Field Camp

Adjusting Roommates and Impressing Neighbors

Copyright 6-4-2025 / 2,949 words
by Jon Kramer

Nonfiction. These events took place in summer 1983.

Warning – The “Felix the Cat” part of this story is loaded with F-bombs. No way around it, sorry.

Achieving a Bachelor of Science Degree in Geology requires at least a certain amount of time in the field documenting rocks and strata using time-honored geologic mapping techniques. This rite of passage is generally accomplished by attending one or more Geology Field Camps offered by the universities with serious Earth Sciences degree programs.

Our particular college of higher learning – perhaps a little short on the learning side, but abundantly long on the higher part, especially in the 1970s – was late to the Earth Sciences party. The Geology Department at the University of Maryland had only recently moved from the basement of the Agriculture College to a building formerly occupied by the Bureau of Mines, which had exited the campus to cushier digs in town. In those lean-budget years, the Department could not afford to sponsor geology field courses of its own. So, to acquire the Field Camp credits necessary for graduation it allowed students to attend camps from other institutions. George and I, being paleontologists at heart, knew there was only one camp for us – the Waynesburg College field camp at Florissant National Monument in Colorado. The famous Fossil Lake Florissant “paper shales” and their exquisite Oligocene fossils called to us like sirens.

As it happened my sister Diane had gone to the very same camp the year prior. She had come back filled with stories of paleontological glee from which my attention could not be diverted. George and I both applied, and were accepted, into the 1983 Geology Field Camp program. In late May we loaded up Betsy – my old, once-blue-but-now-rust-colored, Dodge window van – and drove into the mountains.

In the early 1980s when George and I were residents, the town of Florissant had nearly enough commerce to fill a shot glass, which, incidentally, was about all it could measure. The “Camp” as it was lovingly called, was situated west of Colorado Springs at 8,500 feet in a small valley trapped amongst 12,000-foot mountain peaks. It consisted of a small, solid cinderblock structure, more suited to its later-day use as a plumbing shop than as an incubator of geoscience prodigies back in the day. Disturbingly, there were no windows – the only natural light we got inside came from when we’d prop open the doors. The building was a simple cinder block structure, some 90′ long and about 30 wide, with a tin roof. It was divided into three 30’ x 30’ rooms with the kitchen on the west end, lab on the east, and bunk room in the middle. The bathroom was added as an after-thought onto the outside wall of the kitchen.

Each of the three adjacent rooms had a door in the middle of both its east and west wall such that, if you opened them all, you could position a spud gun outside in the parking lot and shoot a fair-sized potato all the way through the building, hitting an undergrad in the hammock on the other side without so much as a glance from Dr. Carnein grading papers in the lab, nor his wife Nell cooking in the kitchen.

Those frigging doors – all rusted hinges and rattily wood – could wake the dead and scare them silly! Whenever they were opened, it sounded like something out of an old Frankenstein movie – on steroids. Opening them slowly only made matters worse. Inevitably you’d be sleeping in your bunk and some alcohol-infused classmate would crawl in late, trying to lessen the noise by creeping in slowly and carefully. But the squealing hinges moaned like a Medieval castle drawbridge. Any minute now you’d be hearing Frau Blucher offering you some Ovaltine… By the second week, we established a rule that the outside doors could not be used after midnight. The inside doors were left wide open so we could come and go to the bathroom without waking anyone.

There were about a dozen guys crammed into the bunkroom. In addition, six gals shared three ratty rooms in the rundown motel on the road. The Drafting Room had two rows of lab tables that would barely accommodate all the students. These intimate conditions were, we were told, planned to serve a purpose in allowing students to learn from one another while they worked and lived together. A sort-of college team-building exercise. I have to say that’s a double-edged sword: For the most part it worked. But then there were other aspects…

The Camp was owned and operated by Waynesburg College of Pennsylvania, located just south of Pittsburg. How they ended up with a field camp in the high mountains of central Colorado is beyond me. Nonetheless, Dr. Dale Carnein was the perfect camp director, class professor, and Earth Science mentor to all the attendees. His wife Nell was our cook, nurse, and all-around camp matriarch.

George and I arrived a few days early and finding that we were the first students in camp we claimed the best bunk in the most secluded corner. George took the bottom and I the top. There were lockers off to the side for our personal gear and we wasted no time in putting up pictures from our climbing mags showing attractive, scantily clad babes hanging from their fingertips on El Capitan and Half Dome. We’d not yet gotten to Yosemite Valley, but the ropes were in the van, and The Valley was in the plan.

This Geology Field Camp was not for sissies. By virtue of its elevation at nearly 10,000 feet, Florissant makes camp a real challenge for those who are not athletic or not used to the rarity of air at altitude. There were a few in our group who, by day 3, wished they had picked something on Maui, or at least in the Florida Keys, closer to sea level. George and I, however, thrived in the high altitude. We spent long days hiking along ridges, through valleys, and over mountains. We slept like babies in the thin mountain air. We were in our element.

Felix the Cat

Field Camp had many characters. One was a rather smug Italian named Fred – a broad, tense, humorless fellow who was particularly uptight. He did enough bitching to make up for all of us. Not much day would pass before Fred would start in on something that he decided was “fucked”. According to Fred, just about everything could be labeled as: fucked, super-fucked, completely-fucked, totally-fucked, or fucked-up. When things were particularly bad, they became “cluster fucks”, although Fred didn’t need much of a cluster to have it characterized so. Sometime during the day when he’d get frustrated – which happened regularly – he would invariably declare: Those fucking fuck-fucks are fucking with me again! Some people have strange dialects.

Camp came with an adopted cat – Felix – a particularly smart and smart-assed tabby. He liked people, but only certain ones and only to a limited degree. He did not like Fred and the feeling was mutual. Fred despised Felix and made it known to everyone. That fucking cat!… he’d yell. Felix despised Fred also but kept it mostly to himself excepting the occasional hairball left on the floor at Fred’s bunk.

As the weeks progressed, many in the bunkroom agreed that Fred had earned a little attitude adjustment. So late one night, as we all bedded down and Fred was drifting off, Bill started imitating Felix in a quiet, yet annoying, Felix yowl. Fred, who by this time was almost asleep, rolled over and muttered “Will somebody kick that fucking feline out of here please ?…. The yowling stopped and we were all silent, acting as if asleep. George even went so far as to imitate snoring.

Fred settled back down. After an appropriate interval Bill started softly yowling again. When Fred did not immediately respond, the yowling became a little louder and more insistent. Soon Fred thrashed in his bed and yelled: Will somebody PLEASE, get that fucking cat outta here? Goddamnit! With that the yowling abruptly stopped. At the same time, we all acted as if we’d just got rudely awakened.

Hey, waddaya doing yelling like a Zombie in the middle of the night, Fred? We’re trying to get some sleep here….

It’s that fucking cat!, he insisted, It’s howling to get out…

Long silence.

Well, I don’t hear any cat, I offered. Go back to sleep…

After awhile Fred settled back down and started dozing off. Just as he was starting to snore, the yowling started again. Only this time it sounded like a cat in heat, yowling to the heavens.

Fred exploded! He threw off his covers and jumped out of bed, banging his head on the bunk above him. Goddammit! Goddammit! I’m gonna kill that fucking cat! Where the fuck is he, that little fucker.… I swear to God … He ran around the bunkroom, and then the drafting room, and the kitchen. When I find that little fucker, I’m gonna kick his ass! Fred was apoplectic with rage.

Fred was so consumed in his anger, he didn’t notice that by this time everyone was laughing. We all started yowling back and forth. But Fred, still livid and sure it originated with Felix, ran around looking under the beds and behind lockers with his flashlight. It didn’t occur to him that the whole thing was a joke. Eventually someone let him in on the news: Felix was not in residence – we had made it all up. Fred, as you might imagine, was not a happy camper upon hearing this information.

You fuckers can go fuck yourselves! he yelled, pulling his blankets over his head and turning toward the wall. Fuck you and your fucking cat!

As we started back to sleep, meows and yowls came from different corners of the room, punctuated by the periodic Fuck you! screamed from Fred’s berth.

Uncle Jake wants a word…

George and I loved hiking and mapping Fossil Lake Florissant, the unique ecosystem this valley housed some 35 million years ago. At that time the lake was surrounded by volcanos that regularly blanketed it with ash. The plants and animals which sometimes fell into the lake were quickly buried in sediments so fine they created layers as thin as parchment – thus the phrase “paper shales”. These fine laminae preserve the most exquisite details of the fossils embedded here – even patterns in the wings of butterflies and moths.

As you can imagine, what George and I were most interested in was digging for the fantastic fossils buried here. However, as a National Monument created specifically to preserve its unique fossil record, digging in the park is, understandably, prohibited. While mapping the lakebeds inside the monument, each day we became more and more frustrated walking over sediments that we knew contained exquisite fossils of plants and insects just a foot or two below our feet.

As the days passed and we began mapping the southern boundary, we realized the fossil beds extended outside the park onto private land. This realization thrilled us! All we had to do was talk with the landowner just outside the southern boundary to get permission to dig some holes and we’d be in fossil heaven. It was a cinch – what self-respecting rancher wouldn’t want to help out some eager college students wanting to see the fossils hiding under his cow pasture?

So, one evening we left camp and headed south up into the hills past the park boundary. Shortly we came upon a farm with a cluster of small buildings around a simple house. We drove up and knocked on the door. It was opened by an attractive and gracious young gal named Emma. We explained that we were geology students from Maryland, attending the field camp in Florissant and were wanting to do some research that might include digging a few small holes on her property. No big deal, really, just a little exploration to help with our studies. She listened intently and smiled. It seemed she was excited by the idea.

I don’t have any problem with that, Emma said helpfully, but I think you should ask my uncle Jake first– it’s actually his land. She explained Uncle Jake was in town – meaning Denver – and would not be back until the next day. Come back tomorrow and you can ask him. I’m sure it’ll be OK. We left in high spirits anticipating the morrow.

The next afternoon we loaded the van with all manner of digging implements as well as several boxes for the inevitable treasures we would soon be unearthing. We drove south and pulled into the turn-around next to the house. Confidence ran high as we trotted up the steps. The door was opened wide, once again by the lovely Emma.

But this time we noticed right away there was something not quite right. Emma, while still gracious, was not her ebullient yesterday self. She was very subdued, even chilly. We wondered about that but had no time to worry over it as she ushered us into an audience with her uncle. Uncle Jake wants a word with you boys…

The man we were placed in front of appeared to be a trail-hardened, leathery old cowboy – something straight out of a classic Spaghetti Western from back in the day. His face mapped the furrowed topography of many hard years in these mountains. His demeanor, at first, appeared casual, but in reality – that was very soon to be realized – was hard-assed. After perfunctory handshakes he leaned way back in his ancient leather chair, sizing us up and down – mostly down – before saying, Emma sez you wanna ask me something. So what is it?

We laid out our credentials – such as they were – and put forth our plan including the desire to get permission to dig on his property. We explained we’d be using just hand tools – no big equipment, mind you – and would certainly fill in any holes we made. You’ll hardly notice that we had ever dug there… We went so far as to say we’d be happy to bring he and Emma along if they were interested. At the very least, we would bring back some fossils to give them, assuming we found some.

Uncle Jake listened politely and then asked a few questions about where we were from. Then things got real – in a hurry. A volcanic eruption ensued:

Do you fellas know how they created that park of yours – that so-called “monument”? he asked with a particularly nasty sneer. Being abundantly ignorant of that bit of information we just stood there, mute. It was obvious by this time that things were definitely not going according to plan and, in this case, there was no Plan B. We braced ourselves for the apparently forthcoming unpleasantries.

Well, let me tell you, he started out rather calmly – as in the calm before the storm. Here about 20 years ago the Feds come along and booted my family off our land – that’s how! The eruption had begun…

That land was homesteaded by my great-granddaddy – Homesteaded! Do you hear that?! At this point he was blasting us, so yes, we heard it – loud and clear.

He homesteaded all them acres down there in what’s now your friggin United States mon-u-ment, whatever the hell that means! My family worked four generations to keep and improve it. We paid our taxes every year. It was OUR land! Are you boys hearing me?! Obviously a rhetorical question – the whole valley was now hearing him. I was sure even the folks at Field Camp could hear it, some four miles away.

And now here you come, wanting to dig up what little property my family has left? Next thing you’ll be reporting back to Washington and then they’ll take this place too!

He rose up out of his chair like Goliath ready to smite the poor cowering undergrads standing before him. There was not one thing we could say that would quell the decades of anger built up in this man and blowing out of his volcanic temper. His face was fiery red as he barely suppressed the rage welling up inside him. The only option was to get out before he went berserk and killed us. Without a word, we headed directly for the door.

I’ll tell you this only once: Get the HELL OFF MY LAND!!! If I see you here again, Smith and Wesson will teach you proper. Now get out!

That we did, and without delay. Emma stood in the door watching us leave, her face a picture of bewilderment. We drove back to camp, our tails between our legs.

I felt for the poor guy. I’ve known a few people whose ancestors homesteaded land only to be kicked off by the government for one reason or another. It’s no-doubt heart-wrenching and I couldn’t blame him for exploding about it. In retrospect, two dumb-assed geology students from Washington, DC could make for some pretty irresistible targets.

We, obviously, never got a chance to dig anywhere on the private lands south of the monument. But our mapping did confirm the fossil lake extended beyond the monument, so we looked to the other directions of the compass and found a few places where the sediments outcropped outside the park. We eventually dug up some excellent fossils in road cuts to the east of town and made some great discoveries in South Park, not very far away.