Scouts Canada

I was a lousy Scout.
My scout leaders were my father, and Scouter Eric.
Scouter Eric once told my father that he would break me. File down my juvenile rebellion and mould me into a man.
Yeah, like my 'right of passage' would be determined by Jamborees and merit badges.
Scouter Eric was wrong.
Although, I did experiences some moments in Scouts Canada that are for ever burned into my head.
We had an annual camping trip that took place at the Haliburton Scout Reserve. This is where we refined our roasting campfire songs and learned what we all need to know about survival in the wilderness and the much needed teachings of canoeing and portaging.
This story focuses on the latter.
A day of paddling and carrying Fiberglas canoes around an area that hadn't been touched by the developed Canada that we know and love.
It sucked.
It was hot, the canoes were tiresome both on my shoulder and in the water.
As a kid, I made no attempt to mask my discontempt, everyone near me and in a surrounding area, yet undocumented, bore witness to my rant.
Where's the campfire, wiener roast and burnt marshmallows.
That's not what Scouts is about.
This is where boys learn to be men. This is where you eat stew comprised of swamp findings, where 'yer lucky it's beef and not squirrel'. This is where machismo collides with youth, and fireworks happen.
I'm half ass paddling, my older brother in the front, and another scout in the middle are carrying my weight.
I try, but don't give a shit!
We come upon a beaver damn. It's typical Canadiana style, middle of a river, yet not touching either bank.
As we had learned to do, we file out, one by one trusting beavers (as I never did again) to hold our weight, as we physically maneuver the boat over the mass of surprisingly well meshed together sticks and sediment.
I am not happy.
I see myself falling through. I can feel the cold water sticking my shirt to my chest. That annoyance one gets when something goes horribly wrong.
I urge my team to pick up the pace.
The boat makes it back into the water on the appropriate side of the dam and my brother files into the front of the boat, as myself and the scout hold it to steady.
Then, middle scout takes his turn.
I hold that boat like an epileptics tongue, it's not going anywhere.
My big brother;
'Okay, Ian, you push off as hard as you can to make sure we make it off the dam, then jump in'.
I see this as an opportunity. Slightly less gratifying as wrestling the bear to save the troop, yet, I will free us from the beavers.
I push with all my might, and am just about ready to throw myself into the boat when something stops me.
I see my brothers paddle, and that of middle scout, hoist into the air and break the water.
feverishly.
Their arms were like animated movies where it's not so feasible to see human movement that quick.
I stand up, stunned.
They had planned to leave me there. My pushing to prove something had in turn sealed my fate.
The arse end of the canoe that once had me dragging my fingers through the water and sitting comfortably in it was now disappearing up river.
I had a millisecond of self realization;
'I deserve this.'
It ended after that. Now my Canadiana adventure had turned to bad canuck programming and I was the loser cast in the part of 'crazed beaver lunch'.
I screamed, but I did not stomp.
I first used the F-word in radius of my fathers ears.
I was standing in my scouts approved shorts, my converse one stars, and a t-shirt, looking up river and firing out words that I thought could make a canoe freeze in spot.
My words failed me that day, it wasn't until my brother had reached the next portage, and had to account for my absence that he turned around and came back for me.
I'm still always the middle scout.
To this day!