The Song of Camp Matigwa
Today the scouts of Camp Matigwa
march proudly to the archery range.
There the scouts take up their long bows
on command let arrows fly.
What a sight at Camp Matigwa!
But something looks a little strange.
Are those arrows angled toward me?
Ouch! My shoulder! Ouch! My eye!
Where am I? Is this Matigwa?
Is this sticky stuff my blood?
Why do I hear scouts around me?
Impaled to the ground am I.
Came the medic of Matigwa.
I clearly hear his words, "Oh crud!"
A Scout asks, "Should we give him first aid?"
"What's the use? He's gonna die!"
In the sky above Matigwa
astral spirit high and free.
Boone County Coroner pronounces,
"From the corpse those arrows pry."
Hear the spirit of Matigwa,
Gitche Manito he calls me,
"Leave behind your empty vestige."
Like an arrow, I can fly.
Far away from Camp Matigwa
Fly past Ames and Winterset
As I pass my home Des Moines,
Hear my Mother cry for me.
I wake up at Camp Matigwa.
Sleeping bag is drenched with sweat.
I can hear scoutmaster shouting,
"Fall in troop for archery!"
Boy Scout Camp Matigwa! My home away from home for one week every summer for 5 or 6 of my tween and teen years.
My most vivid memory of camp is just slightly less bloody than the incident depicted in this poem. My tenderfoot tent mate rudely woke me up one morning and stuck his sliced up bloody hand in my face. He had woken early and managed to carve into his hand while he was attempting to whittle a neckerchief slide. I carefully closed up his knife and found a marginally clean towel for him to press on his wound with his undamaged hand. I had him lay down on his back with his knees up and promised him that I'd be right back with some help, Then I ran and awoke the assistant scoutmaster who brought along the troops first aid kit. His words when he saw Harry's hand were very much similar to the "Oh crud" that was uttered by the medic in the poem. They hauled poor Harry to the hospital in town where he received 40 or 50 stitches and he was sent home from there.
