Night of the Goats (Complete)

[Note: I initially posted this in two parts, with the second subject to a paywall. This is the complete post.]

Camp Red Wing was a girl’s camp on the East Shore of Schroon Lake in the Adirondack Mountains.  It was in an idyllic spot in a cove on the nine-mile lake, just across from the site of Scaroon Manor – a renowned resort in the ‘40s and ‘50s, and the site of the film Marjorie Morningstar.  My parents ran the camp in the ‘60s and ’70s with their partners and co-directors.

Each summer from 1918 to 1980, about 120 girls spent eight weeks there, playing tennis, swimming, singing, dancing, crafting, sketching, hiking, riding, boating, and hanging out.  The Camp owned two non-contiguous sections of land of about 18 acres each:  The northern section included almost all the Camp – 16 bunks, ball fields, a social hall, dining room, office, infirmary, arts and craft house, nature shack, riding ring, tennis courts, swimming beach, boating beach, volleyball courts, the owners’ cottage and an access to an adjoining campsite for overnights called the “near” campsite.

The southern. non-contiguous part was undeveloped land, just dense woods on a steep hill leading to the Lake.  The only part used by the girls was another campsite – a 5–10-minute walk from the tennis courts, called the “far campsite. “  

The shortest route to the far campsite led directly through the lawn in front of a private cabin owned by a curmudgeon known to generations of campers as “Mr. Theodore.”* For as long as anyone could remember, Mr. Theodore grudgingly permitted groups of kids to walk across his land to get to the campsite.  But one day in the summer of 1969, some kids made one too many shrieks for the old man.  He walked over to the owners’ cottage and said to my parents:

 “I’m sorry, but I’m gettin’ old and I just can’t have those noisy kids carrying on as they walk by my house.  They’ll have to find some other way to get to the campsite.”  In other words, “You kids get off my (Adirondack lakeside) lawn.”

The only other way to the far campsite was to leave the camp, hike about a half a mile up the dirt road that led to town, and then climb down a steep, densely forested hill, where no one had ever made a trail. 

After hearing about the far campsite dilemma, my brother, up for the weekend, blazed a trail down from the main road to the campsite, marking the steep, descending path with colored ribbons on trees.

It was an eventful night at Red Wing. The younger kids were thrilled because the nature shack had just welcomed the arrival of three pet goats, who took up residence in a pen just behind the shack.  The older kids were excited because that night they were getting on buses to Saratoga for a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert at the Performing Arts Center.  The counselors who remained were anticipating the first after-hours counselor party of the year – to be held at the far campsite just in time to initiate the brand-new trail.

After taps, the counselors dutifully followed the dirt road up, then the trail down toward the lake while there was still some daylight.  Mr. Theodore was undisturbed.    We also hauled up and down all the essentials -- six-packs of Rheingold, Schaefer and Molson; a couple of bottles of Mateus; ample supplies of Hershey bars, graham crackers and marshmallows; matches; and a couple of guitars, including mine. Among the revelers were a platinum blonde music counselor named Betty, and “Dr. Bob” the camp doctor. 

Camp doctor was my dream job.  As tennis counselor, I toiled on the clay courts all day, endlessly hitting balls to 7–14-year-old kids until the last class ended, when I ran down to the Lake and dove in, still wearing my sweaty red-clay-stained tennis shorts and shirt.  The doctor, on the other hand, worked about a half-hour on most days -- two 15-minute “clinics” after breakfast and dinner.  His main responsibility was sorting the very few actually sick from the majority, consisting of kids with psychosomatic homesickness symptoms, or who didn’t want to go to nature, gymnastics or volleyball on that particular day.  And for this trying task he also had two nurses to assist.  The rest of the time the Doc was an overgrown camper: swimming, sailing, playing tennis, sunning, reading, or chatting up the college-age counselor staff.

Dr. Bob raised this lifestyle to an art form.  He was everywhere all the time – out in a canoe, on the tennis courts at rest hour, sailing in the early evening, a prime candidate for the “All-Around Camper” Award.  By the time of the party, the Doc had also begun flirting with Betty since shortly after camp began, and they were on the verge of a summer romance. 

The campfire started, ‘smores were constructed, and I began playing the guitar, leading woodsy versions of everything from Stewball was a Racehorse, and This Land is Your Land to Suite Judy Blue Eyes.   Before long, Dr. Bob and Betty quietly drifted off into the woods.

I played on until after midnight, then fooled around a bit with Debbie, the dance counselor, until mosquitos and flies drove us out.  I packed up the guitar and we trekked up brother’s trail.  At the camp crossroads, I returned to the “men’s quarters” and Debbie to her bunk.  The beer and Mateus took their toll, and I went right to sleep. 

I didn’t learn until the next morning that things never before seen on Schroon Lake happened that night.  The events below were recounted to me by still traumatized witnesses.

At about 11:30, the buses rolled back into the camp from the Peter, Paul and Mary concert at Saratoga.  Unfortunately, they pulled up right across the road from the nature shack, where until that point, the three goats had been sleeping peacefully.  The formidable bus noise awakened the goats, who began bleating in panic at ear-splitting volume.  The nature counselor rushed up to the shack, but there was no consoling the goats, even after the empty buses pulled away.  The bleating continued relentlessly, and eventually it woke up the youngest campers, whose bunks happened to be located just a few yards away from the bearded beasts.  This created a horrible cacophony of goats, bleating antiphonally with screaming seven, eight, and nine year olds.  I have always regretted that it was not recorded.  It could have been used in the soundtracks of countless horror films – even outpacing the famed “Wilhelm Scream.”

The camp directors, roused from sleep by the satanic concert, took charge.  The goats were mollified by some scraps (coffee grounds, egg shells and chicken neck, I believe) sent up by the kitchen staff.  Peace was restored after each bunk’s counselors sang their young charges to sleep with repeated performances of Kumbaya.

The directors returned to the main cottage where they lived and retired for the night once again.  But just as they were closing their eyes, they heard a loud banging on the cottage door.  Bleary-eyed, they approached the door and saw three figures – a pale thirty-something couple followed by an old man with a rifle.  The couple came into focus – Dr. Bob and Betty.  The old man was Mr. Theodore.

After their forest tryst, the doc and the music counselor, drunk with love, lust, beer and wine, had forgotten all about my brother’s trail, and were wandering back along the forbidden lake route when they were apprehended by the armed codger.

“I caught ‘em red-handed,” growled the incensed neighbor.  “They were walking right across my lawn, just like I told you I would not tolerate.  Do you know what we used to do to trespassers here?” he said, gesturing with the gun.  Dr. Bob and Betty grew noticeably paler.

“I should turn ‘em over to the Sheriff, but I guess you people can handle it.  Just don’t let it happen again.” The directors apologized profusely and assured him that even stricter precautions would be taken to safeguard Mr. Theodore’s property rights.  Dr. Bob and Betty sheepishly came into the cottage, and after a few choice words from my parents, slunk back to their respective cabins.

Red Wing has long been closed, but if you go there on a warm summer night, and camp near where the nature shack was, you can hear the bleating goats and screaming kids. You might even see a ghostly figure toting a rifle leading a young man and woman through the woods.

• Names have been changed