The Camp, The Counselor, and The Best Friend I'd Ever Have

After my twelve-part editorial on how to properly lathe Birch wood, many of you have been asking, ‘who is the man behind all of this woodworking knowledge?’ Well, friends, that’s why I’ve decided to share my story with you. I hope that in some way, it can help you to become more of a man than you already are. Because, let’s face it, on my personal manly meter, most of you wouldn’t score higher than four out of ten.

It all started at summer camp. Now, by the age of nine I could already handcraft a five-piece dining room set, clean an M-16 faster than a marine, and I had enough hair on my sack to weave a Navajo blanket. While I had been born and raised in the rural wonderland near Bangor, Maine, my father decided that the only way I could properly continue my path to manhood was by going to a summer camp.

There are camps for boys and…ugh…girls…all over this great country, but most of them are focused on pussy-like pursuits such as friendship and camaraderie. My father, being the hard man that he was, knew that I needed more than some normal Boy Scout’s retreat. That’s why he sent me halfway across the country to northern Michigan, along the shores of the great Lake Superior. That was where Camp Skinatatanka could be found, named after the tradition where boys would set off alone to hunt, kill, and skin a bison with their bare hands after their fourth successful summer. I’ll get to that momentous five minutes of my life in due time, but I think it’s only appropriate if we start things off with my first day.

I was not a shy child, the kind of timid pansies that we’re surrounded by today. In fact, the other boys could smell the testosterone oozing out of my pores the moment I walked onto the campgrounds. It had been a long walk from Maine to Michigan, and by God, I had worked up a mean sweat. I guess my manly musk was too much for those other boys, because they immediately started calling me names and excluding me from their little groups. I knew that they were just intimidated by me and the masculinity that surrounded me like toxic fallout, but that didn’t make my adjustment to life away from home any easier.

I set out to rectify the situation by pulling my Bowie knife on the biggest son of a bitch in the mess hall, as is the appropriate thing to do on your first day in prison or at summer camp. I had his shoes off and was well on my way to carving through his big toe when I felt the firmest hand this side of my father’s rest on my shoulder.

His name was The Illustrious Damien, and he was both the owner and head counselor of Camp Skinatatanka. To put it simply, I had never seen a harder man in my life, and to this very day, I’m forced to pause and pay homage to that hardness.

Damien had been many things in his life, which I will explore in a future chapter, but for now I will state that every inch of his seven-foot frame radiated manhood, from the hair on his toes to the yellow of his teeth. He took the Bowie knife from my hand, a feat that had never been accomplished by a living soul, and he casually slipped it into his boot.

“Not until after the meet-and-greet”, he told me. “Save it for initiation.”

Needless to say, the thread that held that boy’s toe to his foot wouldn’t last to the second day, but for the time being, I could not help but respect Damien’s authority. He just had a way of making prepubescent boys fall into line, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I recognized him as the alpha male at that very moment. The day would eventually come when I would surpass him to become the most manly man in his history of two balls and a wanker, but this was not that day.

Hoping that I might fall in with another boy who was more up to my speed, Damien introduced me to the best friend and worst enemy I would ever have. His name was Macho Jose, and he had hiked to Camp Skinatatanka from Juneau, Alaska, much in the same way that I had made my way there from Maine. Some might think that this meeting of East versus West would end badly, but that wasn’t the case on that first day. Instead, I met the only nine-year-old man who had as much five-o-clock shadow as I did.

Not only did Macho and I have that in common, but we also shared a love of 1980’s pop culture, from the movies and music to the cold war and geopolitical climate. To say that we hit it off right away would be an understatement. In my eyes, he was a Latino Dolph Lundgren, with all of the swagger and none of the Communist ideology. Over the next few days, I taught him everything I knew about Delta Force, Bloodsport, and Rocky IV, while he taught me how to appreciate the various members of the Jackson Family and Gloria Estefan’s Miami Sound Machine.

In my next article, I’ll share more about Macho Jose, The Illustrious Damien, and my personal journey to becoming more of a man than you’ll ever be. Until then, thanks for joining me, friends.



Hacksaw C. Walker is an avid woodworker, brews a homemade whiskey that you can purchase at Gary’s Last Chance Convenience Store in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and can be seen performing for Project: Honor’s Sideshow.