Naturally
It’s nothing less than a miracle that any of us grew up.
Hollister was a much smaller town a generation ago, and we had
free rein to explore the city and the bicycles to do it with.
Naturally
It’s nothing less than a miracle that any of us grew up.
Hollister was a much smaller town a generation ago, and we had free rein to explore the city and the bicycles to do it with.
We’d play in the rubble at Park Hill, stack pepper bins into forts, course through alleyways. Our most frequent forays were into the mostly dry wash that only a Westerner can refer to as “the San Benito River” without smiling.
We would crawl through junked cars, capture horned lizards and other small unfortunates, build rafts that never floated us and explore. One of our journeys took us deep under the streets of Hollister, via a storm drain outlet that we discovered we could slip into. It was a cool, creepy oasis on hot summer days.
Most of us were Scouts, and the laissez fair approach to child-rearing was part of the scouting tradition as well. I remember one weekend trip deep into a canyon in the Gabilan Mountains. We played in a creek – caught snakes and scorpions (more small unfortunates) and had a great time. When the Scoutmaster’s kid ran headlong into a barbed wire fence and managed to leave himself draped over fencewire with barbs stuck deep into his arms and torso, there was no trip to the ER. A few dabs of violent red Mercurochrome and it was back to the business of play.
The Scoutmaster was even known to pack cold adult beverages on these trips, something I’m told is strictly off-limits today.
We probably would have recoiled at the idea, but while we were earning the odd merit badge and having the time of our lives, we were learning.
Some years later, as an adult, a friend told me she was taking a backpacking class. I was taken aback. I had no idea such a thing existed and I wondered aloud what there possibly could be to learn. Do goldfish take swimming lessons?
But I realized that I had taken something profound for granted. I knew how to do the outdoors.
Part of the reason is my parents’ love for the outdoors. Part of it is Scouts. I learned it the way we all did – in the person-to-person tradition of folklore.
In Scouts, it was the older guys who we looked to.
The highlight of our year was a trip to Camp Pico Blanco, a remote outpost deep in Big Sur. The camp still exists, but the experience is very different. There are lots of parents – even women in this onetime outpost of adolescent masculinity. When we went, most of the staff were high-school aged Scouts. We slept off in tents and played with fire and sharp objects.
And we all grew up, thanks in large part to those older scouts.
They were our heroes, our rock stars. One of the best was Robert Arthur Avilla. Bob Avilla died last week. He would have turned 53 two weeks after he died.
A native of San Juan Bautista, Bob was a large and imposing man if you overlooked his sly smile. Kids would see right through it. I recall a large group of us at a campfire, singing a spirited round of “Bobby Avilla, Bobby Avilla,” set to the tune of “Havah Nagilah.” Pretty corny, but when you’re 12 years old, it seems the epitome of cleverness. Such was the connection he had with us.
Bob achieved Scouting’s highest honors, and shared a wealth of knowledge easily. He returned to work as a staff member at Pico Blanco each year for 15 years, and it became his favorite place. Bob never left Scouting, serving as district executive for San Benito County.
He was a fine man, who gave countless boys the finest of gifts. As a dirty kid at scout camp, I never would have guessed that the oracle of outdoors lore that was Bob Avilla was only four years older than me.
Happy trails, Bob.
