Scouts rehydrating in the Health Lodge

It was raining when troop 353 arrived at basecamp. It had been raining for the last six days straight. Up in the mountains, where at that moment several thousand Scouts were hiking, wet clouds drifted across the treetops. But nothing could dampen the constant drilling cheerfulness of the Philmont staff.

The troop was ambushed at the dining hall by a mob of rangers—ruddy-faced college-age kids, in identical maroon polo shirts—chanting in unison the opening number in a two-week barrage of songs and cheers and mantras:

I wanna go baaaaaaack to PHILMONT!

Where the old Rayado flows,

Where the rain comes a-seepin'

In the tent where you're a-sleepin'

And the waters say hello!

The intrepid Troop 353 (left to right: Sean, Corey, George, Ranger Julie, Sam, Greg, Phil, Jeff, Ken, Ryan, and Kevin)

Waiting in line to eat, Troop 353 reacted with silent bewilderment, looking not at all eager to confront any rain a-seepin' on them anytime soon. They only livened up when we finally got our food.

"This is disgusting," Corey said, staring down at the compartmentalized plastic tray. The glistening meat filling of a sloppy joe was oozing over its barrier into the banana custard.

Greg rolled his eyes and shrugged. Sean pointed to Corey and explained for my benefit, "He lives in Julian, Pennsylvania."

"Shut up!" said Corey. "Howard's not that much bigger."

"Naw, we've got close to 1,000 people. What've you guys got, a couple hundred?"

To Corey's visible relief, they switched topics, and Sean began to tell Greg about tequila. "So it's got a worm in it you eat that absorbs a lot more alcohol."

"Yeah, but it's a gummy worm, right?"

"Naw, a real worm."

Greg just shook his head. "The only thing I like is wine coolers."

Up close and personal with Corey

That night was the much-touted "opening campfire" for all the Scouts who'd arrived that day, held out in a little spotlit amphitheater surrounded by prairie. The fire part turned out to be purely theoretical, since the rangers didn't really manage to get the wood lit, despite copious amounts of kerosene. But once it was smoldering, the Philmont staff came out costumed as figures from local history—a gunfighter, a conquistador—and acted out well-rehearsed skits as the Scouts looked on as passively as if they were in front of the television.

Then a lone staffer addressed the dozen or so gathered troops. "Before we close this opening campfire," he recited, "we'd like to take an opportunity to enjoy one of those things that makes Philmont what it is: the sky. Its vast expanses are inspirational to us all. We invite you to take a moment to enjoy the evening sky."

For the first time, the klieg lights that spotlit the "campfire" dimmed, and for half a minute we had a view of the stars, of the darkened prairie, of the shadowy line of cottonwoods that ran off into the distance along a hidden stream. Then the tape-recorded music swelled to a climax, the lights came up, and the Scouts filed dutifully out toward their tents.

Meanwhile, across base camp, returning Scouts had gathered for a farewell campfire. We crossed paths with a group from Big Spring, Texas, and I asked them what was memorable about their trek.

"The smells," said one, a Scout named Jerred who, with his blond brush of hair, could've stepped off the cover of Boys' Life.

Smells?

"Yeah, till I showered today, man—I could smell myself from five miles away."

"And some of those meals they give you—that makes it pretty bad, too," said another. "This other troop we hiked with, from Colorado, they had a farting competition, with points. It was a point for every fart, two points if somebody else mentioned it, ten points if you cleared the area. The scoutmaster's son won it. He had about 300 points!"