Some years ago, a friend was telling me about a B&B he and his wife had visited in northern Michigan, indicating that it had once been a boys’ summer camp. I said, “Wait a minute - Camp Tosebo?”
He said, “Yeah, that’s it.”
I spent several summers as a youngster at Camp Tosebo, a summer camp in northern Michigan, which was founded as a camp for boys in 1912, and ended its run in 1977. I believe my first term there as a camper was in 1968 or 1969. That’s right - you hippies spent time in the summer of ‘69 rolling in the mud at Woodstock, and I was riding horses, and swimming, and playing softball and tennis, and miniature golf, and shooting BB-guns, and making ceramic ashtrays, in Michigan. Which of us engaged in the greater mind-expanding experience?
Camp Tosebo reflected a somewhat regimented existence: we arose to “Reveille,” and retired at night to “Taps,” each played over a loudspeaker system piped throughout the camp; we slept on army-surplus cots; and were herded to various activities each day in our “pod” groups. The main compound included tents (on wooden platforms), and cabins, surrounding a large open area, with a baseball diamond, and a sort-of-clay, sort-of-mud, sort-of-sand, tennis court.
There was also a Native-American-themed ceremony, I believe once a week, in which we all donned headdresses and colorful blankets, and gathered around a sacred bonfire. I’ll be honest - I don’t really recall what we did once we arrived at the bonfire, but it was quite spiritual, I’m sure. “Coach” Roskie played a key role in that ceremony, in addition to his other critical task: stoking the fire which warmed the water for the Saturday night showers we took, assembly-line style. “Coach” had been at the camp for a lot of years, and had become quite an old man by the time I arrived there - perhaps in his 80’s.
I loved the camp experience, including the introduction to horses. Led by a counselor, we rode horses on trails carved throughout the heavily-forested area. And, I remember the names of the horses, led by, “Coffee” (a racehorse-colored brown); and followed by, “Brandy” (what was it with naming horses after beverages?); “Coaltown” (black, obviously); “Bucky” (whose name was well-earned - he could be quite jerky); “Red” (again, due to coloring); and “Chief” (Googling horse colors suggests that “Chief” was a “Skewbald” breed - this was a horse I could picture Custer riding into battle against the Sioux). I may have forgotten some of the team members - it seems as if there were more than six horses marching through the woods - but, as the old joke suggests, when you encounter a pile of horse manure, “There must be a pony somewhere.” So, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.
Another piece of the camp experience I remember was the annual “snipe hunt",” although I don’t remember if we called our prey a snipe, or not. What was distinctive about this particular snipe (or, whatever we called it) was that it actually existed, in the form of a painted piece of plywood, fashioned into a weird animal shape. Snipe hunts, as you may know, are mounted for the express purpose of leading the unsuspecting “boob” on a wild goose chase. This one, at least, resulted in a successful capture of an actual prey.
Small things about my camp experience surface, as I reflect on this experience, which would not likely mean anything to other campers, from some fifty years ago:
Time spent during our daily rest period writing letters to my mom and dad, and reading the letters I received from them, including the National League East Division standings and Chicago Cubs box scores clipped from the Chicago Tribune, which my mom thoughtfully sent along to me (the Cubs were nine games ahead of the Mets on August 16th, and they ended up losing the pennant to the “Amazing Mets” that year - it still stings).
Watching the rivulets of water make their way down the main trail to the clubhouse, during torrential downpours.
Seeing a mass of bats fleeing the centerfield trees at dusk, off to perform their nocturnal duties (by the way, did you know that a mass of bats is known as a “colony?” Neither did I, until I Googled it).
The camp owned an ancient truck, which featured three sets of benches, into which all campers were loaded each Saturday morning, for the twenty-minute ride around Portage Lake, to the flyspeck town of, Onekama. The truck parked in the Dairy Queen parking lot, and we headed across the street to the small drugstore, armed with fifty-cents each provided by our parents ($1.00 for the older kids), and purchased comic books (Archie was my go-to), candy, and bubble-gum. We finished up buying an ice-cream cone at Dairy Queen, and then loaded back into the truck for the trip back to camp.
One of these trips featured a tremendous display of bravery (or, stupidity, which I believe is often confused for bravery). One of our counselors, who was unable to make the trip that Saturday, had asked another counselor to purchase an ice-cream cone and bring it back to him. As I recall, this guy waited until just before we left the parking lot to buy the ice-cream cone, and we set out on the journey back around the lake. Now, this would have been mid-day on a July afternoon, and the laws of physics were securely in place at that time in northern Michigan. That’s right, it was only a few minutes before the dripping began. This counselor was not going to lick the cone, in order to shore-up the stray drips, because, you know, gross! So, by the time we arrived back at camp, and he handed over what was left of the ice-cream cone to his friend, I’m sad to report that there was very little left to savor, although the tasked counselor’s clothes, and the floor of the ancient truck were quite soiled. Why didn’t he request a cup for the ice-cream, instead of a cone, you ask? I don’t think, collectively, we were very bright back in the early 1970’s. How else do you explain things like Nehru jackets, pet rocks, and bellbottom pants?
According to the website of the rejuvenated Camp Tosebo, I think it would be difficult to characterize it as a “B&B”; I accept the first “B”, because it does in fact appear as if they offer beds for lodging. But, I’d be hard-pressed to dial-in the second “B”, because it doesn’t appear as if this Camp Tosebo provides breakfast to guests; instead, it appears to offer a kitchen, in which guests can produce their own meals. That sounds more like a “B&K” to me.
A quirky song parody, recorded by a quirky song parody singer apparently reached No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in the summer of 1963. This song, entitled, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,” recorded by Allan Sherman, drew upon Sherman’s experiences at summer camp (although, likely not Camp Tosebo), and highlighted such elements as: poison ivy, ptomaine poisoning, alligators, malaria, bears, lost campers, staff warfare, and rain) - Youtube link helpfully attached below.
Now, my camp experience didn’t feature those things (well, except for the rain), but I do remember playing that record on the Hi-Fi (that’s right, that’s what we called that massive piece of furniture which housed a record player) back then. Which seems to perhaps indicate that people in the early 1960’s weren’t all that bright either.