Hickory Run State Park, located in Carbon County, Pennsylvania, is home to a boulder field, the largest such field in the Appalachian mountain range. The field covers about 16 acres; some of the boulders are the size of cars.

The park was also the home of Camp Daddy Allen, built by the Civilian Conservation Corps and then used by young victims of polio. 4-H leaders in Carbon County worked out a deal with park personnel to open the camp earlier in May. The 4-H kids would stay at the camp, clean out the cabins, eat meals in the dining room, and ready the area for the kids with disabilities.

I was one of the happy campers. We took hikes, worked on crafts, played games, swam in Sand Springs Lake, held vesper services at night, drank "bug juice," and did all those things kids do at summer camp. Almost all the campers were between the ages of ten and fifteen. When I was sixteen, I was asked to be a junior counselor. One year I even taught archery.

Our evening campfires featured skits, songs, and other entertainment generated by the counselors and the campers. As a counselor I helped to plan the programs. And one night I was responsible for the worst case of mass panic I have ever seen.

It started with a daytime trip to the Boulder Field, a little over a mile away. After half an hour of scrambling around on boulders, we all hiked back to the camp for refreshments. That evening I offered to tell a spooky story. At night Camp Daddy Allen was kind of a spooky place anyway; the kids used flashlights to find their way back to their cabins.

I told the campers that a hermit lived in the rocks at the Boulder Field. He had pointy teeth and his fingernails were long, almost like claws. He came out at night to hunt for kids to eat. In fact, a few of the campers had spotted pieces of kids' clothing at the far end of the Field. I said I didn't think he would come into camp, but kids should be alert and careful. He announced his presence by calling out for children to eat.

In the meantime I had one of the other counselors stationed outside the assembly hall. At a certain time he was to quietly call out, "Children...where are you? I'm coming." He played his part perfectly.

Kids screamed. They grabbed each other. They shook. I said, "OK, back to your cabins." When some of the smaller kids began to cry I realized I might have gone too far. Some kids wouldn't leave the building. Those who did held hands. Some demanded to go home, to have the adults stay in their cabins, to call the police.

Our two adult 4-H leaders, Mr. Reitz and Mrs. Hoffmeier, reassured the kids that it was only a ghost story. I went from cabin to cabin to tell the kids that there really was no hermit living in the Boulder Field, that I had made it up, that my friend Paul was the guy who called for the children.

It took over an hour to calm the camp down. Even after the reassurance and the explanations, some campers were reluctant to turn in for the night.

If that happened today, I would be in big trouble. Half the campers would be on their phones calling parents, demanding to be picked up at once. I'll wager some former Carbon County 4-H'ers, now in their 70s, still remember the night of the hermit from the Boulder Field. In retrospect they may even think it was funny. I hope so.

~ Roy Christman