An induction into the Order of the Arrow

By Ira Spector

SAN DIEGO — In my adolescent years in Brooklyn, my summer vacation was very boring and lonely. Most of my friends’ parents were wealthier than mine and sent their kids to camp in the mountains to escape the heat, while I stayed home. When I was twelve years old, my parents, tired of my moaning, scraped together $100 to send me to Ten Mile River boy scout camp for a month. I reveled in the experience and went back for the next two summers. The camp was a two-hour bus ride north of Brooklyn and was perched high up on a hilltop overlooking the lazy, meandering Delaware River. Within the sprawling campgrounds was a white, flat, granite rock outcrop overlooking the river. I reveled in standing there, gazing out onto the peaceful winding river far below.

The camp had its own large clear lake surrounded by an old pine forest carpeted with eons of dropped brown needles that felt like soft pillows when I walked upon them. Once, when I was by myself, I came upon a large, beautifully patterned but deadly, copperhead snake whose colors camouflaged it perfectly as it slithered through the caramel-colored needles.

A forty-five minute hike through the woods down a gentle slope led to the treasured “Doughnut Farm,” a farmers home with a large parlor room that faced the highway and functioned as a restaurant. The farmer’s wife made to order: the most delicious round, deep-fried sinker doughnuts that she served generously dusted with powdered sugar. There was no sign identifying the restaurant and never any other customers when our troop dropped in. Nostalgia makes for salivating taste memories. After I grew up, and on rare occasions tasted a similar morsel elsewhere, I was always disappointed, it felt like fried lead hitting my stomach.

The third year at camp, since I was the oldest and most experienced scout, by default became the leader of our troop. In a secret ballot we voted to elect anyone we thought worthy to become a member of the Order of the Arrow. This is a coveted honor service society that recently had its 100-year anniversary. Its lore is based on an enchanting heroic Indian story:

Years ago, in the valley of the Delaware, there lived a peaceful tribe of Indians.
Deer and bear, wildcat, and panther, through the forest oft they hunted.
Springtime blossomed into summer, and golden fall fell on winters bosom.
Thus the seasons never ending rolled on.
But behold a cloud arising, changed how soon this peaceful aspect,
Neighboring tribes and distant enemies began to invade their hunting grounds.
Then Chingachkuk, aged chieftain of the tribe gathered together all his warriors and said,
“Who will go and carry warning to all Delawares,  our brothers?”
But none wished to make the journey. Then Uncas, worthy son of the chief spoke,
“Oh father I will go, for if we are to survive as a nation, we must stand together.
In every tribe and village some were found who bravely defeated the marauders.
And when the battle was over, they asked the chief to make note of what they had done
this day.
Then the aged and wise leader bound them up into an honor and service society and
proclaimed them forever more as, The Oder of the Arrow.

None of us knew who was to be selected until the night of the “Tap Out” ceremony.

On that night, the entire camp division of 100 scouts gathered solemnly, and silently after dark in the ball field. We were shepherded into a single line and formed a rectangle, surrounding and facing a huge log fire in the center. Then an impressive looking bare-chested Indian brave in a breech cloth that covered his loins, his face streaked with war paint, came running out of the dark night in a brisk elegant stride into the arena He held a brightly burning torch erect in one arm (made of a roll of toilet paper that had been soaked for a day in kerosene and could burn vigorously for several hours.)

He ran within an arm’s length of each scout, looking intently into each face as he ran. Then, suddenly, he pushed a scout on the chest, simultaneously shouting, “Youoo!” The chosen one was immediately grabbed under the arms by two Order members standing behind the lad, who then rushed him toward the fire and sat him down. In apprehension, I intently watched the Indian brave with admiration circle the line and select the candidates. As he approached me, I wondered if it was my turn to be honored and what would I feel if I were not? Finally, as he came in front of me I could hear and feel his heavy breathing. He glared into my eyes and I felt the delicious pain upon my chest that I had hoped for, and I hurtled toward the fire, which I easily could have reached without my feet touching the ground. I was the last one selected, then the warrior raced out of the circle and disappeared into the night as suddenly and mysteriously as he had entered. Then the rest of the scouts filed out and went back to their bunks to think about and digest the impressive ceremony they had seen and were a part of.

Six of us were chosen. We were marched off to a secret location called “The Asshole,” so named because because it was located in the woods between two giant granite boulders and only one body could squeeze through sideways at a time. We were admonished not to say a word and a crude cut-out wooden arrow looped onto a piece of hemp rope was placed around each of our our necks. We were told we would have to work on a camp improvement project in complete silence for twenty-four hours with only bread and water as nourishment. To say one word was to “break,”- immediate disqualification as a candidate. This period was called “The Ordeal.” We all slept on the ground that evening.

Our project was clearing brush and building a new recreation area. As we worked, other scouts passed by. When they saw the wooden arrow around our necks, they were cautioned not to speak to us. We were like an order of Jesuit priests who had taken a vow of silence. When the long night and day were over, we were inducted for life into the Order in a ceremony known as ”The Feast.”

There was a gathering of all the members of the Order in the dining hall and we were all welcomed as fellow brothers, and we were presented with a felt-arrow sash to wear across the chest, and told the sacred secret words of the society, which I still remember. Then came our first solid food in twenty-four hours, a delicious steak with all the trimmings.
*Wemachdenyank.W.W.*

(The first Indian word of our motto. the other two I will take to my grave as I swore I would).

*
Ira Spector is a freelance writer based in San Diego.