Catamount was a weekend camping trip for the older Scouts in the troop. Took place every winter in January. After a Friday Night Meeting, the group would load their backpacks in Bob's Jeep. Shortly after 9 PM we would travel forth along Route Seven from Connecticut to Massachusetts.

Enroute a short stopover is made at McDonald's in New Milford. We continue the nocturnal trek beyond the witching hour. The jeep is parked near a site called "Jug-End". We view the distant lights of the resort from across a snow covered pasture. Backpacks are lifted up. Right hand goes through the sholderstrap, left arm follows as you hoist the ballast upon your back. Next a belt braced to your hips balances the load.

The "Leadership Corps" assemblage advance towards a dark, gloomy obscured forest. We trudge through the deep fathemless snow, eyes transform the tenebrosity of nightfall into the astuteness of daylight as our nightvision manifests itself. Single file we march, ascending upward. Only sounds the crunching of the snow beneath our boots. Atop the tree covered summit we view our final destination. The "Catamount Cabin". Advancing toward the front porch, we find a lonely forsaken campanionless logcabin.

From the dark cold forest, we enter a structure darker and colder than our surroundings. Instantly flashlights flash on illuminating chestnut colored walls. As you enter, a glance to the right, a stone fireplace climbs to the ceiling. Your eyes fixate on a large brown bear mounted above the mantel. Mouth open, teeth extended, you can hear its silent growl frozen in time. First priority, get the fire going, next find a place to drop your sleeping bag for a well earned sleep.

Morning, you poke your head out of the sleeping bag. The cold air smacks against your face as the arctic enhanced air plummets into your lungs. No waiting for the caffeine to thrash its way into your pulse this morning. You begin to dress while the body remains in the sleeping bag. Your clothing has been starched by the evening frost. It is far too cold to notice how tired or hungry you are.

Once the fire is woken up, you feel the hunger cramps throttling within. The only cure, breakfast composed of french-toast. An excellent morning beverage is "Troop 64 Mocha". Developed on a distant campout, long, long, ago. It consists of one packet of hot chocolate, one marshmallow, two teaspoons of instant coffee, all followed by hot scorching water in a sierra cup, or better known as "Wake-Up-Juice".

Once you wake-up, warm-up, eat-up, it is time to venture outside. Stepping out onto the front porch, you view the "Land of Catamount". Fixed upon a hill surrounded by a snow covered woodland above a small quiescent stream.

The cabin becomes the camboose camp as our logging limit extends to as far as the eye can grasp. We transform ourselfs into lumberjacks armed with an ax and crosscut saw, as we search for a felled tree whos wood will cook our meals, light our night and keep us warm. Sawdust covers the blanket of snow as we chop, pierce, cut and split wood.

A New England Winter reveals a pageant of long nights with short days. Before long the sun rests upon the southwestern section of the forest. Shadows grow long as the sun melts into the snow. We hike back to the cabin whos windows are illuminated by the orange-red glow of the blazon fire. Upon entry into the cabin you feel an intense warmth as you immediately shear away your winter apparel.

Fire is far more than just an oxidation of chemical bonds through combustion. It is a lifeforce that only man has mastered. The pyro-master will resurrect this spirit that keeps us warm and lights our way. As your eyes fixate into the glowing embers, you can see apparitions in this radiant barrage.

It is time for dinner. Chicken, corn and soup all simmering in a cauldron upon a franklin stove. You lose all conception of time, for here at Catamount time does not maneuver itself with its conventional criterion. Time is measured by the igniting of the morning sun and the extringuishment of the evening sun as it is devoured by the woodland.

The final morning, we rekindle our breakfast fire, eat-up, pack-up, clean-up, wash-up then move-out. We then begin our downhill descent hike with the Catamount Cabin behind us. The following year, the group will return as the sun makes about 360 laps around our world. A few cast members will exchange, but the tradition will continue for well over two decades. Your trip to Catamount will fade into a memory as you have now become a member of the Catamount Fellowship.

Troop 64 Catamount Folklore

Photograph Courtesy of Connecticut Yankee Council, BSA

When morning came, the storm was gone, the sun illuminated the forest with its deep rich blanket of white across the land. A layer of snow covered the top of each branch that the trees extended. As each member dug out of the snowbank, stood upright, suddenly noticed that they could view the Catamount Cabin, a few steps from where they spent the night in the snow.

As years passed, at the start of every hike to Catamount, a remark is made about the group that spent a night in the snow.

Note: Not sure of the exact year, either early 70's or late 60's. Members involved were Pete Canevari, Wayne Medoff, Tom Matthews, Dennis Gleason, Bradon Wooley and Bob Guertin. Source: Pete Canevari, Bob Guertin.

As we emerged from our secluded cabin, we found a film crew using our cabin as a backdrop. A film crew and director were just as surprised to see twentieth century players upon their state. It ended up being a documentary callled "The Massachusett's Bicentennial" that they were working on. We were not used as extras but had an interesting time conversing with Ben Franklin. The even let us fire the flintlock. Never saw the film but is is probably in a cylindrical steel case at the bottom of a history teacher's right lower desk drawer.

Source: Patrick Sullivan.