When The Eagle Landed In Big Bear

It was a Sunday night in July. I was eleven, and like I did every summer, I was up a camp. Camp Akela in Big Bear, to be exact, a place run by Jews pretending to be Native Americans. The camp leader was Ironbow. The counselors were called Feather and Butterfly, Wing and Redwood, and sometimes forgot their silly made-up names. "Hey, Eagle, what time's dinner?" produced bupkis response, until Ricky Schwartz, the cute college dropout from Agoura Hills, remembered he was Eagle. It all added to the fun and confusion. My brother John and I loved going there, two un-outdoorsy types encouraged to hike and handle a bow and arrow, a skill set that has yet to come in handy for either one of us. We made lanyards and glued popsicle sticks together for reasons that escape me, sang "Kumbaya" around the campfire, swam and rode horses, slept under the stars in sleeping bags and yelled "Ho!" (as opposed to Hurray!") a lot. The night the Eagle (the lunar module, not Ricky Schwartz) landed on the surface of the moon, July 20, 1969, I don't remember seeing it as much as hearing it. The whole camp gathered near the dining hall, where one black and white TV played at full volume, while Ironbow offered color commentary, and if you were lucky enough, or tall enough, you might have caught a glimpse of the historic moment. I remember everybody was very excited, myself included, but without the visual aid of seeing Neil and Buzz taking that giant leap for mankind, it didn't pack quite the same punch.

Ho!