Funmurphys: the Blog

Crossover Campout

My son crossed over from Webelos to Boyscouts not long ago. For the boys, we had the flaming neckerchief, the flaming arrows, and the smoking bridge. For the adults, I stepped down as cubmaster after 3 fun filled years. Then we all went with the troop and camped at Beaumont. This was before the weather got so nice here, although it was thankfully better than predicted. After we arrived at the camp site, the boys were assigned their tents; the dad's had to pitch their own. My wife, who was alone at home as our daughter was spending the night with friends, wasn't thrilled when I called and asked her to bring the tent poles that I left behind. And then to bed, with extra blankets, handwarmers stuffed in the sleeping bag, and night cap firmly in place. I slept good. Next morning was beautiful if cold:

It was chilly morning, but we were warm snug in our warm clothes. The guy without the coat - he didn't spend the night. The rest of us pictured did. The adult patrol, the Old Goats, made breakfast for the new scouts -- pancakes and sausage. We had enough pancakes to serve them the old fashioned way, flipped over the cooks shoulder with a fifteen second rule. That is, the first fifteen seconds they are on the ground doesn't count.

We were at one of the camporee sites at Beaumont, an open field along a creek nestled in the rolling hills of the area. It may not be breathtaking, but it is beautiful:

After the new boys were finished with their scoutcraft for the day -- forming patrols, naming them and devising their troop yell, earning their totin chit and fireman chit -- it was time to run around and play:

This was also the troop feast weekend, so while the new scouts were playing, the older scouts were cooking their feasts. The Old Goat patrol sampled the various patrol's meals:

That night it got cold, real cold out in the field where we were, so a fire was mighty nice.

The next morning, it was time to pack everything up, police the campsite, an go home to warm showers and razors. I may not be a real old Goat, but I sure smelled like one after two nights of camping. So too ends this account, and I leave you with Mr. Morgan waving goodbye: