Meanderings: Collected writings from an eclectic life

By Nathan Strong

Stories, vignettes, short books, essays, poems, and a few illustrated lessons for young people 

Nathan Strong has had extremely diverse experiences in his seventy years - farmer, carpenter, painter, pilot, college administrator, minister, white-water canoeist, traveler (48 states, Canada and a foreign country), teacher, dulcimer maker and recording artist, political campaign manager, entrepreneur, missionary, baseball coach, writer, husband and father of three - fertile ground for his vivid imagination. 

The question often arises about how a minister can have such a wide range of interests and such an uninhibited imagination. There are many precedents, from Milton and C.S. Lewis to Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland, who was a mathematician, photographer, inventor and Anglican deacon. In fact, the case may be made that a minister without imagination makes for a boring preacher, which this minister definitely is not.

With humor and poignancy, something for everyone and for every interest, the reader will delight to wander through the meanderings of this unusual writer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888327302

Book preview

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Meanderings

Collected writings from an eclectic life

Nathan Strong

ISBN 979-8-88832-729-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-730-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Nathan Strong

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

For Mom

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Preface

Introduction

Chapter one

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Appendix

New Normal

About the Author

For Mom

writer, mentor, friend

Chapter one

Chapter one: Characters I Have Known

He was a character! That was my mother's description of any unusual person. It could be anything—eccentricities, sense of humor, strength of character, special skill, strong personality—whatever it was, she would classify that person as a character. I think you'll get the picture as you read the following sketches. It's only fair that Mom is also included here.

In this chapter

The Real Deal—a classic Vermonter

Ronnie Racer—an unusual college roommate

Mom—an only child city girl turned mother of five farmer's wife

Hitch hiking to Harvard—only he could have this kind of adventure

Don't Pray for Patience—she prayed for patience; then he was born

Night Travel—a poem from a night on the road

My Kind of Ranger—only he could meet the needs in northern Maine

Ed Sturgis—vagabond canoeist

Fay Livers—welder, preacher, friend

The Mountaineer—our guide on Grand Teton was the ultimate mountaineer

Mountain Stream—characteristics and accomplishments of a clear flowing brook

The Real Deal: A Classic Vermonter

I lose a little on every deal, but I make it up in volume.

If there's one sentence that sums up Lee Harvey that would be it—his wry humor, his philosophy of life and his hill country personality. It was also a satirical take on his business acumen, since he accumulated enough money to be able to loan some to the town and to numerous other friends and associates in their times of need. And all this from a small town born farmer/horse trader/real estate speculator/auctioneer/personal banker/raconteur, in other words, a classic Vermonter for whom diversification was standard procedure.

As hard scrabble as the land he farmed, he paid the bills by feeding his random assortment of cows—limebacks were his favorites—a random assortment of hay—which he called BMG hay (brush, milkweed and goldenrod). Although he had a milking machine, he always milked by hand, as well, because he was faster than a machine. He'd put the machine on one of the easier milkers, then go milk a tougher one by hand, invariably finishing first. His barn, feeding and milking setup seemed old fashioned, but he always got awards for quality milk and low bacteria count from the creamery.

When the town updated its 9-1-1 system, Lee got them to name his road Starvation Ridge without consulting with his neighbors—They should have come to the meeting. His up-and-coming neighbors were appalled when they found out. With Lee's suggestion of Lee Harvey Boulevard hanging over them, they quickly settled for the present nondescript name of Town Highway 19.

Lee started his wheeling and dealing as a young man when his wheeler-dealer father gave him his own stake to invest. He learned in the school of hard knocks how easy it was to make money and how easy it was to lose money, an excitement which hooked him for life. He was soon buying and selling everything from cows and horses to houses and farms. When chided by a friend that he could have gotten more money for a hill farm which he sold for $400 in the 1950's, he responded, I was happy. The buyer was happy. And I made a little money. What more could you ask? That simple philosophy stood him in good stead throughout his life.

Hanging around the commission sale, looking for a good deal where he could make a little money, he became intrigued with auctioneering. Next thing you know, he was filling in at the sale and hiring out wherever they needed an auctioneer. But he was always willing to do benefit auctions, as well, to help out worthy causes. He was a regular at the fireman's auction at Old Home Day in my hometown.

One of his favorite hobbies was buying properties at tax sales. He was always glad when the original owner could redeem the property, but he enjoyed the speculation, and he always made a little money. He had a little trouble one time, however, when he bought a piece of land that wasn't there. After he paid for it and got the deed, he went to look it over. He found that all the neighbor's property lines met with no parcel left in the middle for him. The town wouldn't refund his money; so he simply chalked this up as a learning experience.

He had a different experience at a different kind of sale. The bank had foreclosed on an old apartment building, and Lee was in the small crowd as an auctioneer friend of his tried to auction it off to recoup some of the bank's money. When he could not arouse any interest, no matter what he tried, the auctioneer suddenly pointed his gavel and said, Lee will give me $50,000 for it. When Lee responded, I wouldn't give you more than half of that, the auctioneer brought his gavel down, Sold to Mr. Harvey for $25,000! Lee settled up, and, within a week, he had sold that old apartment building, making a little money on it, as usual. He just enjoyed the game.

He was very much old school Vermonter, minding his own business and taking care of his own. This was particularly poignant in his care for his little brother who had Down's syndrome. Dale never advanced much beyond a five-year-old level, but Lee always cared for him and included him in the daily activities of farm life. Though his vocabulary consisted mainly of swear words, he worked hard and felt loved. This may be the reason he lived way beyond the normal life expectancy for Down's syndrome. As I understand it, when he lived to be more than fifty years old, he was one of the oldest Down's syndrome people in the country.

Never married, a woman friend lived with Lee for years to help with his brother. A significant other before there were any such things, Barbara also cooked and cleaned and rolled her eyes at his many stories and jokes—I have to do my own telling, my own explaining, and then I have to do my own laughing. In the evenings after supper, they would sit in the living room by the potbellied stove, watch The Golden Girls or Hee-Haw—the poor little rich girl was his favorite—and then go to bed in separate rooms. He took care of her, and she took care of him and Dale—a mutually beneficial arrangement.

He learned to smoke in the Marine Corps—I wasn't busy that year, and besides, they came and picked me up—and struggled with smoking for the rest of his life—It's easy to quit; I've done it hundreds of times. He was proud of his service with the Marines; we still have a picture he gave us of a young Lee Harvey in uniform after boot camp. Our Marine son found a uniform for him in later years, and they proudly marched together in the Memorial Day parade.

He came from a large extended family, a bunch of cousins who he thought were just waiting for him to die so they could get their hands on his money. He made it known that his will left a dollar to each of them, so as to relieve any pressure for them to hurry his passing. When they began to pass away before him, he would observe, One less to be after my money. In the meantime, when one of them was in need, he would do his part to help.

Lee's life changed dramatically when first Dale and then Barbara died. At loose ends, he sold his last farm and moved into town to live with a high school sweetheart whose husband had passed away, another mutually beneficial arrangement, with the added twist of pleasant childhood memories. They did well together. He enjoyed her family, and they reciprocated as they watched him take good care of their mother. They had a weekly date at the pizza parlor and would come to breakfast with us at a local diner just to stay in touch. We enjoyed Mary, too.

Going to Florida with her for the winter was another new experience for him, although he adapted rapidly. He walked to the nearby donut shop for a cup of coffee, and he got on well with their Florida friends. His favorite new activity was shopping at the fund raising rummage sale at the local fire department—a paper bag full of clothes for a dollar was something a long frugal farm boy simply couldn't pass up. He began taking empty suitcases to Florida so he could take advantage of the good deals.

When his emphysema began to act up, we assumed that Mary was about to be widowed for a second time, but it didn't turn out that way. Mary died unexpectedly, which should not have been surprising, as the classic Vermont life always included strange twists and turns, joys and heartaches, and Lee's life was certainly no different in this respect. Mary's kids let him stay in the house and brought him supper every night.

He pared down his belongings until all he had left was a bird cage, a Spiro Agnew watch and a girlie magazine, but he still enjoyed his remaining years. He even came to breakfast with us at the diner occasionally and took the kids to the pizza parlor on Friday nights. When he passed away, there was plenty left for the cousins, and a sizable crowd came to see him receive military honors at the cemetery. Not bad for an old Vermonter who always said, I lose a little on every deal, but I make it up in volume.

Ronnie Racer

The second time he drove onto our East Texas college campus, he was driving a red Studebaker pickup with a bicycle with high-rise handlebars in the back, the epitome of the unusual man we knew as Ronnie Racer. The bicycle was for doing wheelies. The sight of Ronnie Racer pedaling by the dorm in a wheelie, full concentration yet delighted, his unruly hair blowing in the wind, was a sight to behold, and there were faces in every window in the dorm. He could hold a wheelie for half a mile, and it was basically for his own amusement, although everyone in the dorm enjoyed it, too. The fact that he was the oldest student in the dorm at age 26 didn't seem to faze him in the least—child at heart, and all that good stuff.

The first time he drove onto campus, destined to be my roommate, he was riding a 650 Triumph, and he had ridden it all the way from Alaska, where he had been working for a while. He sighed with relief when he removed his kidney belt after wearing it for thousands of miles, almost half of it on the gravel road Alcan Highway. He loved that Triumph and had no problem keeping up with bigger bikes when we went riding with others in the dorm. When I noticed that we were going 90mph, he told me that the speedometer was a little off at the high end.

His real love was Studebakers, however. Riding in his pickup with him, we were going through a suburban intersection when he suddenly did a U-turn and went halfway down a side street to point out a '64 Lark in an open garage. He had seen its right rear tail light at a distance as we were going through the intersection at speed, instantly knew year and model and wanted to show me

He had owned 12 Studebakers in his time. Never paid more than $15 dollars for one. His favorite was a black Golden Hawk which he had restored to mint condition and had won several car show trophies with. He showed me a picture, since he had sold it, claiming it was consuming his life. He was a member of the Studebaker Drivers Club (Have to be to get parts), edited their newsletter and was even the president for a while, I think (Nobody else wants to do it).

When I was looking for a car, he found me a faded red Golden Hawk. When we went to look at it, though, he advised me against getting it, saying it was too expensive—they wanted $300. I think he knew that he was going to have to fix it up, and he didn't want a repeat of his first Hawk experience.

He was a stickler for detail. He told me about the times he had taken a car apart looking for a rattle that he couldn't figure out. And there were several times I came back to my room to find him curled up on the floor polishing his wire wheels.

After he graduated, he got a job tuning exhaust systems for Maremont. He got married and started a family. He also set a new goal for himself—the land speed record for a stock Studebaker. He worked several years before finally achieving it—over 200mph in a silver Avanti at the Bonneville Salt Flats. He sent me a DVD. There will never be another Ronnie Racer, and I was blessed to call him my friend.

Mom

The sign said to be prepared for sudden weather changes, but this is ridiculous. It was a warm and sunny July day when we began our ascent of Mt. Katahdin, the tallest mountain in Maine. By the time we were done, we had experienced clouds and cold, wind and rain, and a couple of snow flurries thrown in for good measure. Though we saw one family trying to cope by using big garbage bags as impromptu ponchos, we were warm and dry in proper clothing, because we had an amazing logistics expert.

Mom was our expert, with unusual skills and years of experience. Dad would have some great idea (like climbing Katahdin), and Mom could make it happen. This was not easy, as Dad always expected the family to come along with him on his adventures. He left it to Mom to make sure we five kids were properly prepared, outfitted and supplied to follow wherever he went, took it for granted, actually. And she could do it.

She had other essential skills, as well, like getting five kids across the Knife Edge on Katahdin. It was called Knife Edge because it was so narrow, with sheer drops on both sides. As usual, Dad was out ahead somewhere, oblivious to the rest of us, counting on Mom to keep us following safely. Mom was unperturbed, patiently guiding her brood across this dangerous stretch. Although she must have been nervous herself, and the girls went across on their hands and knees, she got us all to safe ground on the other side to continue our climb.

As Mom is the inspiration for this section of the book, it is only right that she should be included, since she was her own unique brand of character. An only child who grew up in the city, it was a major adjustment to be the mother of five children—in six years—and living in the country, the wife of a farmer. And yet she never complained, but seemed to enjoy her little brood and took to country life with enthusiasm. She helped with haying and with a garden designed to feed seven. She helped the local butcher cut up the meat—to get a better rate—when we slaughtered a beef to help feed the family. And there was always room at the dinner table for surprise guests.

Besides all her responsibilities in the home and on the farm, she got involved in the community. She took the kids to church and lined them up on the pew beside her, with books or toys to keep them occupied. She was active in Horse and Buggy club, a young couples' group. She was a leader in Searchlight, a woman's literary group and headed up their silver tea, the annual fund raiser. She was the assistant town clerk for a while, and several official records bear her neat signature.

She also took on some unusual responsibilities. When a young man in our high school suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car crash, she tutored him for a couple of years. He went on to graduate with the class two years behind his original class, and, with some state program assistance, was able to live independently for the rest of his life.

She and Dad hosted a group of people from the state mental hospital when they came to our house for a sugar on snow party each spring for several years. With her logistical skills, combined with her superb donut making skills, these parties were always a great success. And then there were her trail master skills.

I think that one of the reasons Dad left farming to teach school was because of summer vacations—something you don't get on a farm—and Dad wanted to travel. So, with summers free, we traveled across the country and Canada several times. Dad would plan the itinerary, and Mom, as usual, handled the logistics. It doesn't take much imagination to see the logistical skill level needed to provide for cross country travel for a family of seven who would be sleeping each night in a small travel trailer and eating at campgrounds and rest areas along the way.

Dad assumed, without much conscious thought, that Mom could handle it with ease. Therefore, he had no worries as we set out to travel 10,000 miles, secure in the thought that he and his family would be properly fed and clothed, no matter what circumstances we faced. I always got the idea that he thought he had done a great job, while it was Mom who made it happen all along.

At the twenty-five year mark in the marriage came one of the biggest challenges she had to face. Divorce is always devastating, and people face it in their own ways, and Mom was no different. Her strength of character enabled her to face it with grace and make the necessary adjustments. It wasn't easy, as they lived a very public life, but Mom was determined to go on with dignity.

She enjoyed gardening, but Dad living next door made it more difficult. She still went out in her nightgown and apron to get raspberries for her breakfast cereal, but she began making plans for gardening on her own terms. She had a kitchen garden—for herbs and lettuce—just outside her kitchen door which felt more private to her. She had the west garden behind the house, farther from Dad's view. And she developed a new garden across town on land inherited from her father, where she could work in peace.

She needed her gardens since her revenue was severely curtailed when Dad left. Since she didn't participate in the divorce, she had to settle for the alimony he decided on, which wasn't much. She earned a little money from writing for local papers and from selling odds and ends but had to periodically sell pieces of land from her inheritance to provide a living for herself.

She never let life pass her by, however. She kept up with family and friends and was always having someone over for tea. She bought a little red pickup to get around with, going to her garden or to the grocery store or on one of her many trips. She loved going to Maine to go to the ocean and to get lobster. She drove all over the state to see friends or to get involved with politics. She even went to Parris Island, South Carolina, to see her grandson graduate from Marine boot camp.

For years, she continued to wear her wedding ring, unable to go back on what she considered a lifelong vow. When people suggested potential dates for her, she said she wasn't interested. She endured Dad's remarriage. And she continued her fulfilling lifestyle solo, until the day that an old college beau showed up. His wife had died, and he came in search of the girl who had left him for a farm boy. Thus began a restoration of her first love.

They had a pleasant couple of years together. They went for drives. They shared many an enjoyable meal. She spent a winter at his house and closed up hers. They went to a rehab center together when both were recovering from illness. Her kids thought it was nice that Mom had someone to care for who cared for her.

Mom's favorite singer was Frank Sinatra, a dreamboat from her youth, and she lived according to the words from one of his songs—I did it my way. She was a strong, capable woman who faced unusual situations and difficult times and did it well, able to handle all kinds of sudden weather changes.

Hitchhiking to Harvard

Danny was involved in the organic movement, but that was only part of the reason why he was standing on the side of Interstate 89 with a rolled up sleeping bag and a dozen eggs. He was a free spirit, and taking some of his eggs to friends was just an excuse to hit the road, go places, see people. He had the weekend off, and he was looking for an escape from the ordinary. Hitchhiking to Burlington to deliver eggs seemed like a good start.

After half an hour with no northbound traffic to speak of, he crossed to the other side and almost immediately caught a ride going south. So far south that he found himself on the beach at Cape Cod that evening. No problem. He stretched out his sleeping bag and slept on the beach that night, anticipating more adventure on the morrow.

He was awakened when the tide came in and soaked his sleeping bag. He wrung it out the best he could, rolled it up and hit the road again. The first car that stopped was headed for Harvard graduation; so, when asked where he was going, he simply said, Harvard graduation, as well. Why not?

Getting out at Harvard, he found that the graduation was by invitation only. So he began to walk around by the gate as though searching for something. When security asked him what he was looking for, he said, I seem to have dropped my invitation. Whereupon, the guard asked, Is this it? I found it on the ground just a minute ago. Thanking him profusely, he took the ticket and strolled into Harvard graduation.

Stopped by an usher, he found out that his ticket was for the lawn area. No problem. He stretched out his sleeping bag to dry and began to enjoy the day. He fell asleep during UN Ambassador Moynihan's commencement address and woke up to find that lunch was being served. Finding that his ticket did not entitle him to lunch, he waited until someone was finished and graciously offered to take their plate. With thanks and an empty plate, he went through the line for seconds, a lovely lunch.

After his meal, he rolled up his sleeping bag, now dry, and hit the road again. His good fortune continued—the car that stopped was a friend who had gone to Boston for the weekend. So he got a non-stop ride all the way home. As a token of thanks, he gave the eggs to her.

Don't pray for patience

Steve drove onto campus in his '69 GTO with the big engine (400, I think), complete with 4 barrel carb and appropriate exhaust. He introduced himself by saying, My mother prayed for patience; then I was born, and she never prayed that again.

He had grown up on the wild side in the Virgin Islands—scuba diving and racing dirt bikes. My favorite story was when he worked for the phone company and used his pole climbing cleats to climb the corner of houses for installations. Saved him having to get a ladder. Turned out this was not pleasing to the company or the customer.

He was a good guy, well liked in the dorm, even if he was a little rough around the edges. He even used his scuba skills to help the local emergency squad with lake rescues. He also had interesting fun with his GTO.

At a stop light in the inner lane of a four-lane boulevard, a kid in a hot car pulled up beside him. Looking at Steve's hot car, he gave him the let's do it nod. In response, Steve revved his engine, and the kid turned his attention to the road, ready to race. Steve, however, had seen a cop car hiding behind a gas station across the intersection, out of the kid's view, and so it really wasn't fair. But it was fun.

Steve continued to rev his engine. The kid did the same, now focused on getting the jump off the line. The opposite light turned yellow. Almost time. Then the light turned green. The kid squealed his tires, shot off the line, and the cop pulled out behind him as he went by. Steve waved as he left the light well within the speed limit.

He often visited his grandfather in Gulfport, Mississippi, on the weekends. Coming back to school late one Sunday night, he was a little over the speed limit through a small town. The sheriff, always on the lookout for out-of-state plates, pulled in behind him, blue lights flashing.

It was 2am, no other cars on the road, a Monday morning class to make, and Steve says, I guess not tonight. He punched the gas.

That's what 4 barrel carbs are for. He made it to class.

Night Travel

Through a tunnel of light,

Playing follow the dots,

Cars cast down their eyes

and speed by

as if shy

To have met in the dark.

My kind of ranger

Earl Cole appeared as if by magic. Of course, our heads were covered by the canoes we were carrying, which may explain why we didn't see him coming. We were working our way across the three and a half mile portage from Round Pond to Allagash Lake, and we were tired. After a friendly greeting, he offered to carry the canoe my sister and I were carrying. Hesitantly—we had never experienced such an offer in the middle of the Maine woods—we agreed and gratefully set the canoe down. My teenaged sister thought he was kind of cute. She was like that.

Lifting our heavy old canoe onto his shoulders with ease, he headed off down the trail, with us trailing behind like two puppies, hardly believing our good luck. It turned out that our good fortune was just beginning, as we became friends with this extraordinary man, the resident ranger responsible for this neck of the woods. As he filled the canoe with pipe smoke to ward off the infamous Maine mosquitoes, he told us how he knew what we were doing and knew how to find us.

Following standard procedure for portages, we had familiarized ourselves with the trail by first carrying our packs across. When the end of the portage finally appeared—three and a half miles seems like forever through unfamiliar territory—it was just natural to let loose a whoop and a holler of celebration. Hearing that at his cabin around the point, Earl says to himself, Someone has just brought their packs across the portage, and now they've gone back for their canoes. I guess I'll go and see if I can give them a hand. He was simply that kind of guy.

As we laid our canoes down beside our packs, he invited us to supper, no small gesture, as we were a hungry family of seven at the end of a long day of portaging. Best biscuits this side of the Mississippi, he added, as though we needed additional encouragement. My cabin is just around the point there. You can't miss it. Come on over as soon as you're loaded up. He got into his little motor boat and puttered off around the corner.

Rounding the point ourselves, we were delighted to see an idyllic log cabin at the end of the cove, smoke curling cozily from the chimney. Beaching our canoes, we went up onto the wrap-around porch to hear a hearty Come on in. through the screen door. We went in to find the quintessential ranger's cabin—spartan, but comfortable—with an open floor plan that made it seem bigger than it was.

The fire was going in the wood cook stove. The biscuits were in the oven, and ham and hash browns were frying on top—incredibly inviting smells. Make yourselves at home, such as it is, he said, his arm sweeping a room full of assorted chairs and sofas, his bed in the corner. The outhouse is just around back, if you need it. Where are you folks from?

Talk about instantly feeling at home. I have never been as comfortable in a stranger's home as I was there that evening—and every time we visited in subsequent years. When we said we were from Vermont, he asked if we knew Ed String, as though we probably knew everyone in such a small state.

Surprised that we didn't at least know every canoer in Vermont, he gave us directions so we could find him, which we did when we got home. Turns out his name was Ed Sturgis. String was the closest Earl could get. We never heard him call him anything but Ed String, even after we corrected him later.

After a wonderful supper—we agreed that they were the best biscuits this side of the Mississippi—he invited us to spend the night. Too late to find a campsite tonight, and I have plenty of floor space. When we protested politely, he shrugged, It's no bother. I do it all the time. Gets a little lonely out here, as you can imagine. And I make the best pancakes this side of the Mississippi.

We found out later that Earl was never lonely. He was a regular one man way station for folks canoeing the Allagash Waterway. But we took him up on his invitation, spread our sleeping bags out on his floor, and enjoyed great pancakes for breakfast.

Watching him start the fire in the wood stove in the morning, we assumed we would learn how a real woodsman made a fire, but we were mistaken. He put three or four big pieces of wood in, doused them with kerosene—Boy Scout lighter fluid, he said—threw a match in, and closed the lid. This was how a practical woodsman made a fire, and his choice of words told us a lot about how he felt about Boy Scouts.

He treated them with the same hospitality as he did everyone else. One summer we wound up spending the night in his cabin with twenty-four of them—it was a rainy night out, and he thought it was the sensible thing to do under the circumstances. My sister was disgustingly impressed with all those boys. As it turned out, however, Earl had had experience with Boy Scouts at the lake which made him much less impressed.

One of Earl's responsibilities was fighting fires caused by careless tourists passing through his area. He told us about a group of Boy Scouts from New York City who were particularly problematic. In the first three days they were at Allagash Lake, he had to put out three fires, including one that burned ten acres before they could get it under control.

So he announced a special class for them, a firefighting training class they would be required to attend. When the Scout leader protested, Earl told him that the alternative was to have a bill for ten acres of destroyed Maine woodland sent to their headquarters in New York, which seemed to change his mind.

Be at my cabin at six o'clock in the morning with all the firefighting equipment you have, and bring your lunch. It may be a long day.

In the morning, he loaded them up with all the equipment he had and all they had brought—axes, shovels, a chainsaw or two and some water packs. They usually fill the water packs at brooks or ponds near the fire, but he filled them at the lake before they left and had them carry them all day. Then he hiked them off through miles of the roughest terrain he could find—swamps, ravines, blowdown areas—and had them build fire lines, clear brush and learn other firefighting skills.

After a long day of blood, sweat and mosquitoes, they found themselves back at his cabin, exhausted. He thought Scouting should be a learning experience and was willing to do his part, especially if that protected the forest at the same time. There were no more forest fires for the rest of their stay at the lake.

Besides being the only official interface with the canoeing public as they paddled down the Allagash Waterway, he was the forest fire warden for that area. Most days he hiked a mile up the mountain to his tower to watch for fires in the thousands of acres he could see from there. If he saw a fire, he called it in on his radio before taking off to be the first firefighter on the scene. In the meantime, he was always willing to help passing canoeists, as I have previously mentioned.

In his tower one day, he saw an aluminum canoe struggling up the mountain. This was so unusual that he didn't come down from the tower, worried that whatever caused such strange behavior might be contagious. When they put the canoe down, obviously having taken a wrong turn halfway across the portage, he simply leaned out of the tower, gave them directions to the trail down to the lake, and said, It's all downhill from here.

Earl was a natural for this job, as much at home in the woods as he was at ease with people. He took a slingshot with him on his climbs to the fire tower, often shooting a partridge with it to provide fresh meat for his supper. He caught whitefish off the dock in front of his cabin, deftly using his fly rod to drop a fly where the fish were rising. He was a great woodsman, fire warden, host, cook and raconteur. Nevertheless, he did have a little problem with bureaucracy, as most individualist do.

Though he was a fine canoeist, he insisted on having a motorboat for patrolling the lake, which put him at odds with his boss, who was bound up in the officialdom of the Allagash Waterway, which proclaimed Allagash Lake to be non-motorized. However, Earl knew he could not adequately cover the lake in a canoe and proved it by providing emergency medical aid which would have been impossible without his motorboat. After that incident involving public welfare, which overshadowed the rules, the bureaucrats bowed to Earl's intuitive wisdom, allowing him to maintain wilderness safety by modern methods.

Sadly, it was modern methods which caused us to lose this unusual friend. In time, the bureaucrats, unable to consider all the things