My excitement grew as I flew through the open gate at Grandjean. The sign at Banks had said Highway 21 would be closed from here to Bonner Summit, but it looked to be open now. I had to put my hat in my lap to keep from losing it as my Beamer exceeded 100 mph as I neared Camp Bradley. I began counting down the distance as the milemarkers disappeared behind. By the time I got to milemarker 112, I was elated. For the first time in nearly 4 years, I was home.

The short way in was blocked by caution tape, which was just as well since I probably would have gotten stuck anyway thanks to all the rain. I had never seen the Payette so high; I couldn't wait to see the Cape Horn Lakes. The potholes and puddles on the longer road to Camp caused only a minor delay, and I soon parked near Buckskin, where I had laughed and sang with Troop 132 more than a decade ago.

My natural high subsided a bit when I heard the sound of an engine from the direction of the messhall. There had been signs indicating Woodbadge's presence, but I had hoped they were leftover or prestaged. Despite this minor setpack, I headed toward the complex, happily snapping pictures of anything and everything along the way.

It was only after I got beyond the new and long overdue showerhouse that my demeanor really began to change. The camp I was in didn't match the camp of my memory. The pictures below will describe far better than I ever could

In an obvious way it was heartbreaking. But in another way, deeper and more important, it was exactly what I needed. To me, Camp Bradley was the land time forgot, and Merlin was the main character in the story. I cared deeply about it, and I intended to return. With the obstacles presented by the demographics and internal politics of the council, I knew I was the one person in all the world who could build that place to the potential I saw in it, who could build something of value there, something to last. But this wasn't the camp I was a boy in. This wasn't the camp I grew up in. This wasn't the camp with unlimited potential that had been so ineptly squandered by its leaders. This wasn't the camp I want to build. I knew my way around, by I was a stranger there.

I still might be the only person in the position and with the ability to turn that camp into something spectacular, but I don't want to anymore. Time remembered. Camp Bradley and Merlin both died after going their seperate ways. I still care about scouting. I still want to run a summer camp. But the two hour visit to a place I used to consider home on the 5th of June, 2010 unlocked the ball and chain I had been dragging since I left there in 2002. It's time I moved on, and I am finally ready to. I don't suspect I'll ever go the Camp Bradley again.

Disclaimer: The purpose of this story is not to cast blame. Nobody could have kept the forest from dying.

2006.	2010.
2001.	2010.
2001	2010.
2001	2010.
2004	2010.
2006	2010.
2001.	2010.

This website was created and is maintained solely by Matt Strother.
This is not an official Boy Scout website.
Please feel free to e-mail me any comments or suggestions.
I also encourage anyone to send in pictures and stories.
E-mail Matt Strother