*This Post is dedicated to the thousands of children who were fortunate to
have spent their summers at Carbide Camps Cliffside, Carlisle, and/or Camelot
*Definitions:GOTR-Guardians of the Road & HOSP-High Order Sensitive Person
To better understand my evolution as a Guardian of the Road, I need to tell you some stories about my amazing summers as a child. Most of these stories are treasured recollections from my sometimes-imperfect memory since it can sometimes be imprecise. But along with doing research, I spoke to my siblings and many others who attended the same special summer camps that I did, and their experiences seem to jive with mine.
My Dad, Bob, worked as a chemical engineer for Union Carbide Chemical plant in South Charleston, West Virginia. Among a lengthy list of other major accomplishments in his 35 years with Carbide, he was a member of the Research and Development Department that developed a formula Carbide patented as SEVIN, a 'safe' insecticide still used worldwide today. Working for Carbide wasn't just a job for my Dad; it was his lifelong passion.
In March of l946, Carbide's Industrial Relations Department, or IRD team, came up with a 'gem of an idea': They would establish a summer camp for the children of their employees. A former Boy Scout camp became available, and Carbide negotiated for the purchase. The 50-acre camp was located near Alum Creek, up Coal River Road from St. Albans. The response from those first Carbide families who wanted their children, aged 8-12, to attend the camp was very encouraging. So after remodeling the cabins, creating a swimming hole in the Coal River, and upgrading the grounds, Camp Cliffside opened that summer. For its time, I'd venture to say the camp was a noble experiment, as the children of engineers, operators, plant superintendents, and janitors came together as equals to experience something wonderful play out in the hills of West Virginia.
Cliffside's enclave was distinguished from its remote environs by a Kentucky-styled white picket fence that faced Little Coal River Road. The front section of the camp was level and grassy and used as a compound for group activities like tug of war between cabins and softball. Behind the cabins was the back half of the camp. The land climbed to a wooded area until it reached a rocky cliff, which rose about 80 feet. Thus, the name Camp Cliffside fits perfectly.
From its onset, the IRD team decided on a Native American theme, and each cabin was named for a specific tribe. As I recall, the tribes they selected were the Shawnee, Cherokee, Delaware, Chippewa, Choctaw, and Sioux. The cabins and other buildings on the grounds reminded me of those I'd seen with my family at state parks, featuring logs or wood siding stained brown. The staff included an administrator they called 'The Chief' for obvious reasons, a nurse, a cook and her helpers, counselors, counselors in training, and junior counselors.
Cliffside had six single cabins, but by the time I attended and because of the camp's huge success, I believe they'd enlarged the original structures to accommodate more campers. There was an administration building with an inside gymnasium they also used to show movies twice a session (Yes! and mostly Disney films), a dining hall and kitchen, a dispensary, and a craft building. In the compound's center was a fenced stocked pond with a rowboat and a handful of ponies. Rugged swings were erected, and rustic bridges crossed a little brook that ran thru the camp. There was a rifle range, an area for archery, a stage for boxing, folk dancing and dramatic plays, tennis courts, a ball diamond, and a nice track. Across the road, Carbide took a low water-1920s dam in the Coal River and raised the walls to create a bucolic swimming hole about 4' deep. Upon a rise behind the cabins was the most special place at Cliffside: a large campfire encircled by rugged log-plank benches. These were the camper's benches, and they faced an imposing log-hewn chair, where the Chief sat during evening council circle. I will never forget that chair; it had a giant painted Indian firebird as a backrest. Around the benches were totem poles with plaques mounted top to bottom. The plaques always drew my attention during my years at Cliffside as a camper, then later as a counselor. They featured Indian symbols decorated by counselors who'd also served as craft instructors thru the years.
A session at Cliffside ran for two weeks. It's hard to believe, but when I was at Cliffside, the cost for a child to attend one session was $15.00, with money set aside so they could buy stamps for postcards to send home. During my time there, boys had the camp from about early June thru the second week of July, and the girls had it from the third week until the end of August. So the first year I attended was in the summer of 1957 when I was nine.
Small for my age, I had reddish-blond hair, too many freckles, and clothes that never matched. All my clothes had to have a name tag sewn into a seam, including the socks, so I'd not lose anything in the camp laundry. I brought a big bag of penny candy, a flashlight, a jackknife, sheets, blankets, and lots of new comic books, along with towels and toilet items. This was all packed in my Dad's metal army trunk and stored underneath my bunk bed in the cabin.
As per Cliffside's instructions, my parents drove me to the camp that first year. We toured the grounds with my counselor, a high school science teacher in her early twenties with blond hair cut short, kind eyes, and a trim physique. For the sake of this story and her privacy, I'll call her Gale. She reminded me of the rugged state park rangers I'd see on vacation. (Many counselors looked like gym teachers to me, and some actually were). I most likely had my mouth open when she introduced herself since she was dressed as an Indian. She wore a long deerskin tunic with fringes, a feathered headband, moccasins, and a necklace of painted beads. At the end of the tour, she gave me a Cliffside T-shirt, but by that point, I was speechless!
With an Indian-themed camp, a Chief who wore a full headdress at the evening council circle, ponies one could ride, a pond, a swimming hole in the river, rifle and archery ranges, dancing/drama lessons, and a wilderness for a backdrop, I must've wondered if I'd been given a part in a Disney film! I do not remember saying goodbye to my parents, but I am guessing they left confident I was in good hands and knowing they could not have chosen a better camp for their child. Camp Cliffside was heaven on earth for a HOSP and a GOTR like me!
Soon, the rest of the girls in my cabin gathered around Gale and received our first lesson: How to make our beds the Army way, sheets pulled up tight, and corners tucked in neatly on the diagonal. Every morning, while we were at breakfast, the Chief would inspect each cabin and award the tidiest one of the day with an American flag. As soon as we all left the Dining Hall, we'd hurry down the hill to see if the flag was flying from a hole in our cabin's window frame.
Of the fifteen girls in my cabin, I believe that only two of us were new to Cliffside, me and a tallish, stocky girl I will call Cindy because I can't remember her name. The rest were second, third, or fourth-year campers who knew the ropes. It was not common, but all my years at Cliffside were spent in the Cherokee cabin. Coincidently, I learned later in life that my great-grandfather's second wife and my grandfather's mother were part Cherokee. And the man I married twelve-plus years later found out, as an adult, that his great-grandmother in South Carolina was a Cherokee Indian. Life is uncanny that way, but could it be possible that my love of all things Native American had a familial connection? I want to think so.
To say that, even at nine, I was in my element at Camp Cliffside is another one of my understatements. Some boys and girls didn't like camp, were homesick, or could not adjust. I'd see them around camp occasionally, looking miserable. Eventually, the Chief would ask their parents to come and take them home, and they'd disappear. However, that escape clause never entered my mind. Without a doubt, I flourished at Cliffside. It was as if I could transform myself into another person. I never met anyone at camp who was from my school, thank goodness. No one tormented me there. Nevertheless, for the first few days, I remained shy and uncharacteristically quiet. I was also guarded, afraid the other children would detect that I was a HOSP, and the bullying cycle would begin anew.
In retrospect, I realize those who first envisioned the Cliffside experience set tangible goals they hoped to achieve for each camper. The IRD team obviously wanted us to become self-reliant and, at the same time, able to work well in a group of our peers. They certainly expected counselors to be positive role models, to teach campers how to become proficient in specific skills, and guide children so they could learn how to make good decisions. This may sound odd, but I also think, perhaps subconsciously, they wanted to reinforce the concept of a country that had finally recovered from a tragic war. The flagpole was a prominent feature on the compound; the pledge of allegiance was recited each morning as they raised the flag; healthy competitions in sports were stressed; patriotic songs were sung, bugles sounded reveille, and taps called campers to Sunday school and Vespers. In the 1946 prospectus that stated their objectives, the IRD team believed that Cliffside would reinforce this country's democratic principles, and our way of life was bound to flourish." Finally, and most importantly, they wanted to teach us to respect Nature in all its majesty and honor those who came before us on this continent, like the Cherokee, Chippewa, Choctaw, Sioux, Delaware, and Shawnee.
At Cliffside, some of each day was scheduled, yet time was also set aside for unplanned activities. I realize now that a schedule of sorts was necessary because we were still children who needed structure and a sense of security while we were away from home, some of us for the first time. From the bugle call that woke us in the morning until it sounded taps at night, our days were filled with an amazing diversity of activities and three rest periods. Typically, activities were organized by the cabin, and a list was posted daily for us to follow. In addition, the NRA sponsored the rifle range and target practice. Although it was a multi-year challenge, I eventually earned my junior marksmanship award. Crafts were popular, and most of us made lanyards out of slippery plastic tape, but sports truly dominated the list. With an emphasis on learning the rules and becoming proficient, the offerings included calisthenics, swimming, football, softball, basketball, badminton, boxing, marbles, horseshoes, ping-pong, tennis, and dancing. You name it, we did it. I did not do well in most of those sports because, truth be told, I'm not all that athletic. But I did think of myself as a natural-born swimmer.
In time, Cliffside would add a cement in-ground pool on site to make it easier to teach beginners, but I loved swimming in the Coal River best. Rain or shine, we swam every day, sometimes twice a day. We had a buddy system, so the counselors could keep track of us and make sure no one went missing. There was a saying then that I still recall: No one left Cliffside without knowing how to swim. We had many swim meets, and most of us earned our Red Cross certificates. Thanks to my family's camping trips to state parks and a local pool in Teays Valley, I already knew how to swim. Yet what I loved about swimming in the Coal River was the pure, unadulterated adventure of wading into a cold mountain stream, rocks under my feet, birds zipping across the water, and reveling in the experience of being one with Nature.
I am certain my counselor realized I was more than apprehensive about interacting with the girls in my cabin since she took me under her wing, perhaps so I could learn by her example. Maybe my parents interceded ahead of time, so Gale would know I'd suffered at the hands of bullies. But I prefer to think my wonderful counselor could see how much I needed her help because she was an observant teacher and intuitive person.
Each counselor was hired for their 'specialty,' and Gale's science background put her in charge of Nature Lore. She'd take us on canoe trips down river, hikes along trails that led away from camp, sat with us on hillsides, and taught us how to appreciate what we'd seen on our trek. I will forever remember her hiking advice, and I still use it today:
• Let your eyes sweep the ground for changes in color or shape.
• Search for unusual objects in Nature, and you might discover a ‘find.'
• Listen for creatures moving in the brush and try to identify them by their sound.
• Be always aware of where you are, choose a buddy, and stick close.
• Span the horizon often to memorize your route so you won't get lost.
• Make a note of distinctive landmarks to aid you on your return trip.
Like most girls in my cabin, I'd carry a walking stick and pick up interesting things I'd find along the way. Then we'd all return to Cliffside with a sense of discovery, and share our finds with the other campers, usually during supper in the dining hall. At the end of my two weeks, thanks to Gail's Nature lessons and the books she lent me, I could name most trees by the shape of its leaf and the pattern in their bark, and many songbirds by their calls.
Singing was essential to the Cliffside experience, and it seemed we sang all the time ( I can only speak for the girl's sessions). Humor me for a minute. I remember:
Jacob's Ladder; Good Ole' Mountain Doo; Oh, Those West Virginia Hills; I Believe; Dummy Line; Junior Birdman; Bill Grogan’s Goat; Good News-Chariots Comin’; Little Light of Mine; John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt; My High Silk Hat; You Can't Get to Heaven; Johnny's Gone for a Soldier; They're Rioting in Africa; Do Your Ears Hang Low; Little Brown Mouse; Grandma's Feather Bed; I Love to Go A Wonderin'; Jesus Walks; Call of the Fire; In the Pines; In the Still of the Night; Mississippi Mud; Tell Me Why, and The Lord's Prayer.
We had a theme song for Cliffside, and I still recall the words. I memorized all the camp songs and sang them to myself in my bunk bed at night. We sang while we hiked, during crafts, at the swimming hole, in the canoe on the river, at the dinner table, before the movies, at Vespers, during competitions, on rainy days in the cabin, on the sidelines at basketball games, right before we went to sleep, and especially at evening council circle. We'd burst into a spontaneous string of unrelated melodies for no reason at all! We sang songs from the Civil War era, gospel hymns, old spirituals, goofy tunes, and funny Irish ditties, but the best songs were those I'd describe as Music from the Hills. Singing at Cliffside epitomized what it was like to be a carefree kid at camp in those days. And learning to admire the music of our ancestors, those pioneers who'd settled in the hills around us, engendered in my heart a love of mountain music that's endured to this day.
On Friday morning at the end of my first week, Gale decided to take us all on an OVERNIGHT! Some of the older girls in my cabin had heard about the mysterious overnights of previous years but said they'd never been on one, so we all felt fortunate. With the help of one of the third-year campers, I learned how to make a bedroll out of blankets and twine, stuck a jacket and change of underwear in the middle, and hurried outside, ready to leave. Before we set off, Gale charged us with a task: On our hike, we were to look for one item in Nature we thought was unique and keep it a secret until later. At the overnight site, she said we'd vote on the best find, and the winner would get a prize. Before we set off, she handed out small paper sacks, like the ones I'd get at the Five and Dime for penny candy, folded so they'd fit in our pockets. We were to use the sacks for our finds, she cautioned so that they wouldn't get lost.
With bedrolls slung over our shoulders by its twine, Gale led us away from Cliffside on a path I'd never hiked before, upstream alongside the river. In no time, we discovered what everyone called the 'double bridges.' Just ahead were two old steel bridges located at the forks of the 'Coal,' where two smaller streams merged to form the Coal River. She cautioned us to hold onto the steel cables on each side of the structure, walk in single file, and watch our step on the wood-plank floorboards because some might need repair. Gale explained that we'd make our way across the first bridge, pivot in a ninety-degree turn, then cross the second bridge. I was the last camper in line, with a counselor in training (CIT) behind me. Once in a while, one of the older girls turned and looked back at me, an expression on her face I could not read. Maybe she wanted to see if I was afraid so she could make fun of me. But I remember hoping she'd come to like me a little over the last week and wanted to reassure me so I wouldn't be scared. I was a little nervous but mostly in awe.
When we were finally on the bridge at the same time, a couple of the third-year girls started rocking from side to side while still holding onto the rusty steel cables. Several campers screamed as the bridge swayed. We halted there, a bit timid, while Gale explained the engineering concept of swinging bridges. She said they were designed to stand up against the winds off the mountains or flooding rivers in the spring and would bend but not break. I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. Grabbing onto the steel cable, I leaned over the edge and stared at the rushing water far below me. I spotted chunks of black coal along the banks, obviously pushed downriver from mines up in the hills. It was an amazing sight, indeed.
I glanced up then and saw that everyone else had crossed the bridges, except for me and the CIT, who'd been carrying our provisions in a duffle bag. We hurried onto the second bridge and gingerly walked over an old railroad crossing until finally caught up with the others.
With Gale in the lead, we hiked for a few miles on a rock-strewn path. It wove in and out of broad stands of blue spruce and black pines that seemed to touch the sky and meandered past overgrown mountain laurel and giant rhododendron, which thwarted our progress at times. Here and there, I'd catch a glimpse of a bare-bones shanty or a lonely trailer, but we were heading into the wilds of West Virginia. With the heady scent of pine in the air, the sight of a red-tailed hawk soaring above the tree tops, and the sounds of the rushing river, I felt like Daniel Boone, forging his way through the wilderness to new adventures just beyond the horizon.
We stopped for a lunch of P&J sandwiches and cookies, then hiked along the banks of the Coal River for a good distance. Off and on, I'd spot one of the girls picking something up along the trail. A couple of times, I saw a camper slip some indiscernible object into her brown paper sack, then stuff it back in her pocket. Finally, as we made our final ascent up a hillside toward what I would learn was our destination, I tripped, looked down, and discovered my find.
Our campsite had seen many Cliffside visitors over the years since evidence of their overnights remained. After unrolling our bedrolls, we were told to spread out, find kindling and dry wood, and then haul it back for our evening's bonfire. Gale and the CIT showed us how to start a fire properly, and soon enough, pans of canned stew were resting on logs and simmering over the embers. The CIT handed out tin plates of stew, forks, and slices of bread, and we ate every bite. For dessert, we toasted marshmallows on green sticks, placed them between two Graham crackers, added a chunk of chocolate, and ate our S-mores. I recall that it was my first S-more and heavenly, but not my last…for I'd spend many summers at Carbide Camps.
The sun began to set, and I watched the brilliant colors peeking thru the trees. Soon the sun disappeared, but the moon was out in full force, illuminating the gathering as though we were in our own little theater. We sat close around the bonfire on our bedrolls and sang songs. Then, just as Gale began to speak, I heard the call of a bird. She turned to me with a smile on her face and asked if I could name it. A Whippoorwill, I replied, and she nodded. Then, glancing around the circle, Gale said it was time to share our secret finds and describe what we thought made them special. When finished, we'd vote on the best one, and the winner would get an extra S'more.
Cindy, the other first-year camper, was sitting next to me. She raised her hand and asked, "Can I be last?" "Of course, you can," Gail replied, then said she'd ask the rest of us in random order. Opening her sack, a dark-haired girl brought out a lump of coal she thought looked like a turtle, and we passed it around. A fourth-year camper opened her sack and presented a pretty tree fungus shaped like a half-moon. A cute, petite girl with a face full of freckles held out a shiny stone she called 'fool’s gold.’ A fossil appeared, much to our delight, and each of us studied the rock closely, trying to imagine the ancient creature that’d made the impression. One after another, interesting items were placed on a rock by the fire: a stick of twisted sassafras, a feather from a large bird, a small blue bottle with wavy glass, a square-headed nail, and an odd-shaped mushroom. As yet, I’d said little because I was organizing how I would describe my find.
A girl close to me opened her hand, and everyone seemed to jump. It was the skull of a small animal.
The CIT pointed to it and asked, “Does anyone know what sort of animal that might be?”
I waited, but no one ventured a guess. I was hesitant to say anything, not wanting undue attention, but finally, I spoke, “It’s the skull of a robin. I know a lot about animals because I try to take care of the ones that are hurt.” There was a momentary silence, and then everyone turned to look at me with skepticism on their faces. And who could blame them? I felt my own face flush. Before I could explain, Gail said firmly, praise in her voice, “Yes, I think it is the skull of a robin, Kathy! When we return to camp, I can’t wait to learn how you care for hurt animals. It’s a good cause, and we’ll all enjoy hearing more about it.”
Talk about thrilled; I could hardly contain my joy and how protected I felt by Gale’s kindness. It was as if she’d singled me out by recognizing that what I might have to say had merit. Amazing how one kind person can impact a young HOSP’s life. There is no doubt that she gave me a gift, and I will never forget it. Since then, throughout my career and personal life, I’ve learned to use that same form of ‘protection’ to help other HOSP like me who found themselves in similar situations. Nevertheless, Gale was the first adult outside my family who didn’t seem to think I was peculiar because I cared so deeply about animals.
When my turn came, I reached into my pocket and removed my sack. Taking out my find, I laid it on a rock near the fire and waited, but no one spoke. They just stared blankly at what looked to be an oddly shaped stone. At last, I said, “It’s an Indian arrowhead. See how sharp the edges are and look at the chisel marks on the top.” I explained that my father told me this region had once been covered by a massive prehistoric river called the Teays until it disappeared underground. Thousands of years later, the Indians arrived and used it for their hunting grounds. Believe it or not, everyone clapped! Wow, maybe I was going to win the prize!
Finally, it was Cindy’s turn. Sitting next to her, I watched while she took her paper sack, placed it neatly on her lap, and opened the top. The sack rustled, and in a moment, a snake's head appeared. It quickly slithered out of the bag and onto her hand, then began to slink up her arm. Looking on with pride, she said, “I found it under a rock by the river. It’s a water snake!”
Most girls reacted instinctively and pulled away, but not me. I was an experienced snake handler by then. I must’ve said something like: “Oh goodness! Can I have that snake for just a minute, please?” Not waiting for a reply, I reached out, quickly grasped the snake firmly behind its head, and held it high. Wiggling to get free, it was a hatchling, about 4” long.
Concern on her face, Gale asked, “Kathy, what sort of snake is that, do you think?”
I knew the answer from reading about them in my mother’s infamous Encyclopedia Britannica. Still, I’d also found and avoided the same snakes in the creek behind our house. Pointing to it with my free hand, I said as if quoting from the text, “The markings on its scales do look like a water snake, but from its white belly, triangular shaped head, and slanted eyes, I’m sure this little guy is a water moccasin. Cottonmouth moccasins are fearless, live near rivers and lakes, and are poisonous.” The baby moccasin opened its mouth wide, and we all saw its white-like-cotton throat. Shocked, the girls leaned back, and some of them seemed afraid. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them. “I am positive this little guy just hatched, so it’s not strong enough to bite yet. Also, I don’t think it has enough venom to make anyone sick. Once it is an adult, though, the bite from this snake can hurt and cause infection. I think this little fellow does need to get back to the river.” Quickly, the CIT volunteered, and she and the snake (by then in an empty stew can) disappeared over the rise.
After Gale checked to make sure Cindy hadn’t been bitten by the snake, we all voted on the best find, and Cindy won the prize. Nevertheless, Gale cautioned her not to pick up any snake unless she knew for certain it was harmless. And although I didn’t get an extra S’more, I now know that I earned a measure of respect from some of my peers that night.
Soon, we sat close around the bonfire while Gale explained how someone could become an Honor Camper. On Thursday, all the counselors were going to get together and nominate any girl who was in her last year at Cliffside and had been outstanding during this session. After counselors explained the reasons for their nomination, they’d vote. The nominees with the most votes would be inducted as Honor Campers at the last council circle on Friday. The new Honor Campers would be invited back as junior counselors the next year. Those who did a good job could work on becoming a CIT and perhaps even a counselor someday.
One of the older girls wanted to know what she’d need to do to become an Honor Camper, and we all leaned forward to hear the answer. The CIT explained that, as a camper, she had volunteered for everything: setting up activities in the craft hut; making sure the cabin was spotless before inspection; helping with the Red Cross Certification; even cleaning up after the ponies around the enclosed pond. She’d also kept score during softball and tennis games.
I recall thinking it all sounded like a lot of work, but if I were ever selected as Honor Camper, it would be the best day of my life.
As the firewood crackled and spit, and the flames of the campfire seemed to reach the stars, we sang In the Still of the Night, in four-part harmony, no less, helped by the mature voices of Gale and the CIT. Then we chose: Jesus Walks This Lonesome Valley. It sounded so sweet, it sent chills up my arms, and finally, we sang The Cliffside song: The Call of the Fire:
The call of the fire comes to us in the evenings,
That follows the close of the day.
Its flames bring us peace and a calmness of spirit
That drives all our troubles away.
We’re thankful for days and the joys that they give us,
For nights and the best that they bring
May we go on believing in this love we’re receiving
At Cliffside campfire, we sing.
I pulled my bedroll as close to the fire as possible and slipped inside. Most of those girls near me seemed to be asleep. I was too excited to sleep, so I reflected on what a marvelous day I’d just had, going over every moment. Looking back on it now, I think this was perhaps one of the defining moments of my life up to that point. I’d learned that by allowing others to get to know the real me, the HOSP, and the GOTR, as I’d done that evening and at Cliffside to a small degree, I could rise above those who’d tried to diminish me by their bullying. Hopefully, my fellow campers had seen me in a positive light and maybe as an equal. That’s all any of us can ask for, really, to be accepted. Even so, being accepted by others has driven much of my days, but I think that applies to most HOSP like me. As my eyes grew heavy, I finally likened my day to the beginning of a small miracle, but my transformation had just begun. I would soon learn something else important had happened on the overnight.
The small miracle slowly began to materialize the next afternoon back at camp because girls from other cabins started to bring me the creatures they’d found. Some just wanted to show them to me, some thought the critter needed attention, and others asked me to identify what they’d found. A few animals were sick, hurt, playing dead, or already gone. But all the girls had one thing in common; they longed to know how to take care of their charges. Like the veterinarian I dreamed of becoming, I remember seeing patients like a red salamander, a cicada, a shrew trapped in a box, a small black snake, a crawdad from the pond, tadpoles swimming in a tin cup, a tiny tree frog. Still, there were others I don’t recall. The word must’ve gotten out about what had happened on the overnight because I’d become a minor celebrity. Even counselors asked me questions! Gale seemed so proud of me. She claimed that everyone was talking about the little girl in the Cherokee cabin who knew about animals and how to care for them.
On Monday afternoon of my last week, four cabins decided to go on a group overnight, leaving the Cherokee and the Choctaw girls alone at camp, giddy with the knowledge that we’d have Cliffside to ourselves for a while. So Gale and the Choctaw counselor, who I’ll call Jane, decided we’d spend the evening at the campfire circle up on the ridge above Cliffside. We’d roast weenies, make popcorn, eat S’mores, tell ghost stories, and sing songs.
After supper, those in the Cherokee cabin put on long pants and jackets since the nights could get cool in the West Virginia hills, even in August. Then, with flashlights in hand, we marched to the gymnasium and joined the Choctaw girls, who were similarly dressed. Jane headed up the group, with Gale and the CITs at the rear of our motley procession. We took the long way around the grounds and up the rather steep hill behind the dining hall to the campfire circle, where we’d already had several council gatherings over the last nine days.
About thirty campers, two counselors, several CITs, and junior counselors sat around the bonfire on benches. After supper, we belted out one song after another. Eventually, we settled down to just staring at the flames and enjoying the fellowship. I sat there for a while watching Jane, as she was tall and pretty, with long brown hair and a bubbly personality. She began to tell us stories about other Cliffside sessions where exciting or scary things had occurred. Supposedly, there was one session the previous year where a camper got lost on an overnight, looking for a private place to go to the bathroom. The counselor and her CIT searched and found the girl huddled beside the Coal River, scared out of her wits.
Then Jane told us about the first session this current summer, where, after supper, a boy hiked over to the swimming hole, climbed into a canoe, shoved off, then got carried downstream about two miles. When his counselor did a head count, he discovered the boy missing just before lights out. After a failed search, the Chief called the sheriff, and everyone joined in the hunt to try and find the missing boy. It wasn’t until early the next morning that someone driving a car up Little Coal River Road saw the camper sitting beside his upturned canoe with his thumb out.
Now I don’t know if these were true stories or cautionary tales, but Jane was setting the stage for what was to come. She was a natural-born teller of tales, and I could see that everyone, including me, was enthralled as she stood in front of the fire and began to spin her tales. I’ll never forget her story about the ‘Creekers.’ According to Jane, who’d spoken to many folks that lived in the hills around Cliffside (I bet), Creekers were toothless men who, during the day, hid in shacks way back in the hollows and up along the creeks. But during the night, they’d be out on the prowl, wandering the hills searching for things they could steal. Backwoodsmen, they wore ragged clothes and dirty hats and carried shotguns so they could hunt game. Long ago, a ‘Creeker’ snuck into a house near the swinging bridges and tried to steal a boy from his bed. At the last minute, his parents peeked in to check on him, saw the Creeker, and scared him off. It was said, or so Jane claimed, that Creekers still roamed the hills around Cliffside, looking for children to carry off to their shanties, where they’d force them to do their washing and cook their food.
I must add that generations of children who went to Carbide Camps heard some version of this story, including my brothers and sisters. During my research for this blog, I listened, amused, as former campers told me their Creeker tales, embellished over the years by scores of counselors.
By then, we were all sitting on the edge of our benches, quaking in our moccasins. Then, everything suddenly turned silent. I remember trying hard to peer into the darkness through the trees beyond the fire. Then, a noise came from off in the distance, and everyone screamed at once! Jane calmed us all down, or at least most of us, and said the sound wasn’t Creekers but secretive creatures called: Snipes. After discussing it with Gale, Jane decided we should go on a Snipe hunt and see if we could catch the little devils. I’d never heard of Snipes, but I was game.
Now holding several laundry bags, Jane described Snipes as small, elusive, furry animals that only came out at night. She suggested we break out in teams of two, carry a laundry bag, and use our flashlights to chase them downhill toward the Dining Hall. Any camper who saw one should holler: SNIPE! SNIPE! And we’d all come running to help catch it in our bags. It sounded like a good plan, and I was eager to capture my first Snipe.
With Gale bringing up the rear, Jane in the lead, and the CITs suddenly missing, we set off in the dark with our flashlights on, laundry bag in hand, and searched for the elusive Snipe. My teammate was Cindy, and I could see she was shaking and most likely afraid. That’s not to say I was the fearless one of us since the Creeker story was still running through my mind. I could see the pale-yellow glow of several flashlights flickering thru the trees, and off and on, I could hear the sounds of other teams thrashing through the brush on the hillside. Finally, a deep voice rang out, claiming to have spotted a Snipe, so Cindy and I ran in that direction. Then from the opposite side, another girl called out, “SNIPE, SNIPE! No, it’s over here, hurry!” But Cindy and I soon realized it was a hopeless task to find anyone or anything in the dark. Even so, there was a frenzy of activity just out of our view, and I could hear some girls snickering.
By the time we neared the dining hall, I was exhausted but shivering with excitement. I searched for my cabin mates or someone with a laundry bag filled with squirming Snipes, but we were alone. Without warning, Cindy ran down the hill to our cabin. I could tell she’d peed in her pants and probably wanted to change them so no one would find out. Once everyone returned to the gymnasium, we were told the truth. There were no such creatures as Snipes, the counselors said gleefully. It was a silly hoax, a prank pulled on all the campers at Cliffside, both girls and boys, and part of the experience. The older campers were in on the hoax and laughed themselves silly because we were just as gullible as they’d been in years past. My youngest sister, Angela, recalls a Cliffside Snipe hunt many years after mine, so they obviously kept up the tradition. In retrospect, I think it was a brilliant hoax and fueled my imagination for years to come. Of course, don’t forget the saying that so perfectly described a HOSP like me, then and now: She’s a drama queen who loves the stage.
Our remaining time flew by too fast. One of my favorite activities during the second week was Indian Day. In a promotional brochure, Carbide mailed to parents of prospective Cliffside campers, there’s a photo of the camp on Indian Day in l947. It shows campers sitting on the grounds listening attentively to a man making a presentation. The image depicts what it was like for me that day.
Along with our Cliffside tee shirts, we all wore feathered headbands. We listened to a Union Carbide volunteer tell us about Native American traditions. The man, a descendant of the Shawnee tribe, was about my father’s age, tall and swarthy. In honor of the event, he wore a buckskin jacket and leggings. He told us he spent his free time researching the Shawnee, who once lived and roamed the West Virginia hills.
The man moved on to speak to another cabin, leaving us sitting in the open fields of the campground singing our cabin’s fight song. At first, we sang it softly, then soon, at the top of our voices, challenging the other cabins to reciprocate. The song went like this:
We are the Cherokee (or Shawnee, or Choctaw, etc)
Mighty Mighty Cherokee
Everywhere we go
People want to know
Who we are
So we tell them
We are the Cherokee
Mighty Mighty Cherokee…
There were many competitions between cabins that week, like dodgeball, a three-legged race, and a tug of war stretched out across the pond, with the losers going into the water. Yet, even with these scheduled activities, there was plenty of unplanned time. We took hikes, ran about the camp with a new sense of freedom, and enjoyed what time we had left. My mother told me once that she had only received one postcard from me that first year. In my typically poor handwriting, I asked her to send me candy (which she did) and said I wanted to stay at Cliffside for a while longer!
Although I could find no fault with Cliffside, those I spoke to while researching this did mention one complaint. At home in those days, kids usually only bathed once a week (which is hard to believe now). At camp, we swam in the pool or river every day and stayed relatively clean, plus we did have a toilet and sink in the cabin. But early Friday afternoon, the day before my parents would arrive to take me home, we lined up in front of our cabin, a bundle of clean clothes in our arms. Then, when it was the Cherokee’s turn, we were led like sheep to the dreaded showers in the midsection of the compound. I was only 9-plus years old and not all that modest then, but when I interviewed several former Cliffside campers, I learned that most girls hated the showers. We had to strip down, take a bar of soap, stand in our birthday suits alongside the girls in our cabin, and wash from head to foot. Then a counselor checked to ensure we were clean before getting dressed. I suppose they didn’t want our parents to think we’d turned into ‘dirty bums’ while at Cliffside. So I scrubbed hard and, after Gale’s inspection, got dressed, no fuss, no muss. But some kids were shy, had never showered sans clothes in front of others, and hated it! One girl told me she skipped the showers altogether because she was embarrassed about being underdeveloped compared to the older girls.
Knowing we’d all be going home the next morning, I packed my belongings in Dad’s army trunk and headed to the dining hall for supper with my fellow campers. Later, sitting on my bunk bed, I heard the somber sound of the bugle announcing it was time to line up for the evening council circle. I do not recall how many council meetings we’d had during my two weeks, but each one was different and special in its own way. Nevertheless, this one I dreaded because it meant that the most wonderful summer of my life thus far was soon to end.
Miserable and teary-eyed, I was the last person in line waiting to head up to the last council circle for our session, the last session of the summer. The counselors rotated which tribe could enter the circle first each time, and this night the Cherokees ended up last. I looked ahead to see a motley crew of rag-tag yet now seasoned Cliffside campers as they hiked up the hillside toward our gathering spot in the woods. The sun had set by then, and it was coming on twilight when we approached the final path leading us to our destination. I remember clearly holding back, letting the others go-ahead for a moment. Then, I turned around slowly and let my eyes span the vast campgrounds below me. A mist had crept up the Coal River and was settling around the compound, offering the mystical allusion of an ethereal place where something magical could happen. Wiping tears from my face, I tried to memorize the scene before me, so I would never forget it. And I have not forgotten that magical place, even after all these years.
Although the Cherokees were the last tribe to enter, I was thrilled that Gale steered us to seats on the front row, closest to the chief’s chair. Now dusk, the Chief stood and gradually let his eyes rest on each camper, counselor, and every person around the circle. The Chief’s real name was John Goetz. Maybe it’s my vivid imagination, but as I recall, John wore a ceremonial headdress, a tan buckskin-colored jacket, khaki pants, and loafers at every council meeting.
The Chief was a gentle, quiet man who exuded an air of authority. To me, John Goetz was synonymous with Cliffside since he was the chief and camp administrator when I was there as a camper and later as a counselor. He was the rock, the foundation of the camp, and we all looked to him for guidance and inspiration. In all the years I knew him as Chief, I never saw Mr. Goetz angry or frustrated, no matter what calamity came his way. Once, as a counselor, I fell down some steps and broke my elbow. Mr. Goetz drove me to the hospital in the camp truck. And even though I was in a lot of pain, I never let on. I didn’t want a man I thought so highly of to see me cry. As we made our way to the emergency room in South Charleston, he spoke softly and calmly, telling me how much he enjoyed his work as a physical education teacher. I know for a fact that he loved his summer job; it was evident by the perpetual smile on his face. I do not think he was of Native American descent, but for all intents and purposes, he reflected the honor and dignity of the Native People who once roamed the hills around us. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Goetz was the perfect Chief for Cliffside.
At this point in the ceremony, the Chief asked everyone to rise, then pointed to the stack of wood and kindling piled in the center of the circle. Like a miracle, there was a sudden flash with sparkling crystals flickering in the air, and without anyone lighting it, the fire roared to life with a loud whoosh! Every single time this occurred during my years at Cliffside, a group gasp escaped from the children sitting around the bonfire. Eyes sparkled with delight as the crystals seemed to rise and dissipate in the air like fireworks. I learned not long ago that the seemingly spontaneous ignition was rigged by one of the CITs earlier in the evening. * (see secrets of the magic fire at the end of this chapter). Thank goodness it took decades for me to discover their secret. I prefer to remain a devotee of the idea that it was truly a magic fire.
There’s a powerful photo in the l947 brochure mailed to Carbide employees and parents of prospective campers (see the photo attached to this blog). The picture had to have been taken the first year (l946) at a council circle during one of the boy’s sessions. It is a pitch-black night except for the bonfire, which eerily illuminates the gathering. Smoke is billowing toward the heavens, reminiscent of campfires from long ago. Tall trees are seen in the near distance and stand as witnesses to a nearly spiritual event. The children are sitting close on the benches; however, all one can discern are their silhouettes in black as they stare at the flames, feet barely touching the ground, mesmerized by the spectacle. I know from personal experience that they were enchanted by the scene.
Under that picture in the Carbide brochure is a poem by Robert Lewis Stevenson, which describes that experience so much better than I could ever try to do:
Did you ever watch the campfire,
When the moon has fallen low,
And the ashes start to whiten,
‘Round the embers’ amber glow,
When the night sounds all around you
Make the silence doubly sweet,
And a full moon high above you
That the spell may be complete?
Tell me, were you ever nearer
To the land of heart’s desire
Than when you sat there thinking
With your face turned toward the fire?
The Chief nodded to someone, and the counselors began to make their way to the area in front of his chair. While they assembled, I recalled other council meetings we’d had in this circle over the last two weeks. Twice, we’d gathered here for evening Vespers on Sundays, singing hymns and listening to stories from the Bible. One night was dedicated to what I’d now call conservation. I remember it very well: An engineer from Carbide told us that Native Americans believe the earth is sacred and that, like them, we must try to be good stewards of the land and take care of the creatures that share our planet. (The man was ahead of his time and most likely a GOTR!) We also had a songfest, a big hit, and a night of ghost stories, another success.
This night was dedicated to distributing awards and certificates and naming our session’s honor campers. It seemed to me that every camper got a certificate of merit for at least one activity: swimming, marksmanship, archery, dancing, drama, sports, crafts, and nature lore, to name a few. Each counselor handed out certificates to the girls in their cabin. From Gail, I received one for nature lore, no surprise there. The honor campers were announced next, but only two were for our session, and none from my cabin.
It took me three more years at Cliffside to realize that most of the honor campers were kids who’d excelled in sports. Unfortunately, I was never selected as Honor Camper. One of my sisters earned it, but none of my other siblings received that award either. To be quite honest, it still hurts.
Finally, the Chief called for evening prayer and the end of the council. I have no idea if the words of the prayer are the language of any actual American Indian tribe, but they sure sounded authentic to me at nine years old. I believe the prayer went like this:
Wah kon-dah daaay... doo... Wah pontay naaa .. to-nay Wah kon-dah daaay... doo... Wah pontay naaa .. to-nay
Then the Chief said, "Father, a needy one stands before you, I who speak am he.”
In l949, Union Carbide opened Camp Camelot for boys aged 12-16. Then, in l953, they added Camp Carlisle for teenage girls, just down the road from the boy’s camp. Both Camelot and Carlisle were located way out of Charleston in the eastern part of Kanawha County along Blue Creek, near the tiny hamlet of Galahad. The two camps were so far from the real world that most called it the wilderness. (Can you guess the themes of these camps?) Later, I’ll tell you about my grand experiences as a camper at Carlisle. Sadly, these two camps finally closed in about l983.
My beloved Cliffside closed in the mid-1970s and is now a subdivision of homes along Little Coal River Road. There are few remnants of the camp still evident: a sign here and there, fence posts, a couple of the cabins refitted for modern use, and the swinging bridges, of course.
I understand that folks who attended the camps through the years still make pilgrimages to Cliffside, Camelot, and Carlisle, now taken over by kudzu, bulldozed to remove any trace of the camps, replaced by gas rigs, or turned into developments. Just before their closings, former campers and Carbide employees fought valiantly to convince Carbide’s corporate offices to keep them going, but by then, the company had made its decision based on costs, not sentiment.
There’s a nifty website that Robert Lily, a Carbide camp ‘graduate’ published, with hundreds of pictures of children at all three camps over the years, photos of the facilities, aerial views, copies of awards and certificates, song and scrapbooks, badges, and a little of the history (www.carbidecamps.net). Using links, you can even play the recordings of the Cliffside’s bugle, theme song, and Camelot’s bell! The photos, submitted by former campers, ranged from about 1946 until the camps closed. When I discovered the website, purely by accident, I was so excited that I could hardly breathe. I poured over the entries like a woman searching for her lost past but soon found them instrumental in jogging my childhood recollections. One can see from the links that folks who loved the Carbide camps still come together each summer for reunions, where stories are told, songs are sung, and cherished memories are shared. They still do overnights near the sites of Camelot and Carlisle, but this time they bring along their tents and RVs.
On that same site are links to letters submitted to the Charleston newspapers after Carbide decided to close the camps. They are from former campers devastated to learn of Carlisle and Camelot’s demise. There’s a common thread in what I’d describe as their eulogies. I agree with the sentiments: While we were children at Cliffside, Camelot, and Carlisle, we had no idea that our experiences there would have such a strong impact on the rest of our lives. One man confessed that he’d been a bad kid overall, but at camp, he was good. The letters testify to the universal feeling that although there was no longer any physical evidence of the camps, they will be forever remembered in the hearts of those who attended.
One writer for the newspaper, a former camper herself, calculated that over the 36 years of operation, more than 25,000 children, teenagers, young adults, and employees attended or worked at the three camps. That’s an amazing number of people whose lives were changed forever by being a part of such a serendipitous yet noble experiment in child development.
Finally, you may wonder why I’m dedicating part of this blog to my summers at these camps. In l956, a year before I first attended Cliffside, NBC produced a television version of Peter Pan, a hit Broadway musical starring the actor Mary Martin. The first time I saw Peter Pan on television…I was a believer! It’s the story of a boy (Mary dressed as Peter) who could fly. Peter offers to take some children to a special place where people never grow old: Never, Never Land. The best song in the musical is one of my all-time favorites. It goes like this:
I have a place where dreams are born, and life is never planned
It’s not on any chart; you can find it in your heart
Never, Never Land.
It might be miles beyond the moon, or right there where you stand
Just keep an open mind, and suddenly you’ll find
Never, Never Land.
You’ll have a treasure if you stay there
More precious far than gold
For once you have found your way there
You can never, never grow old
And that’s my home where dreams are born, and life is never
planned
Just think of lovely things, and your heart will fly on wings
Forever, in Never, Never Land.*
Unfortunately, unlike Peter, we can’t forestall growing old indefinitely, although I’m giving it my best shot! But having a treasured place more precious far than gold, I keep striving to discover such a place to this day. I hope to someday find my version of Brigadoon: a naturalist’s paradise with animals as the stars, yet untouched by time!
During the many decades of my life since I first saw Cliffside, I’ve come up against some pretty bad people, had horrible situations, asked to do unethical things and refused, had to make decisions I feared could affect me negatively and battled bullies of all ages. Even though I fought valiantly, sometimes I won, and sometimes I lost. But whenever I faced dreadful people or difficult choices, like Peter Pan, I’d close my eyes and… in my mind… I’d go back to my Never Never Land…Cliffside and Carlisle. I imagine myself sitting by the campfire, singing songs with friends and smiling, happy to be in a place where dreams are born and life is never planned. I think of lovely things, and my heart flies on wings to Never Never Land. It may sound corny, but those images of my days at camp soothe me still, protect my mind from negative thoughts, and keep my spirit whole and sound.
What did I glean from my time at Cliffside and later Carlisle? First, the camps were my sanctuary. There, by the grace of God perhaps, I was protected from the bullies, became secure in the knowledge that I was loved, and could begin the process of finding a way to love myself. Some child psychologists claim that… children who integrate with animals and Nature have the best chance of developing a healthy psyche. My camp experiences seem to affirm their premise. Spending all those summers at Cliffside and Carlisle helped to shape my imagination, enabled me to see the natural world beyond my mind’s eye, and provided me with insight to discover what I’ve come to believe is the true relationship between man and animal. That Carbide camps had such a monumental impact on highly sensitive children like me is no small feat. Those visionaries, the men and women in Union Carbide’s 1946 Human Research Department, should be incredibly proud of what they accomplished.
I also realized that my parents were right and wise, although it wasn’t immediately apparent to me. Yet as my mother said so long ago, if I could learn to do some skills well (which the camps promoted), I’d gain self-confidence. And with that heightened sense of self-worth, I’d be able to build an invisible barrier around myself that bullies could not easily penetrate. So along with the strong value system instilled in me by my parents, the skills I learned at camp became my foundation. Moreover, camp taught me how to look at the natural world with wonder and embrace those imaginative experiences of my childhood with joy. In time, I learned how to use my appreciation for ‘the creatures of the earth’ as inspiration to establish an organization that recognizes and encourages people to become advocates for the welfare of animals.
Did my idyllic memories of camp become exaggerated over time? Perhaps, but the true-life experiences I had there made it possible for me to go on and become a creative adult, the person I am today. When all is said and done, there is no question in my mind that I would not have evolved into a Guardian of the Road if I hadn’t attended Carbide Camps. They transformed my life.
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*Secrets of the magic fire: According to a former camper’s post on Bob Lily’s wonderful website www.carbidecamps.net, “the fire was lit using a piece of pipe that ran from under the Chief’s chair underground to the middle of the campfire itself. For each fire, they’d build a little rocker unit out of two forked sticks, with a stick suspended between them. On this top stick, they’d put a little tinfoil tray. Another tray was on the ground between the two sticks. A wire running through the pipe was attached to the tray. The CITs would build the campfire around all this and pour glycerin in the tray on the ground and crystals of potassium permanganate in the upper tray. Someone out of sight would pull on the wire, dumping the crystals into the glycerin, and everything would ignite. (Do not try this at home).
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