The Scoutmaster's Tale :: Section One

The night air was cool, not cold exactly but cool for late-June in Missouri. The moon wasn't full, but it cast enough light that the Scoutmaster could see without a flashlight. According to the youthful Scouts in the troop, the grey-bearded Scoutmaster was "old", he had even taken to wearing a leather name tag with the "Old Man" troop nickname, but he was just in his mid-forties; younger than some Scoutmasters and still older than others. He stood there, in the dark, surveying their camp. The long aluminum frames white-topped dining fly stood abandoned; patrol boxes filled with cooking and eating utensils, pots and pans, were closed and the cooking stoves had grown cold. The lanterns glowed orange, the flame-tipped wicks saturated with citronella fuel, giving off a small circle of light at staggered intervals through the camp site.

The Scouts' tents stood in two lines, one down each side of the camp site, separated from the tents that the Scoutmaster and his fellow adult leaders, his Assistant Scoutmasters, called "home" the past couple days and would call "home" for several more. Most of the dozen tents were dark and that darkness only broken by a glimpse of light peeking out from two of their number; some of their number keeping their battery-powered flashlights or lanterns going through the night, not so much fear of the darkness but more for protection from the critters, the generations of raccoons that had grown so used to humans camping in the area for over fifty years that they had no fear and would invade a camp site or tent if they smelled food. Most campers would invariably bring snacks from home, keeping them in their gear, keeping them in their tents as an invitation for raccoons or skunks to come for a visit.