Camp Morrison was located in the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains near McCall, Idaho. Planted in the middle of dense forest next to the frigid waters of Payette Lake, this camp was a Launchpad for scouting. I arrived on that first day, wearing my favorite blue baseball hat, ready to earn as many merit badges as possible. My first few days were dedicated to hitting the bright red target at the archery range. I had never used a bow and arrow in my life. When I walked up to the line to shoot, I shook like a leaf, nervous that I’d stick my arrow in the eye of the instructor. But with the encouraging shouts from Dad (along with buckets of luck) I hit the bulls-eye on my first shot. Even the archery instructor let his jaw drop. Arrogance dripped out my ears as I began to pull the next arrow back, looking to once again dazzle my fellow scouts with another perfect hit. But this time the arrow sailed like a wounded duck. It didn’t even stick into the soft mesh of the target; it just bounced off and fell lamely to the ground. Heat rushed to my cheeks. This was going to be harder than I thought.
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