The Boy Scout Chronicles Volume 2 - Jamboree of Despair

When I first joined the Scouts, our entire inventory of camping equipment consisted of three heavy canvas army surplus tents.  


They appeared to date from the Crimean War, and setting them up was an exercise in Rubik's-Cubian complexity. When they were finally up and you pulled back the flap to enter the dark, damp interior, you were hit with a stench so powerful it felt like a physical blow. The primary source of this odour was decaying canvas, but a sensitive nose could pick out subtle notes of mold, mildew and what I believe was Trench Foot. As an added bonus, each tent weighed approximately 3 metric tonnes and took on more water than the Titanic in wet weather.


However, after years of diligent fund raising (See Volume 1) we finally saved up enough pennies to replace these monstrosities and purchased four shiny new Canadian Tire tents just in time for the big International Jamboree.


When the big day arrived, Mr. P. strapped the new tents to the roof of his station wagon and we all piled inside, eagerly anticipating a dry and odourless night's sleep. (Or at least as odourless as would be possible following the traditional Scouting meal of beans and weiners.)


Now, if you know anything about the Boy Scouts, you'll know that knot tying forms a big part of traditional scouting lore, so Mr. P. had a wide range to choose from when securing the tents to his roof.  We'll never know which knot he chose; the reef knot... the sheep shank... the clove hitch... all we can be sure of is that he performed the task with his usual level of competence, for when we arrived at Camp Shegardeynou, there was just a single, lonely tent left on that roof.


While Mr. P. scratched his head and peered at the car in confusion, our initial shock hardened into quiet fury as we pictured the terrible fate of our beloved new tents. There were two basic scenarios as we saw it.


The first, (and least awful) consisted of a series of 18 wheelers crushing the tents into unrecognizable wads of twisted metal and torn nylon.


The second, (and substantially worse) involved aluminum tent poles flying through windshields like javelins, family sedans careening out of control, multi-car pile-ups, flaming wreckage and unthinkable carnage.


However, neither of these theories were ever confirmed,no tents were recovered, and as far as I know, no charges were filed.


By the time Mr. P. headed out again on the three hour drive to fetch the dreaded canvas army tents, our anger had faded to a familiar dull ache of resentment.  If they gave out merit badges for Crushing Disappointment, our troop would have been the most decorated in Scouting History.


And who got to sleep in that one remaining new tent? 
Why, a certain heartless bastard by the name of Mr. P., of course.


Too be continued...