The Mohican Campaign

Dearest friends,

The camp is established. The tents rose swiftly and without calamity — a feat I attribute to superior planning and only partially to luck. We are, at last, entrenched.

This evening we feasted. My brother-in-arms and brother-in-law, kin of my dear Cindy, manned the cookfire and produced cheeseburgers and hot dogs of remarkable quality. Every soul ate their fill. There were no complaints, which among children is the highest honor a cook may receive.

I am pleased to report a great alliance has formed: our hound Indie and Tommie's hound Knox have become the dearest of comrades. They patrol the grounds together as one unit.

The adults have taken to the rations with the enthusiasm of soldiers granted furlough — jello shots, Long Drinks, Surfside Vodkas, and Lucky Ones flow freely through camp. Morale has never been higher, and the quartermaster reports supplies are holding, for now.

The recruits were marched to the local playground and returned exhausted, which was precisely the objective.

I have armored myself in bug spray of the strongest grade — forty percent DEET. The mosquitoes may take other men tonight, but they shall not take me.

We now retire to the fire, where marshmallows shall be roasted and consumed until sleep claims us all.

On the morrow, we launch a naval campaign. The company shall take to the river in a flotilla of rafts, kayaks, and canoes — hounds aboard — to drift with the current, strengthen the bonds of our fellowship, and partake once more of the aforementioned rations. I anticipate no casualties, save perhaps a sunburn or two.

Yours in fellowship and mild inebriation, — Cpt. Tony

Dearest friends,

I write to you at dawn, weary but unbroken.

The night was cruel to us. Rest, that most precious of rations, was in short supply throughout the camp.

Private Joey suffered the gravest misfortune: his hammock mount gave way in the darkness and collapsed beneath him. He was forced to retreat to the wagon, where he passed the night in exile among the seat cushions. He endures.

Our hound Indie, on her maiden campaign, proved a vigilant but exhausting sentry. Every snapped twig, every distant owl, every rustle of the unfamiliar wilderness roused her — and she, in turn, roused us. She is skittish in this strange country, and I cannot fault her devotion to our safety, though I dearly wish she would ration it.

As for myself: the air mattress remains my oldest enemy. We have fought many battles, and I have never once emerged victorious. Last night was no exception. I rose at 6:30 and now sit in the wagon, restoring my telegraph device to full power.

But the morning brought salvation. Mike commanded the cookfire and produced a breakfast worthy of generals — pancakes both plain and blueberry, and bacon in generous supply. Spirits, once low, have rallied magnificently.

The camp is packed. The flotilla awaits. To the river!

Yours in exhaustion and anticipation, — Cpt. Tony

Dearest friends,

The river campaign is complete, and I am pleased to report it a resounding triumph.

At 0900 hours we boarded the transport van to the drop-off point, piloted by a driver whom I can only describe as the oldest man in the world. He delivered us safely, and I suspect he has been delivering rivergoers safely since before the invention of the river.

Once upon the water, our vessel quickly distinguished itself. I assumed command of the music, and by unanimous decree of the children, we were christened the "party raft." I wear this honor humbly.

Cindy and Tommie manned a canoe with the hounds aboard, and the spectacle was most entertaining. Indie, on her maiden voyage, proved a hesitant but ultimately willing sailor. She regards jumping into the water with deep suspicion, and I respect her caution.

We made port at several stations along the route for necessities — facilities, and the replenishment of beer and spirits. The second stop featured a dog park, where the hounds were granted liberty to run wild in safety.

I must report one casualty: Mattie took a tumble while marching through the river and injured her knee. She endures with courage and is otherwise well.

The sandwiches, prepared by the incomparable Cindy, were devoured entirely at the first stop. The men speak of them still.

All the young recruits were given their turn in the water alongside the rafts, and much joy was had.

Now, the tale that shall be told for generations: young Raymond, grandchild of Mike, lost his shoe to the river. A search was mounted. Nothing was found. Many tears were shed. Then young Micah declared, "It's probably under the raft" — a theory we all dismissed as the fancy of a child. Minutes later, the shoe emerged from beneath the raft, bobbing to the surface in vindication. Micah was right. We were fools. History will remember him kindly.

After six hours upon the water, we have returned to camp. All hands are dried, all gear is stowed, and tonight we feast upon campfire pie iron pizzas.

Yours in victory and slight sunburn, — Cpt. Tony

Dearest friends,

The evening has been one of feasting, wildlife, humiliation, and song. I shall recount it all.

Supper was commanded by the eldest of the young recruits — Tommie and Joey, now grown soldiers in their own right — who manned the pie irons and produced campfire pizzas made to order. They were delicious, and there was something stirring in watching the siblings labor side by side at the fire. The bonds of family, forged in melted cheese.

Nature graced us with a visitation: a red-headed woodpecker, perched upon a tall stump riddled with the holes of woodpeckers past — a monument to generations of industrious birds. Cindy was enchanted. It was, I confess, beautiful.

I must now report an incident concerning myself. Following supper, I fell into a slumber of tremendous depth in a chair by the fire. I am told — by Tommie and Carol, who showed no mercy — that my mouth hung open at such an alarming angle that I appeared to be suffering a medical event. I have no defense. A soldier sleeps where he can, and apparently how he must.

The hounds Indie and Knox continue their tireless watch, defending the camp from all canine trespassers with thunderous barking and leashes strained to their absolute limits, striking terror into man and beast alike. Their vigilance is total. Their volume, regrettably, is also total.

Young Macie paraded Indie about the grounds in the manner of a champion show dog, and I must say the hound carried herself with surprising elegance. A future career may await them both.

The night concluded gloriously: karaoke at the campsite. Mattie, fearless as ever, took the stage and delivered "Stupid Song" by Olivia Rodrigo, then followed with "Deja Vu" to rousing applause. The girl knows no stage fright. She will go far.

And now, we retire early. Sunshine, generous rations of drink, and six hours of river paddling have laid this company low. Even the strongest among us can barely keep our eyes open.

Until the morning, dear friends.

Yours in exhaustion and song, — Cpt. Tony

Dearest friends,

This shall be my final letter from the field.

The night was merciful at last. Sleep came easily — whether owing to honest exhaustion or the lingering effects of the rations, I shall let history judge. Our hound Indie stirred only a few times, offering but a handful of soft barks into the darkness before returning to her post among the blankets. And I — I slept in. After two nights of struggle against the cursed air mattress, I count this among the campaign's greatest victories.

Now we take our breakfast, and then comes the final trial: the packing of the wagon. Do not be deceived by its mundane appearance. Packing is the crucible in which the bonds of family and friendship are truly tested. Many a company has survived the river only to fall apart over whose cooler goes where.

If this letter is my last, know that it was either the packing that ended us, or some misfortune of the road home — dysentery, a broken axle, or the fording of a river gone wrong, as befell so many on the trail to Oregon.

But should we make it home — and I believe we shall — let this ledger stand as the record of a family's wonderful and loving expedition to Mohican Reservation. There was feasting. There was song. There was a shoe, lost and miraculously found. There were hounds who guarded us fiercely and children who swam and laughed and sang without fear. We had a great time, every soul among us, and we shall absolutely return.

It has been the honor of my life to serve as your correspondent.

Homeward bound, — Cpt. Tony