For a place that had so many seemingly impossible things happen in it, Camp Claiborne followed a surprising amount of rules. Or, at least, we followed the rules.
One of the way its rules and ours came together was through a little game that we would play every single time we went out there. The game would start on the car ride over. If it was your first time out at Claiborne, you would automatically get the honor—otherwise, during the drive people would volunteer for it, argue why they deserved a turn doing it this trip.
Here’s the deal: you’d be given a specific line to say, and given some kind of signal—a phrase, a nod, a gesture—as to when you’d say it. And you’d be told something else very important. You’d be told to listen very carefully to the night.
So, after you left the initiation building, the car would drive to the end of that road, and make a left onto an even rougher road. Eventually, that road would end in a barricade, forcing the car to make a right. From that next road, you’d make another left, but onto a road that barely deserves to be called that.
Driving onto it was always a little risky, as there was a metal, cattle-guard like patch at the front of it, and from under it large potholes were always forming. And the road itself was so narrow that tree branches would easily brush both side mirrors, windows too if the driver steered off course.
You’d drive down this oversized sidewalk and there would be nothing, and I mean NOTHING, but dense Louisiana forest. Finally, somewhere in the middle of the road’s length, the driver would pull off to the left of the road.
To the left, there was once another road. But by the time of your visit, there were only a couple of yards deep left of the road before barricades of old mattresses and other large dumped items completely blocked any passage.
Across from where you’d park and down the road just a little, there was a small, easy to miss trail.
And so, the other kids would lead you out of the car and into the woods.
This unofficial trail went through dense woods, in a state known as the sportsman’s paradise. There were all kinds of threats in Louisiana wilds—from bears to coyotes to the venomous water snakes and alligators that loved the marshy, damp woodlands.
There were even the mosquitos—for perspective, when I eventually left the south for New England, the first time I saw a Massachusetts mosquito I couldn’t even identify what kind of bug it was because it was so small. That’s how big a deep woods Louisiana mosquito is.
As you’d walk deeper and deeper into the woods, you’d expect to hear rustles in the brush from prey animals, in branches from owls, and the buzz (and subsequent skin slaps) of mosquitos looking to feed.
You’d expect to hear it because it was only natural, and because during that car ride when the “honor” had been bestowed on you, you’d be warned to listen so closely for it.
Deeper, and deeper into the woods you’d go—but the only thing you’d hear would be your group’s own footsteps. But, there’s an explanation—perhaps the wildlife has all gone still because of the human invaders?
That’s why you were given the phrase. Once you were deep enough in the woods to the standards of the night’s unofficial leader, you’d be given your signal. And you would say, “Hey, isn’t it strange how there aren’t any bird or bug noises or anything?”
Everyone would pause, perfectly still, for ten, twenty, maybe thirty seconds or so. At the end of those seconds, all at once sound would start up from all around you. Birds, bugs, slight movement in bushes. All of the noises you’d expect to hear deep in the Louisiana woods, summoned on cue.
And this silence to sudden noise transition was so reliable that we’d always use it as an introduction for Claiborne newbies, so that they could see right away that we were telling the truth when we warned them that there was something not right about those woods.
It was a reliable enough game that we could play it every single time, even when the carload of kids had all experienced it time and time again, and the rules still applied.
Outside of the camp, we would joke: “One of these days, I’m going to say, ‘Hey, isn’t it strange that there aren’t any cheeseburgers around here?’”
“Ha! Only if you want the camp to give you evil burgers.”
Aside from our rule that the Claiborne-virgin automatically gets to be the one to say the magical phrase, there was another Claiborne rule about first-timers. This was on the camp, not on us.
If it was someone’s first trip out to Claiborne, you had a certain degree of protection. Nothing too scary would happen, nothing too dangerous. We thought of it as Claiborne wanting return visitors.
(As an aside, this wanting was supported by a phenomenon I experienced across multiple cliques that would visit the camp—you’d be minding your own business playing video games or hanging out somewhere when suddenly, you’d get the urge to visit the camp. Someone else would speak up with that same desire, and it would turn out that the whole group felt the same. We’d call it “Claiborne calling!” and think it was a funny little joke.)
Only one time in my experience did a visit come close to breaking the “rookies are protected” rule. I brought my friend Stephie out, and it was just the two of us. She really wanted to see something, and the bird-and-bug noise game wasn’t enough for her. She started taunting Claiborne.
After a tour of the fun building shells near the noise game area, I was driving back to the entrance. The entire time, Stephie was going on, playfully whining that the noises were nothing; she wanted something truly scary!
So, I pulled over at the initiation building and told her I’d wait while she looked around. She got out of the car, at this point directly addressing and challenging Claiborne. I watched her walk towards the building but, when she was only halfway there, she abruptly turned around and powerwalked back to the car. She hopped in and told me to drive before she even reached for her seatbelt. I’d seen nothing, but I drove. And as I drove, she told me what happened.
You see, Stephie worked as a hostess at the kind of restaurant that had buckets of peanuts on every table. She told me that the sound of sweeping up the peanut shells was a very distinctive kind of crunch, different from more generalized sweeping.
And, when she’d been halfway to the building, she heard that very same sweep sound coming right for her. She’d seen nothing that could be making any noise, let alone one that was so very familiar and personal to her.
She went from wanting to poke everything in Claiborne with a stick to see what happened, to being ready to leave that very moment.
She’d later return with me to Claiborne, but she never challenged the camp to scare her again.
Up Next:
iii. turf war
