Squatting in the tower at Fort Lockwood, I was pleased to see that we had clear fields of fire to the south. We knew if the threat was going to come from anywhere that it would not be the sheer cliffs to our backs as much as the broad valley to our front.
Or so we thought.
The firing of rifles came from the hillside to our right rear. Arrows flew behind us. The thunk of flying tomahawks landing in something solid and organic came from our left. And all the while, the blacksmith kept at work next to the gates, pounding copper into…bowls.
At last came the greatest threat of all. One of my scouts popped his head up the ladder of the tower, and, breaking my frontier daydream, asked, “hey Mr. Wolf: got any more of those Sqwincher electrolyte packets?”
Returning down the ladder, the sound of the blacksmith and the tomahawks grow louder, but the sound of .22 rifles and flying arrows faded. I didn’t mind. It was another day at Summer Camp, but it was so much more.