Job Description

  I have had numerous jobs working for very different employers in completely disparate locations. I’ve worked on an electrical team that constructed a six-story Hyatt hotel, and I’ve worked a desk job as a financial analyst. But, my first occupation is where I want to focus my energy here. I went to a camp on the coast of Maine for over ten years. The camp, located in Wiscasset, an hour north of Portland, is a beautiful place surrounded by tall pine forests and salt marshes. The cabins are all old and wooden, and their wear imbues a sense of timelessness. While I first enjoyed Camp Chewonki as a camper, it eventually became time for me to assume the role of counselor. Like many other outdoor programs, the camp had a counselor-in-training program for which I enlisted. There was a general feeling of excitement around the young men with whom I would be completing the training. We were to be housed in our own quarters without the supervision of a legitimate counselor. All of this was huge for boys used to constant oversight in the cabins. So, after my sophomore year of high school, I packed up my things and headed up to Wiscasset, Maine. 

When I first settled in with my cabinmates, I looked around and saw many familiar faces. The eight of us had known each other for a long time. We counted up our total time at Chewonki and found we shared 54 years among the group. We believed we knew everything there was to know. Plus, the eight of us carried our heads high with the added arrogance of knowing that we would be paid. This was a huge thing for me. I had always been a hustler, and the fact that I would be receiving a direct deposit into my recently created bank account was no small thing. But, the next eight weeks would make me earn that salary many times over. 

The summer program was separated into two different sections. First, we would be trained in everything there is to know about wilderness survival and councilorship. This included a week-long Red Cross Waterfront lifeguard certification, a week of Wilderness First Responder training, and then two weeks out in the Maine backcountry. 

I had been on the swim team since I was four and walked into the Red Cross training like it would be a breeze. It was not. Unlike the traditional pool training, the Waterfront portion of the course required a strong capability in saltwater. In June, the frigid Maine coast rarely tops 50 degrees Fahrenheit. While seven of us completed the basic pool training, only half of the group managed to emerge from the salty waters with their Waterfront badge. We would let the rips drag us out and then navigate back to shore only to do it again. In addition, we had to familiarize ourselves very quickly with the slope of the beach in case a rescue was required. This proved most difficult as every day, we returned to the beach only for the ocean to have maliciously changed its contours. Our instructor was a small, squat woman who did not take anything lightly. Her low voice always managed to rise above the wind and swell. She kept us moving, and for that, I can thank her for not letting us freeze. 

After our battles with the salt and surf, we returned to camp for a much-needed rest. While not nearly as physically intensive, the next week required us to take diligent notes to pass the Wilderness First Responder test. When I took my seat that Monday morning, I looked up from my desk to see a mammoth of a man writing on the whiteboard. The man had the broadest shoulders I had ever seen, and a grizzled brown beard cloaked his face. He looked like a lobsterman. When he turned to face us, he introduced himself in a cool, calm voice. My ears perked up to confirm that I was hearing him right. Yes, the lobsterman spoke in a near whisper. Our two instructors seemed foils both in appearance and tone. We sat and listened to the man speak of basic biology for the first few hours. Soon, though, it became clear that our instruction would come primarily through storytelling. Stories of the man standing above real lobstermen, administering heart palpitations to extracting downed hikers in the Appalachians. The man had such a wealth of personal experience, and our jobs were to be sponges. He made that course very easy, given his incredible teaching style. We all passed. 

Two weeks in, we were rolling. The next challenge was our wilderness excursion. 12 days in canoes on the Allagash Waterway and then a two-day backpacking trip up Katahdin, Maine’s tallest mountain. I was thrilled, and so were my fellow CITs. The group of us sat together the night before we departed, telling stories of our previous adventures and treks. When you’re a camper, there are always a few cabin mates who don’t want to be out in the wilderness. And, you’re only as fast as the slowest team member, so cabin trips were usually a tricky affair. Some of the faster campers would turn on the slower ones, and the group’s cohesiveness could deteriorate rather quickly despite the counselor’s best intentions. But, as I gazed around our candle-lit cabin, I saw a group of seasoned guys who wanted to be there. 

We woke early the next morning, the dew on the lower field soaking our boots. As we pulled out of camp, loaded up with our canoes and supplies, I could not suppress my excitement. Our trailer driver and trip leader for the excursion looked back with a grin and smiled. JR had been my older brother’s counselor, and now he was leading us on our capstone trip to prove ourselves as equals. The bouncing of the trailer behind us soon lulled me to sleep.

The Allagash Waterway was deep in logging country. We took the “Golden Road” to get there. Here, we didn’t have the right away. The 50-ton logging trucks hurtling towards us expected us to kindly pull over or risk collision on the narrow dirt road. Up there, the air is sharp and sweet as we put the boats in the water. Our original itinerary consisted of us completing 110 miles over the 12 days of paddling. We hit the section of the lake first, and the winds were brutal. Dense fog and spray made it hard to see the next boat in front of us. My canoe mate, Carlos, spent the time teaching me new Spanish words when we could hear the commotion. After three days camping on rocky islands and enduring a constant onslaught of rain, the weather cleared. Then, we really started moving. By the time we entered the mouth of the Allagash River, we were several days ahead of schedule. The group, enjoying the exercise, decided to bite off a bit more than originally planned. By the time we reached our new exfil, we had completed over 160 miles on the water. 

On the last day on the water, we arose early, trying to glimpse the sunrise. Foolishly, even at 5am, you cannot see the sunrise on a river. There are plenty of trees preventing that. Unsatisfied, we resolved to summit Khatadin by sunrise the following day. By the time we pulled into base camp after hours on the logging roads, it was nearly 9:00 pm. We slept for two hours and began our ascent. The fatigue was nothing compared to the communal excitement of what was before us. Headlamps illuminated the moss-covered rocks as we climbed higher and higher. The treeline faded to rockfields as the elevation increased, and then the horizon began to lighten. That sunrise was the best payment I could have received. I am very grateful to have had this opportunity to work and live to the fullest.