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One Man's Wildwood Story
by Brad Miner, Wildwood Alumni
Just what was it about their summers at Wildwood that years later spawned a career, a hobby, or volunteer work following in the footsteps of those like Rachel Carson, who 50 years ago enlightened the world to the wonders of the natural world at their doorstep, and the imminent danger of environmental ignorance?
Perhaps that seminal moment came one night following the Double-Dot Trail, with dimmed flashlight, with one of Mass Audubon’s legends, naturalist Ivy LeMon, identifying a variety of underwing moths drawn to trees painted earlier in the day with a healthy measure of witches brew, i.e., rotten fruit, brown sugar, and stale beer.
Then again it might have been the morning field trip with Grace Dickinson to the gorge that gave the Cook’s Canyon Wildlife Sanctuary its name. Clambering down a steep hillside strewn with the large rotting trunks of American chestnut that came down in the hurricane of 1938. Eventually reaching the bottom of the rocky gorge and the trickle of water that was Galloway Brook most of the year. If you knew just where to look you would find a fairly rare liverwort growing on the damp rock.
Such moments would not have been possible without the inspiration of C. Russell Mason who, in 1950 as executive vice president of the Mass Audubon Society, had an office at the organization’s former headquarters—155 Newbury Street, Boston—but in the summer spent as much time as possible at Cook’s Canyon, 40 acres of mixed habitat including a stream, a pond, and a gorge a stone’s throw from Barre Common.
In his wisdom, Mason had gathered around him like-minded individuals—educators, foresters, naturalists, and ecologists. Massachusetts Audubon’s leaders decided that a resident camp in a centrally located rural setting offered the perfect opportunity to provide children with a keen interest in all facets of the natural world—from astronomy to zoology—to learn in a “hands-on” environment and have fun at the same time.
Why else would the society’s director don a chef’s hat and apron, and, armed with a simple two-tined pitchfork, tend steaks on a bed of hardwood coals, establishing one of camp’s most revered traditions—the Buffalo Roast—held once each session in the canyon clearing.
It was fully appropriate that a man with an enduring interest in weather arrived in Barre as Cook’s Canyon sanctuary director within hours of the June 1953 tornado—one of the most destructive weather events in Massachusetts history and one of the 50 deadliest tornadoes on record.
I was 5 and had, along with my brother and, later, my sisters, the unique position of being an integral part of Wildwood—observer, camper, staff member, and alumnus.
There is much I remember, yet there are so many faces in the black and white camp photos whose names elude me, but Wildwood wasn’t just another summer camp—ever.
My father, Dave “Chief” Miner, past director of Camp Wildwood, likes to tell the story of those very early days when Mr. Mason, perhaps reluctantly, handed over the leadership of his beloved Wildwood to another.
“He had strong principles and one of his mandates was a simple, ‘Feed your campers and staff as you would feed your own family.’
And he did.
To put it simply, at home there was no junk food of any kind—and that was true at camp as well.
There are no doubt but a handful of camps across the country where a bowl of wheat germ was a staple at every breakfast, the campers and at least one staff member eating family style at a round table in the dining hall atop The Ledges.
No white bread, no “bug juice,” no snack foods. And campers were not allowed to receive candy in care packages from home. A diet of wholesome food was the basis for a very active program, dawn to dusk, and often well into the evening, rain or shine.
Of course the staff took great delight in pranks, and, invariably, when a small circus would come to town, they would make certain of procuring elephant droppings.
For all that it offered as a base for Wildwood, Cook’s Canyon did not have the alpine habitat of the summit of Mount Greylock, or the diverse dune and estuary habitat of Wellfleet Bay. And so Wildwood, at least once a session, was a camp that traveled to other Mass Audubon sanctuaries—Pleasant Valley in Lenox, Wellfleet Bay on the Outer Cape, Rutland Brook in Petersham, and Wachusett Meadow in Princeton.
 Those who had the privilege of a Wachusett Meadow campout early on would not easily forget cooking over an open fire in the hickory grove, or cutting trails on Brown Hill, a task made ever so much easier by the abundance of highbush blueberry at every turn.
And for those not completely exhausted by a day on the hillside, there was a game of capture the flag on the upper half of the freshly cut meadow, where most campers would retire to pup tents pitched close to where the meadow’s stone walls met the forest.
A campout at Pleasant Valley sanctuary always included a trip to Mount Greylock, the highest point in Massachusetts at 3,491 feet. And anyone who has driven to the summit can easily imagine what that experience might have been like for a 55-passenger school bus. During one outing to Greylock, bus driver Frank Cummings, who spent more miles on the road driving Wildwood campers on daylong field trips and three-day campouts than anyone else during the “Chief years” managed to get the school bus full of campers and staff as far up the mountain as the parking pulloff at Jones Nose. The bus radiator was overheating because of a pinhole leak. There were two options. Campers and staff could either hike to the summit or the leak could be fixed.
Frank who had just about everything one would need on such a trek didn’t happen to have any radiator Stop Leak, and there was no way the camp van could be spared for a trip down the mountain. I don’t recall whose idea it was, but among the camp stores there was a jar of wheat germ. A healthy amount was fed into the radiator, it was topped off with water, and not surprisingly the bus made it to the summit.
I can only imagine the surprised look on the face of the mechanic in Barre who eventually had to make permanent repairs to that bus.
Wildwood was a place where you could learn, where you could have fun, and most importantly you could learn to be flexible and adapt to sometimes adverse situations. I like to think that most of what I “learned” from my many years of exposure to Wildwood, year-round, was the result of osmosis. In that environment, how can one not be swept along in a tide of enthusiasm for all facets of the natural world.
Some Wildwood alumni have been recognized for their achievements as environmental educators; others have worked in a myriad of ways to make the planet a healthier place for generations to come.
As a longtime reporter for the Worcester Telegram & Gazette, I have an opportunity on a daily basis to report on environmental issues in central Massachusetts, writing about habitat protection, recycling initiatives, and just about everything that happens at Quabbin Reservoir. Being present last year to chronicle Governor Deval Patrick’s participation in the banding of bald eagle chicks on one of the Quabbin islands was just one story among many that spreads the word that with the passage of time has become increasingly important.
Wildwood then was an inspiration to many to become environmentally aware, and environmentally active, whether it’s hanging suet, sunflower seed and thistle seed on the back porch for a bevy of winter birds, or lobbying for critical legislation.
The legacy of my father’s nearly quarter-century at the helm has been passed along and is stronger than ever today, allowing youngsters and teens to experience the joy of the natural world around them, and the opportunity to pass that sense of wonder along to the next generation.
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