Contrary to Donald Trump’s assertion at the National Jamboree, scouting is about more than just banging hot chicks on fancy yachts. In my troop, it was about piling into the bed of Ray Downard’s pickup truck and heading out into the hills. Was it safe? No. Was it fun? Sure. Was it about religion? Well, technically, ours was a Mormon troop, but only insofar as a Mormon church was where we convened on Tuesday nights.
I vaguely remember an opening ceremony that took place in the chapel. We boys sat on one side, the girls on the other. A prayer was offered up; a hymn was sung; a scriptural passage was read. Then the mercifully brief opening ceremony came to a close; we’d adjourn to our separate classrooms and the fun would begin—fun for us boys, at any rate. I’m only dimly aware of what the so-called Young Women’s Program is all about. Something called “personal progress” which entails eight values—faith, divine nature, individual worth, knowledge, choice and accountability, good works, integrity, and virtue. All this in pursuit of something called The Young Womanhood Medallion.
For Boy Scouts, the stated goal was to attain the exalted rank of Eagle; however, I don’t recall that anyone in Troop 281 ever did so, with the exception of Dick Draper. Was Dick Draper a good Mormon? Let me put it this way: One night as the two of us shared a pup tent, he introduced me to the utility of a cheap cigar.
“Keeps the mosquitoes at bay,” he explained between puffs.
Above is a group photo of our outfit that appeared in the local newspaper after we were honored by the Utah National Parks Council as the troop that had set the fewest forest fires in 1957. Among us I count half a dozen—including Dick Draper—who have since died, one who is MIA and presumed dead and another who is “undecided.” Whenever I ask whatever became of my good friend David Brown, I’m informed that he was gay—as if being gay is the same as being dead.
Truth be told, sexual orientation was a non-issue in Troop 281. What we cared about was camping and camp craft. We learned, for example, that an unopened can of beans placed in a campfire seam down with shoot straight up into the sky. Seam up, hot beans will spray outward like shrapnel.
Lucky for us, our scoutmaster was a good sport. Ray Downard was one of those guys in the ward who would never be appointed to a higher church office because it wasn’t in his nature to preach. He was just a regular guy who ran a pretty loose outfit in which any boy who wished to participate was welcome. Church participation—even church affiliation—didn’t matter. All you needed in order to fit in was a uniform, and even that uniform didn’t need to fit. I’m pretty sure the shirt I was wearing in the Fifties was the same shirt my father wore in the Twenties.
Dad was a proud Eagle Scout, and I’m sorry to say I never advanced beyond the rank of Star. But I did have a good time; that is, until it dawned on me that LDS scouting programs were trending toward missionary preparation. And now, behold, it has come to pass that the church will no longer be affiliated with the Boy Scouts of America—this to avoid having to embrace gender equality or accommodate gays, not to mention boys who just wanna have fun. No more will there be wild and crazy camp-outs. Forget about canoeing, archery, swimming, knot tying, leather work, boondoggle bracelet weaving, faux Native American initiation ceremonies. Instead, Mormon youths will be encouraged to “discover their eternal identity, built character and resilience, develop life skills and fulfill their divine roles as daughters and sons of God.”
So this is the way the world ends: Not with the bang of an exploding bean can, but with still another dreary proclamation from on high.