FOR Linc, walking had always been a straightforward business of putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn't something that needed too much thinking about and, it did things like get you to the other end of the street. At Camp Coulie, he and the others learned there was a whole art to it. Walking over mountains, anyway. They learned it gradually and painfully in the course of the next two weeks, at the cost of blistered heels, swollen ankles, and muscles that could barely flex enough to get them out of bed the next morning. The even, strutting gait that was fine on city sidewalks didn't work here; feet hit rocks at the wrong angles or twisted and slipped into the cracks between. Each step had to be selected by eye and measured, then made smoothly in a way that needed practice to flow into a rhythm that could be kept up for hours without the exhausting jerkiness and agonized gasping for breath that marked the early days. Learning to zigzag on the uphill slopes reduced the steepness; water took the steepest way down, so following creek beds was not a smart way to gain height. Legs could "freewheel" at almost a run on the downhill stretches, letting gravity do the work; better still, they could use the scree slopes of accumulated rock flakes from above as a makeshift ski run.
As the routines slowly became automatic, and toughened muscles allowed attention to shift from aching feet and pack straps cutting into tender shoulders, they began to see what was around them for the first time. One evening, when a group that included Linc was returning from an expedition to one of the local peaks, they came over a rise to be confronted by an unusually spectacular sunset even for the Sierra, flooding the valley with fire of gold from a sky writhing in violet and red. Everyone stopped and stared, transfixed. After a long silence, Mace, a hefty, red-haired youth, who hadn't said so because of the rules, but from his accent had to be from New York, breathed in an awed tone:
"Man . . . that's some hell of a fried egg."
Which at once broke the spell.
"So go write a poem to it or something," Flash taunted. Other voices joined in.
"Hey, give him a break, Flash. It's probably the most artistic thing Mace ever said."
"Yeah—so I'm feeling artistic today. You have a problem with that?"
"I got a problem with being half starved to death here. What did we do today—eighteen miles? Show me some real eggs."
Linc looked past them to Mr. Green, almost forgotten, taking it all in and watching. There was always one of the wardens there in the background—saying little when they weren't instructing, but always watching and listening.
It wasn't all just endless hiking. Aching limbs have to rest; raw feet need time to mend. Between the days of tramping along trails and over trackless mountain slopes, they painted fences around the camp, laid roofs, cut and replaced old timbers. They swam in the lake and learned to handle canoes and other small boats. They were shown first-aid methods and lifesaving. Everyone got to do kitchen duty too and found out what it was like to put up with the grumbling of hungry, worn-out cohorts back from the hills. The groan of "New kids in the kitchen" became a standard joke around the camp for any of life's tribulations that you can do nothing about and just have to put up with. Those who had already gained kitchen experience found themselves being sought out for advice. Everyone took a turn at hot, sweaty stints in the laundry.
On their rest days they got to try their hand at things like plumbing, electrical work, and vehicle maintenance. There were classroom sessions in recognizing plants and rocks, the stars in the night skies, and using map and compass. Those who were genuinely not up to sustained physical exertion were found jobs helping with the camp's day-to-day maintenance chores and in the workshops.
Linc preferred things that involved action and required physical coordination. He did well in the gym, found he had a good sense of balance and timing on the parallel bars, and after the first week or so could take the hikes comfortably. In the workshops he discovered a practical side to his nature that he never knew he had. Learning to use tools was surprisingly satisfying, and he found himself becoming fascinated by mechanisms. Class work, on the other hand, tended to bore him, and what little math he had absorbed at school wasn't adequate for the map-and-compass orienteering.
This was also a period of attrition. A quarrel that broke out in the kitchen turned into a knife fight, and both participants were RPO'd the next day. A girl from Hut 5 was RPO'd when the warden found her missing in a midnight spot-check. Royal, of the bad-back syndrome, pleaded sick two trekking mornings in a row and wasn't heard of again after the second time. Several more either couldn't or wouldn't fit and requested out.
At the same time, a growing air of competitiveness began making itself felt, which those in charge seemed happy to encourage. In fact, some of the more astute among the "guests" agreed it was the wardens who, in various subtle ways, had instigated it. Ratings began being posted each evening of the cleanest and best-kept huts, and the best times for athletic performances and hikes. Nothing was actually said officially, but spontaneous urges to better the other huts' scores began to emerge between the huts, and in some cases different groups within the huts.
Such gravitating together through a sense of shared pride stimulated social structuring around emerging leader figures. Mostly, this took place of its own accord, like the groupings in a school playground. Linc and Angelo became this kind of attracting binary (around which Rick, Kew, and several others fell into a loose cluster), with neither of them exhibiting any marked inclination to bid for supremacy.
In other cases attempts at asserting order were more imposed. A kid called Tommy from Hut 1, nice in his way but with a stubborn streak and quick to argue, was found badly beaten behind the gravel pen. He claimed he was jumped and didn't know who did it or why, and as far as anyone could tell, the matter was never solved. In Linc's hut, Flash, who took criticism badly and never accepted more in the way of chores than he could get away with, drifted into Arvin's ("Blondie's") orbit. The two of them stuck together, watching the others but not getting involved. Later, they were joined by a third, called Vie—clearly of Italian stock, with olive skin, slicked-back hair, a thin mouth, and narrow, mobile eyes that missed nothing. Linc quickly tagged him as a mean specimen to be careful of. All the same, the eye-blurring speed with which he could chop and dice with a kitchen knife astounded everyone.
The challenge came one evening, back in the hut after the meal, when Arvin was sponging mud off his parka. He indicated the can of water he was using and nodded toward Rick. "Hey, Rickafeller. Get me a clean refill in that from out back, willya?"
Rick looked up in surprise, hesitated, then stiffened in protest as he sensed the others noticing.
"Didn't you hear the man?" Flash asked after a few seconds. Rick faltered, then looked toward Linc in an appeal for guidance.
"What's it got to do with him? I'm asking you," Arvin said.
Linc found himself confused. Normally he would have seized the moment to settle right there the situation that had been developing for some days—he figured he could take Arvin. But violence was out this time, and he didn't know any other kind of solution. Unable to think through how to deal with it, he nodded a silent acquiescence. Rick picked up the can and, looking pained, headed for the washrooms at the back. Linc caught Angelo's eye and read concurrence that he had done the right thing. It wasn't worth it right now, over a can of water. But trouble was coming. It would be only a matter of time.