Now, folks, gather close, because this is not just a tale of camp life—it’s a tale of strategy. You see, on Sunday, Graden (the new dock boy) and I put our heads together and cooked up a plan. A prank. A caper. A masterpiece of mischief designed to rattle my son and his two pals like tin cans in a bear’s paw.
We set the stage well. Garbage cans tipped over outside, a proper disaster of peelings, wrappers, and camp refuse. Inside the cabin? More of the same—an interior décor I like to call “wilderness rummaged chic.” The pièce de résistance? A stuffed black bear, waiting in ambush.
Wednesday night, the curtain went up.
Scott had to pee, and in a panic that only an urgent bladder can conjure, he took off running toward the cabin. RJ, loyal as a pack mule, followed behind, lugging every last piece of gear he owned—surely because he expected to never see daylight again.
Moments later, RJ comes staggering back down, gear still strapped, announcing in hushed tones: “Scott says there’s a bear in the cabin.” Allie’s eyes widened like lanterns in the dark and she declared, with pioneer practicality: “We better get Rick to shoot it.”
Now the whole camp was lit up with fear and speculation. Cody, bless his heart, tried to be the voice of reason—or at least of caution. “George,” he warned me gravely, “don’t go in there. There’s a bear in there.”
So in I strolled. And out I came, stroking that dusty old taxidermy bear as though it were a family pet, purring to the crowd: “You mean this bear?”
Friends, I tell you, pandemonium. My son and his pals had faces you could’ve carved into jack-o’-lanterns—wide-eyed, hollow-mouthed, half fright and half outrage. Then came the laughter—rolling, roaring, bending-spines laughter.
Graden and I? We just smiled like foxes in a henhouse. The prank had landed. The camp was ours.
And that, friends, is how a stuffed bear, a little garbage, and a well-timed bladder break became the stuff of camp legend.
That’s all I have to say, I will say no more.
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