Every once in a while if they're lucky, some kids will find a secret spot that they're sure the rest of the human race has no idea it's there. Such was the secret swimming hole of our little clique from troop 469. Everett Snyder, Bobby Ryerson, Dave Tate, and myself.
There was a creek, just barely a creek, that ran through the woods by our nieghborhood. It was not really accsessable because of the thick jungle of undergrowth that can make up a Maryland woods. Honeysuckle and brambes can make a barrier as dense as any tropical jungle. Boys being boys, we felt the need to explore just where this small trickle of water we called a creek was going.
Stashing our bicycles in the underbrush to maintain secrecy, we set about the exploration. I had an old WW2 machete from Sunnys Surplus in Silver Spring dad had bought for work around the back yard that backed to some woods. The honeysuckle was always creeping over the back fence and dad used the machete once in a while in the summer to keep it back. I liberated it for our exploration. Even with the machete it was so overgrown with the wild honeysuckle and creepers, we decieded to just wade down the creek to see where it went. Off we sloshed in soggy Keds sneekers on what we thought could be a major trek.
We went a fair distance, sometimes duck walking to avoid the sticker laden vines, when we found it. The creek dropped off a couple of feet into a wide pool where the water was up to the neck of the average 12 year old. There was no sign of a trail or path in the thick woods around this spot, and we claimed it as domain of troop 469. That summer it was the secret swimming hole. I used dad's machete to clear some of the lowest hanging stickers so we did'nt have to do a duck walk, but we left it so's there was no trail into it. You had to wade down the creek to find it. We'd meet up there on hot afternoons and after swimming and cooling off, practice with our sling shots.
This was the days before Wrist Rockets and ready made slings. Mr. Van, our scout master, had taught us the right way to make a proper slingshot. This of course meant prowing the woods looking for that just right fork in a young hickory or ash tree. Oak was a good choice as well. After alot of shaping and scraping with our scout knives, an innertube from a bicycle was sacraficed for propulsion, and an old pair of shoes was looked for in the trash to cut the tongue out for a pouch. For some reason shoe tongues made the best stone pouches. I don't know how many hours we'd spend sitting in the shade by our swimmng hole, rough sling forks in hand whittling a little at a time with our pocket knives. Finally our sling shots took form, and we used the awl blade of our scout knives to scrape and smooth the final finish. Alot of hand rubbing with linseed oil, and the wood took on a nice smooth oil finish that would have graced a hunting rifle. Many more hours were spent examining and gathering only the smoothest of water worn small stones for ammo. These stones were sorted for size and stashed in small pouches we made from the denum left over from making our summer cutoffs. When we had enough stones to fight a 4th crusade we figured we were ready.
Our practice sessions were serious buisness. There was a steep mud bank on the other side of the swimming hole, and it had the advantage that it let us see where we hit. You'd get a explosion of mud leaving a small crater where you hit. We'd pick out a leaf laying on the mud and we'd line up and take turns shooting at it. I was an okay shot, but if I was going out to face Goliath, I'd tell you to bet on the big guy. I missed some. Bobby Ryerson was about the same. Ev was funny to watch. We all made 3/4, or half inch rubber strips out of the inner tube, but Ev had just used a whole section of inner tube for each of his bands. He was a big kid, and he was strong enough to pull it. Ev was sort of the "Little John" of our group. When we shot there would be a wump when our stone hit near what we were aiming at on the mud bank. When Ev shot, there would be a loud WUMP, and a large crater the size of a fist left by his stone.
But the real talent was Dave. He was already the best shot on our .22 rifle team, and he became a wizzard with a sling shot. It was a rare thing he missed. We could understand it with the guns, but did'nt know how he did it with the sling shot. There were no sights. We started to harbor a suspission that he had a trick up his sleeve that he was'nt sharing with us. This led to some semi-inquisitions.
"How are you doing that?"
"I don't know, I just look at the leaf."
"What do you mean you just look at the leaf?"
"I mean I just look at the leaf. Concentrate on it like its the only thing in the world."
So we all tried to stare a hole in the leaf when we shot. It helped a little bit. But we gradually came to understand that summer that some of us are just better than us, and Dave was one of those gifted ones. It was a good lesson in humility, and accepting that we just have to do the best we can, and that there is always going to be somebody someplace a little better than you. Dave just had some sort of natural gift for targeting that we did'nt. So from then on we deffered to Dave in all matters of marksmenship, be it .22's, airguns, or homemade sling shots. Just like there are thousands of kids on a thousand basketball courts across the land. But only one or two will go on to be another Micheal Jordan, no matter how hard they try.
Dave Tate went on to enlist in the Air Force soon after High School. Flying F-4 Phantoms over Viet Nam, he became an ace in fast order. He retired a full bird colonel and when we had a 30 year reunion, we got together the old pack and had a Sunday after picknic. Ev and his family with me and mine. "Somehow" Ev and me both just happened to have a couple of air rifles in the trunks, and there just happened to be a creek at the picnic site. Dave shot the pants off me and Ev with our own rifles. I guess Tom Wolfe would say Dave had the right stuff.
There was a creek, just barely a creek, that ran through the woods by our nieghborhood. It was not really accsessable because of the thick jungle of undergrowth that can make up a Maryland woods. Honeysuckle and brambes can make a barrier as dense as any tropical jungle. Boys being boys, we felt the need to explore just where this small trickle of water we called a creek was going.
Stashing our bicycles in the underbrush to maintain secrecy, we set about the exploration. I had an old WW2 machete from Sunnys Surplus in Silver Spring dad had bought for work around the back yard that backed to some woods. The honeysuckle was always creeping over the back fence and dad used the machete once in a while in the summer to keep it back. I liberated it for our exploration. Even with the machete it was so overgrown with the wild honeysuckle and creepers, we decieded to just wade down the creek to see where it went. Off we sloshed in soggy Keds sneekers on what we thought could be a major trek.
We went a fair distance, sometimes duck walking to avoid the sticker laden vines, when we found it. The creek dropped off a couple of feet into a wide pool where the water was up to the neck of the average 12 year old. There was no sign of a trail or path in the thick woods around this spot, and we claimed it as domain of troop 469. That summer it was the secret swimming hole. I used dad's machete to clear some of the lowest hanging stickers so we did'nt have to do a duck walk, but we left it so's there was no trail into it. You had to wade down the creek to find it. We'd meet up there on hot afternoons and after swimming and cooling off, practice with our sling shots.
This was the days before Wrist Rockets and ready made slings. Mr. Van, our scout master, had taught us the right way to make a proper slingshot. This of course meant prowing the woods looking for that just right fork in a young hickory or ash tree. Oak was a good choice as well. After alot of shaping and scraping with our scout knives, an innertube from a bicycle was sacraficed for propulsion, and an old pair of shoes was looked for in the trash to cut the tongue out for a pouch. For some reason shoe tongues made the best stone pouches. I don't know how many hours we'd spend sitting in the shade by our swimmng hole, rough sling forks in hand whittling a little at a time with our pocket knives. Finally our sling shots took form, and we used the awl blade of our scout knives to scrape and smooth the final finish. Alot of hand rubbing with linseed oil, and the wood took on a nice smooth oil finish that would have graced a hunting rifle. Many more hours were spent examining and gathering only the smoothest of water worn small stones for ammo. These stones were sorted for size and stashed in small pouches we made from the denum left over from making our summer cutoffs. When we had enough stones to fight a 4th crusade we figured we were ready.
Our practice sessions were serious buisness. There was a steep mud bank on the other side of the swimming hole, and it had the advantage that it let us see where we hit. You'd get a explosion of mud leaving a small crater where you hit. We'd pick out a leaf laying on the mud and we'd line up and take turns shooting at it. I was an okay shot, but if I was going out to face Goliath, I'd tell you to bet on the big guy. I missed some. Bobby Ryerson was about the same. Ev was funny to watch. We all made 3/4, or half inch rubber strips out of the inner tube, but Ev had just used a whole section of inner tube for each of his bands. He was a big kid, and he was strong enough to pull it. Ev was sort of the "Little John" of our group. When we shot there would be a wump when our stone hit near what we were aiming at on the mud bank. When Ev shot, there would be a loud WUMP, and a large crater the size of a fist left by his stone.
But the real talent was Dave. He was already the best shot on our .22 rifle team, and he became a wizzard with a sling shot. It was a rare thing he missed. We could understand it with the guns, but did'nt know how he did it with the sling shot. There were no sights. We started to harbor a suspission that he had a trick up his sleeve that he was'nt sharing with us. This led to some semi-inquisitions.
"How are you doing that?"
"I don't know, I just look at the leaf."
"What do you mean you just look at the leaf?"
"I mean I just look at the leaf. Concentrate on it like its the only thing in the world."
So we all tried to stare a hole in the leaf when we shot. It helped a little bit. But we gradually came to understand that summer that some of us are just better than us, and Dave was one of those gifted ones. It was a good lesson in humility, and accepting that we just have to do the best we can, and that there is always going to be somebody someplace a little better than you. Dave just had some sort of natural gift for targeting that we did'nt. So from then on we deffered to Dave in all matters of marksmenship, be it .22's, airguns, or homemade sling shots. Just like there are thousands of kids on a thousand basketball courts across the land. But only one or two will go on to be another Micheal Jordan, no matter how hard they try.
Dave Tate went on to enlist in the Air Force soon after High School. Flying F-4 Phantoms over Viet Nam, he became an ace in fast order. He retired a full bird colonel and when we had a 30 year reunion, we got together the old pack and had a Sunday after picknic. Ev and his family with me and mine. "Somehow" Ev and me both just happened to have a couple of air rifles in the trunks, and there just happened to be a creek at the picnic site. Dave shot the pants off me and Ev with our own rifles. I guess Tom Wolfe would say Dave had the right stuff.
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