Days in the Life

Excerpts from the journals of a one-time Johns Brook Lodge “hutboy”

by Neal Burdick

They are the two most memorable summers of my life. I was privileged to be a Johns Brook Lodge (JBL) hutboy, as we were called in those unenlightened times, in 1969 and hutmaster in 1970. Like my colleagues, I was a college kid serving a summer job. In those two seasons I learned a lot; grew up less than I could have; and met some wonderful people, a couple of whom I remain in touch with fifty-five years later, and a handful of dolts I couldn’t wait to see head down the trail.

With JBL’s centennial year progressing, I excavated my journals from those two summers and was transported across the years and 3.5 miles up the Phelps Trail to the lodge, scene of hard work, fun, frustrations, peace of mind, annoyances, quiet hours, noisy hours, sun, rain, freshets, sore backs, cooking successes, and cooking disasters. Excerpts follow, edited minimally for clarity and with explanatory brackets added only where necessary for understanding. Whether 1969 or 1970 is intentionally not specified, for at this distance that no longer matters.

June 24: Preparing for opening. Spent most of afternoon battling propane tanks, refrigerator, water heater, weeds in side yard/frisbee pitch. Finally got first three to work. 39 degrees at 10:30 p.m.

June 26: Saw fox on trail. And like the swallows to Capistrano, the rabbits have come back to JBL. So much for our gardening idea. Unless we can retain services of said fox.

June 27: Hard drizzle and 47 degrees all day. I cleaned sewage system. Was weather or chore worse?

July 1: We have 37 guests. That’s a lot of eggs to scramble. Roofers started work at 5 a.m., irritating all 37 guests plus three crew. Spencer [Cram, DEC ranger] is taciturn, but once he sizes you up and decides you’re OK, he becomes friendly, even jocular. This evening he came onto the lodge porch and cracked open a bees’ nest. The guests scattered, but it was “sweat bees,” he called them—they don’t sting.

July 2: A typical day: washed sheets by stomping on them in a big old galvanized washtub; got stung by a hornet; patched up fallen hiker’s bloody forehead; scraped together remnants of old roofing [which kept turning up under porch, in rhubarb patch, etc., etc., all summer]; baked Serendipity Meat Loaf and brownies for dinner for 22 [“serendipity” because we never knew what might be lying around to throw in it]; made 11 trail lunches for tomorrow; failed to catch mice.

July 4: Out to Keene Valley for supplies; stopped at [reservation taker] Madeline LaPine’s for roster of coming guests. She does not approve of beards. And don’t ask her about her telephone insulator collection if you want to get out of there before dark!

July 9: Camp Dudley has invaded JBL, dozens of kids (in violation of party size limits?). Feel like a babysitter. Carried 86 pounds of [boxed and lashed] groceries in 86-degree heat. Spent rest of afternoon lying in brook.

July 11: Water line from up Klondike Trail broke at jct. behind toolshed. Fiddled in cold fountains for a while, sprinted to Spencer’s cabin [site of the nearest phone] to call down to Valley for help/advice/parts. Spencer not about; tried to break in; Spencer materialized from underbrush, announced I was breaking state law, but came to understand crisis and let me in. Fixed it; it broke. Fixed it; it broke. Called for back-up, Joe [Jastrab, fellow hutboy] brought in new joint as part of 99-pound load. We have running water.

July 14: I wonder how long the term “hutboy” has been around. It’s been all college guys for years now. But surely no one dared call Roy and Reeta Hanmer, stern and older lodge masters 1928–36, that. Maybe one day, when single women are allowed on the crew, that term will go back where it came from. [Note: the first woman crew member who was not a spouse or sibling of a male “hire” was Katherine Brooks (now McCleod) in 1975.]

July 17: Cleaned the joint from top to bottom in anticipation of Board of Governors meeting. Joe and Peter [Goodwin, third member of our crew] packed in 170 pounds between them. Shut my foot in refrigerator door. Hauled in a forty-pound watermelon, for fruit boat that some fool thought up. Most of a watermelon, by weight, is not eaten. Lesson learned: avoid backpacking watermelons. Baked pies all afternoon. Forty guests produce a LOT of dirty dishes. Weather lovely.

July 18: And a LOT of garbage! Filled the garbage pit* 3 times. How raccoons get in we can’t figure; it’s solid steel, and no evidence they dig under. They fight over scraps, screaming as late as midnight. Scares the bejesus out of guests. We tell them it’s the ghost of Mel Hathaway, semi-hermit who was coaxed off land he was squatting on so lodge could be built.

July 21: Three crew and several guests sat in Adirondack chairs on porch, looking at Moon. Neil Armstrong walking around up there, but since we had no TV, we could not watch him. Felt in some ways we had the better experience.

July 24: Somebody has christened my salad dressing “Short Job Walnut Surprise.” Is that good or bad? State health inspector showed up, in street shoes and business suit. Sweaty; blistery feet. Hobbled around scowling and checking off lists. We sold him moleskin and sent him limping down the trail. Said he’d be back in August. Never saw him again.

July 25: Helped find “lost” hiker, at Deer Brook lean-to—all of 1.3 miles from Garden [parking lot]. Toilet in men’s bunkroom is leaking. Another chance to develop my limited plumbing skills. Lightning struck frighteningly close to porch, where I was reading King Lear—appropriate. Suspended reading.

July 28: It’s awful depressing at 6:15 a.m. to realize there’s an air bubble in your main water pipe. How did that darn thing get in there? Lots of compliments on spaghetti dinner—are we getting the hang of this cooking thing? Thunder-busters in evening did little to relieve humidity. Balanced books, interrupted by 16 camp kids all wanting swigs of Kool-Aid.

July 30: Headed out for day off with $780 for bank in E[lizabeth]town, plus trash from Crandall Lean-to (not for bank). Hot! Trout for breakfast, caught by a guest. There’s a snake in our cesspool.

August 2: Up at 6, cook breakfast, wash dishes, stomp sheets, mop kitchen, sweep Great Room, clean around fireplace, split and stack firewood, shoo bat out of women’s bunkroom, repair porch chair, replace porch railing. Bunch of IBMers here, lousy tippers but like my guitar-playing.

August 4: Fifty Boy Scouts on way to Marcy stopped in, paid whatever we demanded for candy and Kool-Aid. Brant Lake Camp throngs arrived. One has a broken ankle, and a counselor has a new ligament for him, but they can’t find him. Huh?? Same fifty Boy Scouts on way back from Marcy stopped in, paid whatever we demanded for candy and Kool-Aid. Prices had skyrocketed since morning. Cleaned us out. No more Hershey bars.

August 7: Hiking in with 75 pounds, was stopped near Bear Brook lean-to by a downbound hiker, puffing, overweight, reeking of cigarette smoke. “How can you carry such a load when you’re so thin?” he inquired. “Well now…. Body build has little to do with it. I’ve learned how to pack, tie on, and carry a load. I stay in shape. I eat properly, and I DON’T SMOKE!” Left him scratching his sweaty head. Hope I didn’t come across as holier-than-thou, but I told the truth. Did not beat thunderstorm to lodge—a Wagnerian entrance. Punish- ment for being sassy?

August 10: Another monsoon. Johns Brook is raging, roaring over its banks. We went to secure the “bridge” out front over Johns Brook—a couple of planks cabled together—only to watch it go cartwheeling downstream, never to be seen again.

August 14: Approaching burn barrel* at dusk, came face to face with a bear up on its hind legs. Not resolved who was more startled.

August 20: Failed to turn off gas stove completely at lights-out last night; burned both eyebrows off when I lit it (whomp!) this morning. Serves me right.

August 25: Misread tsp of salt as tbsp in oatmeal recipe. Gobs of oatmeal went to garbage pit, where resident raccoons also rejected it, very vocally.

August 29: Blue sky, crisp day. Beautiful buck by beaver pond across brook. Hope he survives hunting season.

Sept. 2: Sunsets are noticeably earlier now, the mornings ever cooler—33 at 6:30 this morning. We passed 2000 guests for the season. This is the calm before the [Labor Day] storm. Pack load today strained spring scales on back porch at 120 pounds, nearly my own weight. (A friendly competition to see who can carry the most, but will I have back problems later in life?)** Had 12 dozen eggs on top; getting up from Resting Rock [an erratic about halfway up the trail that is just right for sitting on], lost my balance, executed a flip and realized the eggs were now on bottom. Upon righting myself, discovered only one of 144 was broken. Whoever invented egg cartons is a genius and a savior.

Sept. 7: Labor Day, our last day of operation, so we labored. Took out 80 lb. of trash and one banjo, whose case handle broke above Deer Brook. Goodbye to Spencer, goodbye to High Peaks, goodbye Mrs. O’Brien [our boss], to Madeline and “Big Bob” [Dennison, ADK treasurer], goodbye to raccoons and bats and broken bridges, balky gas stoves, watermelon rinds, and fussy Governors. I shall not see you next summer, JBL; time to spread my wings farther afield. It’s been good to know you.

*These archaic procedures have long since been replaced by more environmentally appropriate ways.

**The answer has proven to be in the affirmative.

Following two summers as a JBL crew member, Neal Burdick spent twenty-five years as editor of ADK’s guidebook series and thirty-eight years as editor of this magazine, while also serving as publications writer/editor and journalism teacher at his alma mater, St. Lawrence University. This article was published in the Spring 2025 issue of Adirondac magazine.