming in fact - to leave him alone.  As fast as I could manage, I got to the tent and using my beam found Joe – alone, all hunkered down in his sleeping bag.

 “Where’s Jim?” 

       “Don’t know.” 

       “What happened?” I asked.

       “I just felt this scraping under the tent, then there was this ripping noise, and then Joe’s scream – I buried myself under my sleeping bag”.

I scanned my flashlight inside the tent and sure enough, there was Joe’s bag ripped apart, but I also noticed the tent floor totally shredded – I guess this is the best way I can describe the wreckage – as if some bear or something had torn it apart.  The light glowed red on the tent flap - traces of blood – Joe’s or the thing’s. Aside from that there was nothing to indicate where Joe had gone.  No footsteps, no broken branches - nothing.  I left my assistant in charge, who by the way was no longer Mr. Big and Tough, and told the other boys to stay in their tents and to keep talking to Jim.  I ran off up the hill to wake up the Scoutmaster and the other leaders.  e hurried back down the hillside as fast as possible only to be greeted by another shrieking sound when we were about half way there.  We kept running – faster than I have ever run before.  When we finally got there – it seemed like ages - Joe’s tent was ripped apart and Jim was gone. Only his shoe was left on the ground outside.  That and a little blood on his gear was all the evidence we could see.  The other boys told us they heard this scraping sound coming from the tent, as if someone were digging a tunnel or something.

The Scoutmaster got us all together, hurried us up to the rest of the group and organized two adults as a search party.  He sent off one Dad to fetch the Park Ranger – this was before cell phones and the like.  By daybreak, the police were involved and a full-blooded search was underway.  Later in the day, a historian from the local college came by and said he had recently come across this site and believed it to be an ancient sacrificial-burial ground of the Wasaukee, but he had not found, at the time, enough evidence to be certain.  He later performed a full-scale excavation and found many graves right were we camped – one just where Jim and Joe had pitched their tent.

I’m sad to say, we never did find either Joe or Jim.  The local paper ran a story, interviewed all of us – we were minor celebrities for a while - and of course, the whole troop attended the memorial service for each of our scouts.  None of us really got over the experience, and to this day, I have a hard time falling asleep.  Even at home, I am a really light sleeper. When camping, the slightest rock or root beneath my tent will keep me awake, reminding me of that awful night back in the 60’s, thinking about what Joe had felt, remembering how Jim and the other boys talked about the scraping sound beneath the tent, and wondering is that really a root or is it a finger.