John Grisham - The Activist

Luckily, Enid Point was deserted; there were no other campers. The troop had reserved a large section, but other campers usually complicated matters. The Major huddled with the five patrol leaders and laid out the campsite. The tents and supplies were quickly unloaded as the thirty-eight Scouts hustled about. It would be dark in an hour, and as usual the patrol leaders wanted the tents up and organized by dark with dinner on the grill. Around a central fireplace, the five patrols laid out their tents in neat rows, like spokes on a wheel. Each two-man pup tent was identical to the others and pitched exactly four feet away from the next. The Major believed in strict organization and expected the campsite to be as perfect as possible.

Theo and the other leaders went through their duty rosters and assigned tasks. Friday’s dinner was always a quick one, and by dark the boys were bunched around the campfire, eating hot dogs and marshmallows roasted over open flames. Mr. Bennett, of the Old Goats Patrol, smoked a pipe, and the fragrant smell wafted over the campsite. Mr. Hogan, Al’s father, began telling ghost stories and proved quite talented. By the third one—a detailed account of a headless ax murderer last seen somewhere around Lake Marlo—the Scouts were huddling even closer together. It was a troop ritual that the fathers were expected to handle the tall tales that naturally came with campfires, and, of course, the goal was to terrify the boys as much as possible.

A favorite nighttime hike was along a rocky path that bordered the shore of the lake. After dinner and ghost stories, flashlights were unpacked and the Major led the troop for a long, casual walk. They stopped on a sandy point with waves lapping the shore and looked above. There was a half moon, and because of clouds, almost no stars. The Major said they would try again on Saturday night. At ten, they were back in camp and preparing for the night.

Sleep was always difficult the first night. There was too much excitement at being in the woods, away from home, tucked into a warm sleeping bag in a small tent, with the sounds of crickets chirping and frogs croaking and deer snorting. Theo and Woody talked and listened to the murmurings from the other tents. They could hear the men, the Old Goats, talking and laughing by the campfire. Every half hour or so, the Major would patrol the site and tell the boys to quiet down and get some sleep. Eventually they did.

Theo awoke early and eased out of his sleeping bag. He put on his hiking boots and managed to crawl out of the pup tent without waking Woody, who appeared to be dead to the world. The sun was barely up, the air was crisp and cool, and the men were drinking coffee over a roaring fire in the center of the campsite. The Major had a pot of hot cocoa on a grill, and he poured Theo a cup. Why did it always taste so much better outdoors? Other Scouts staggered over, all wiping sleep from their eyes and unaware of how wild their tent hair really looked. They were boys—who cared? Their mothers and sisters were miles away. Looks and hygiene were not important, not on a camping trip. They had no plans to bathe or brush their teeth until they got home, though the Major would remind them of these necessities.

As the troop slowly came to life, there was more and more talk of breakfast. Before long the smell of bacon sizzling over an open fire filled the air. For the Falcon Patrol, Theo, who had already earned his Cooking merit badge, was helping Phillip work on his. Phillip was in charge of preparing breakfast for the eight Falcons both Saturday and Sunday, and had planned the menu in detail. For Saturday, it was scrambled eggs, link sausage, and jam on wheat bread grilled in a skillet. Phillip cooked over a low-impact fire as Theo supervised and the rest of the patrol scoured the area for firewood. The Major stopped by for a friendly reminder about the importance of campsite sanitation.

After breakfast and cleanup, the troop divided into small groups. Truman, an Eagle Scout, left on a twenty-mile hike with five others, all pursuing their Hiking merit badge. Gavin, a sixteen-year-old Eagle and the oldest guy there, left with three others in two canoes for a trip across Lake Marlo and back, a voyage that was expected to take eight hours. Other groups worked on the basics of Camping, First Aid, Nature, and Fishing.

Hardie had explained to the Major that he and Theo needed a short, private conversation with him. And during a lull in the activities, the three managed to ease away from the campsite. They hiked for ten minutes, climbed a small hill, and found a secluded spot on a rocky ledge with a great view of the lake. Hardie wasted no time. He launched into a history of his family’s farm and described with great feeling how much it meant to him. He explained how the bypass would destroy not only the farm, but a lot of his family’s history. His grandparents would be forced to move. He argued that Boy Scouts had the duty to protect nature and the outdoors, and the entire scouting handbook was filled with notions of conservation and protection of the environment. He wanted the entire troop, indeed all three of the different Scout troops in Strattenburg, to get organized and fight the bypass.

Theo just listened and nodded when needed. He could tell that Hardie’s sincere plea was not being well received by the Major. When Hardie finished, the Major said, “I understand how you feel, but this is not a project for us. Based on what I’ve read and heard, this is something the politicians are fighting over. The governor wants the bypass. Some state senators north and south of Strattenburg want the bypass. Our local leaders are not sure, but they will be forced to make the decision.”

“But it’s not right and it’s not fair,” Hardie insisted. “How can the state take your property for a bad project?”

The Major smiled and pointed. “Look at this beautiful lake, Hardie. It was not created by nature. No sir.” He pointed to another spot, sort of in the center of the lake. “Out there in the middle, it’s about two hundred feet deep. There used to be a town there, a very small town called Coldwater. The Enid River ran through the center of the town, and about every five years the river would rise and rise and eventually flood, and not just the town of Coldwater. It was a wild river with a history of chaos. It would flood for miles up and down this valley. The farmers and landowners lost their crops, homes, and businesses, and they complained for decades about the flooding. Finally, about sixty years ago, the state decided to build a dam, tame the river, and stop the flooding. They created this lake. Herbert Marlo was the governor back then.” He pointed to the dam, far in the distance and barely visible. “But guess what. Many of the people who lived around here did not want to give up their land. In spite of the flooding, in spite of everything, they fought the project. They hired lawyers and went to court and did everything possible to stop the dam. It took years. Have you heard the term ‘eminent domain’?”

“Theo explained it to me,” Hardie replied.

“Without the right of eminent domain, the state could not have built this lake. One landowner could have blocked the entire project, and flooding would have continued. Without eminent domain, there would be no dams, lakes, highways, state parks, canals, ports, lots of things, Hardie. It’s not pleasant when you’re on the bad end of eminent domain, but it’s important for society as a whole.”

“But this project was necessary. The bypass is not.”

“There are those who think it is. It’s shaping up to a nasty fight, and the Boy Scouts have no business in the middle of it. If you think it’s wrong, then you should fight as hard as possible. Get involved. According to the newspaper, there are several groups already lined up to oppose the bypass. Use your energy there, but leave the troop out of it.”