Paul McCartney’s goopy “Mother Nature’s Son,” from The White Album, was a harbinger—at the time, it just seemed like a throwaway on a double album—of his mostly saccharine post-Beatles career, although still a step above the unlistenable “The Long and Winding Road” from Let It Be. (His best song from Abbey Road, “You Never Give Me Your Money,” missed the Nostradamus mark, since Paul methodically built a financial empire that he still bolsters, often shamelessly, to this day.)
As a 13-year-old in 1968, I was generally at one with nature—climbing 100-year-old trees in the woods, swimming at the local beaches, riding my bike during mild hurricanes that hit Long Island—but it was that year that I gave up any interest in camping or taking long hikes in the wilderness. It was May 1, and my Boy Scout Troop 12 was carpooling to a pristine destination in the Adirondacks. The BSA was uncool at the time—I got a demerit at a meeting that year for wearing a paisley neckerchief and Gene McCarthy campaign button—but I followed my four older brothers who were Troop 12 Scouts in a more Boy’s Life/Saturday Evening Post suburban culture, and my Mom insisted it’d look good on my 1972 college applications. Rack up them extracurriculars!
But the overnighter was a disaster. Arriving at our starting point, relatively heavy snow was falling—in May, a life-threatening sign of climate change I pointed out to headmaster Wilson Mott—and, as most of us weren’t adequately dressed, the slipping and sliding over rocks and tree stumps during the five-mile hike really blew. Midway, a friend, who’d stuffed his backpack with non-essentials, like a full bottle of Listerine and full box of Ritz crackers, asked me to take on some of his load; I agreed, because Scout’s Honor was ingrained in my brain, even if “Be Prepared” had escaped my buddy. After a franks & beans cookout outside, when it was freezing, “Taps” sounded at nine p.m.—in spirt, since there was no bugle—and the 18 of us unzipped sleeping bags and hoped for an uninterrupted sleep. Bruce Arbonies and I shared a tent, pitched according to regulations, but the snow had turned into a pouring rain, and it turned out our tent was filled with holes, so we got drenched. All night.
We arrived back in Huntington around noon the next day, and my parents weren’t impressed by my irritation, and Dad even smiled, and said, “Rusty, it builds character!” to which I replied, out of Mom’s earshot, “Yeah, I’ll add that to my list of extracurriculars on the bulletin board.” Three weeks later, another camping trip was scheduled, and I decided there was no way. It was no skin off Dad’s nose, but he insisted I tell Mr. Mott in person that I was abdicating, since it was the stand-up thing to do. I did, Old Wilson shook his head in disappointment, and six months later I left the Boy Scouts, attaining the middle-rung level of “Star,” as opposed to the tippy-top “Eagle” and didn’t give a shit. I was free as a bird.
The above picture is of my brother Gary at a family reunion, celebrating my brother Jeff’s 40th birthday, decades ago at Yosemite National Park. The lodgings were faux-rustic, meaning the beds were comfy and food top-notch. The day after we arrived, someone suggested, at the last minute, that we all go on a horse ride. I complied—there was no alternative, really—and hungover, went down to the gift shop to buy a hat since the sun was fierce. There wasn’t much left, so, not giving a shit, picked up a cumbersome Yogi Bear lid, and proceeded to the barn. I didn’t like it: uncomfortable, the horse bucking and I swear I had blisters on my butt afterwards. And it wasn’t easy to light a cigarette when Trigger’s fifth cousin was galloping willy-nilly.
A few years later I rode a camel in the Sahara, near the Pyramids. This was more tame, although outfitted in a gray linen suit and fancy Italian shoes, the escorts had a laugh at my expense. I didn’t mind; it was a brief foray, and my niece and I then settled into a hidden café (suggested by a native, who appointed himself our tour guide) and had the best roast chicken of our lives. That night it was off to the casino inside the Ramses Hilton, and though I’m not much of a gambler, we had a ball, and I could see for miles how preferable this was to a hike in the woods.
Look at the clues to figure out the year: India launches Operation Meghdoot; the first World Youth Day is held in Rome; the Monterey Bay Aquarium opens to the public; Aubrey Plaza is born and Marvin Gaye dies; Liechtenstein becomes the last European nation to grant women the right to vote; Desmond Tutu wins the Nobel Peace Prize; Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities begins serialization in Rolling Stone; Joan Didion’s Democracy and Pauline Kael’s Taking It All In are published; Howard Baker is Senate Majority Leader; Ghostbusters is an American sensation; Prince’s Purple Rain is released; Eric Trump is born and Count Basie dies; The Cosby Show debuts on NBC; and Doug Flutie wins the Heisman Trophy.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023