Training

Philmont is, at least from what I'm hearing, a big deal. Like, a fairly well sized big deal. Something like 20,000 kids come running and tearing through this corner of New Mexico a year... Damn.

Training here is a sordid affair. For whatever reason, I get the feeling that Philmont is a gigantic Boy Scout themed amusement park. Here you have horse riding, and here you have pole climbing! And over in this camp you have biking and root beer on tap! The trails between each camp are short and easy, designed for comfort as opposed to pure wilderness experiences. When, I say these things, please do not however underestimate the beauty of Philmont Ranch. It is situated on gorgeous mountains, speckled with a dozen species of tall majestic trees. The streams serenly gurgle and the deer, elk, bear, and other wildlife roam freely. However, as a member of the Conservation department, it is my job to ensure that thousands of pukes with unsmiling faces get to experience this place, so as to make sure they enjoy their ride on the Philmont Express!! We work tirelessly to keep the trails maintained and navigable, and to ensure that their overnight lodging has all the modern amenities.

I digress. The first half week of training consisted of powerpoints, slack faced instructors and a hot room nicknamed 'Buster Brown'. The second week was a hands on experience, where each "Cons" soul was assigned a foreman and went off into the wild to build and repair. The first week taught me why I have a strong dislike for the concept of Scouting. The rules and regulations. The silly and pointless traditions. The god damn uniform. It was during this week that I found myself buying lots and lots of things so that I might look the part of a Scout. For what reason? I have no idea. I went into this job because I wanted to work hard all summer in a beautiful part of the country, not dress up like a fake soldier. (Some day, I will turn on that internal editor, but, for now, it stays off) The culmination of the first week ended in the head of the Cons department declaring that "The Boy Scouts is a Conservative Organization." Yep, pretty much hit it on the head. Week number two taught me why this is such a sweet job. I found myself stopping countless times just to look at the stark cliffs, the still snow capped mountains, the valleys filled with lush pines. The land was unforgiving, hot during the day and cold at night, but I forgave it anyway, as I trod down trails with old trees, with new saplings, with ponds, with grasslands, with mesas, with life, all of it alive. Even as I put mattock to the ground, sweat pouring down my face and into my filthy shirt, even as my glasses are pelted with sledged rock, even as the stump finally rips free from its place of birth, life, and death, I am in love with this land. I enjoy this work. But, even as I crawl into tent, exhausted but pleased from a hard days work, I am tortured by a faint feeling.

I am not a Boy Scout. This is pounded into my head every day. It is not as if I stick out because the others choose to disregard a non-scout. I stick out because I do not play follow the leader. Because I do not chant their slogans. Because I do not hold the same ideals as they do. Hell, I don't even backpack like they do. I do not agitate, I hardly have much to say. But in my own way, for thinking just a little differently, I am a seperate unit.

Nor do I want to be a Boy Scout.

So I am being trained, little by little. Not just in the methods of trail building, trail maintenance, or simply conservation. I am being trained how to follow orders by a rigid and inflexible organization with standards only comprehendible to a Boy Scout. Perhaps this is part of becoming an adult, of growing up. I am discovering that the world may be as big as I like it, but is controlled and ordered according to people and organizations that have no care for my individual concepts. In other words, if I want to see the world, I have to play another man's rules.