“We can clean this mess now, and have it over with, or we can do it later,” he informed a group of sloppy boys.   Bob Hatch was, indeed, a man of choices.  One day, we had hiked for hours in the harsh heat and humidity, when, mercifully, the trail ended at an enormous waterfall.  Within seconds, Hatch had stripped naked and jumped in.  Looking up at his stunned audience, he remarked, “Well, you can stand there and watch me or you can dive in yourselves.”  Indeed, we WERE awestruck by Hatch.  As a 60-something aged high school teacher, he left his wife and family behind every summer to take charge of hiking trips at Camp Norway.  I was the second oldest of the group, Hatch’s assistant, at the ripe old age of 19!

Hatch loved to carry a clipboard, to make it seem he was busy.

I must try to paint an accurate picture of Hatch.  The guy who beat me into the drink that day was still the big, rugged man of his Yankee youth, but who now was bent over noticeably at the spine, a fellow for whom each step appeared to be a labored one.   And, while he was first into the waterfall, he was without question, the last one to arrive there.

Hatch’s role always was to bring up the rear.  We rabbits would vault out to an early lead along the trail, only to tire later, take a long water break, and, wait for Hatch.  Invariably, he would catch up much faster than his hunched shoulders and hobbled gait would predict.  “Of course, you can trust me to get here,” he would say, adding, after a well-timed pause, “Eventually.”  One time, while tending the campfire, Hatch tossed a bunch of orange peels into the dying embers.  “Those will never burn,” remarked an astounded youngster, to which Hatch very casually retorted, “Sure they will…. eventually.”

The guy looked, dressed and talked like the old “Yankee” I describe above.  His New England accent was thick, genuine and always in full throttle.  This is important:  “Park the car” came out NOT as “paac the caa,” but as “paaaaark the caaaaar,”  slowly, deliberately, and, yes, the “r” came forth, eventually.  Hatch, you see, was as casual in manner as he was in speech.  “Hot cocoa, anyone?” he softly announced at our canoe campsite, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention.  The gratifying drink was not brewed from tap water, but straight from the river, with pebbles and debris haphazardly strained by Hatch’s rheumatic fingers.  Another time, when counselors were attempting to cook bacon five or six strips at a time in an enormous frying pan, Hatch dumped six pounds of bacon into the bubbling grease, producing breakfast for twenty in minutes!

Harry Tether and I, Hatch’s two assistants, found our leader’s casual attitude to be hilarious.  Kids and their counselors would come and go, while the three of us stayed put at base camp, say, along the shores of the Songo River in Maine.  While everyone else slept in tents, naturally, Hatch preferred the relatively flat environs of the canoe trailer.  He hung his poncho over the bars as cover against the elements.  One time, at the beginning of one of our encampments, with good weather in the forecast, Hatch simply tossed all the tents on the ground and told the kids to sleep under them this time, “for something new and different.”  When the mosquitos had their way with the boys, Hatch insisted this, too, was part of the “new and different.”

Wiff, Tether and Hatch on Mt. Moosilauke, 1965

Hatch loved the fine game of bargaining with kids.  Most of our trips were hikes into the White Mountains of New Hampshire, which, to the uninitiated, are not easy treks.  “There’s a Howard Johnson’s ice cream stand on the summit,” he would tell a complaining youngster.  “You can have any one of the twenty-eight flavors if you make it all the way,” he’d tantalize.  Once the hoax was exposed, Hatch would shrug his shoulders and remark, “Wrong peak, sorry.  The ice cream parlor is on the mountain we climb tomorrow!”

I remember a time when Hatch used his own money to buy everyone a chocolate bar, five cents in those days.  Later on, at a store where he had been commanded to hand out a camp-funded buck to each boy, Hatch bellowed – in plain view of an amused but somewhat bewildered public – “Dollar bills on sale for a nickel!”  But, to me, the best bargain Hatch ever struck was when we took the kids to another camp sponsored event, a lobster pound dinner along the Maine coast.  Every tray contained a full pound lobster, a hot dog and a slice of watermelon.  Shortly into the feast, I heard Hatch’s deliberate voice above the din:  “My hot dog for your lobster, anyone?”  And, when he made the same trade for his watermelon, Hatch’s genius became eminently clear to most of us.

Hatch drove the camp truck, a World War II vintage troop carrier.  Harry and I sat in the back with the kids and traded rolling spits along the moving pavement behind.  The spits jumped and danced and, well, we could entertain ourselves for hours on end.  Eventually, naturally, Hatch would get us to our destination.  One time, he had alerted us to the gas tank being low.  We were way up a high mountain road, when I felt the engine quit.  Several miles later, we coasted to a stop, and I exaggerate not a whit when I report that just around the very next bend was perhaps the lone gas station in the entire north woods.

My father, at left and Hatch, at right

My how we loved that truck.  Once we were camping out not far from the parking lot.  After dinner, Hatch announced we were going to the movies.  All of us thought we were being pranked, but down the path we dutifully marched, into the vehicle, and off to town we went.  When we arrived at the theater, Hatch revealed to the manager that we had only a small percentage of the ticket fee.  “Will you take all of us for $3.27?” inquired Hatch, producing every bit of change in his pocket.  And, when the manager too quickly approved the bargain, Hatch added “I’ll assume you’ll  toss in a bag of popcorn for each kid as well.”

So, Harry and I slept in or under the truck, whenever we could.  And, as reported above, Hatch camped alone in the back of the canoe trailer.  One last memorable tale:  Harry and I were under the vehicle late one evening, when an enormous commotion arose from the camper tent site area.  Harry told me what it was all about:  He had been over there earlier and a camper named George had been discovered torturing a frog.  Hatch had been present as well and firmly ordered George never to do harm to such a defenseless creature.  Now, with midnight approaching, it was evident that George was back into the mistreatment business.  With genuine reluctance, Harry decided to awaken Hatch – sound asleep in his trailer perch.  As Harry crawled back under the truck, we both heard Hatch approach the camper tents.  “George, I am furious with you, and I am going to belt you with this stick,” said Hatch.  “Now, would you like it on top of the head or across your fanny?”