Memories from childhood adventures

I can still smell the pine forest, trees so close to the cottages that the yards were made up of pine needles rather than grass. Bright sunlight every day, days that seemed to last forever, as my cousin Steve and I played our myriad of games.
Those were the days when kids of 11 or 12 years old, even younger, simply went off to play. Parents expected them back for meals but otherwise; we were free to roam, running almost all the time. It never occurred to us that our games were spilling over into other people’s yards or that our noise might be bothersome.
Our favourite game was cowboys and Indians on Eagle Rock. That was the name we gave to the peak of the local hill. Not such a hill it was, but rather a small mountain, for it took several hours to climb along rough, forested pathways. Some days it would take longer due to the many battles we had and all the sneaking around we did.
It was also a time before firecrackers were banned except on holidays and kids could buy them, which we did. The mountain would ring with the crack and pop of musketry or hand grenades, depending on the game in progress. No-one ever got hurt. We didn’t even set the forest ablaze, although we won many battles up there.
We’d stuff our jeans pockets with ammo and shoulder our hockey stick muskets. Often we would have a lunch packed and a plastic canteen filled with orange or grape koolaid. No sunscreen in those days, in fact, folks used tanning lotion and baked on the beach down at the lake for hours. Steve and I had no time for laying around, there were hostages to be rescued.
Once we made it to the top of that sun-baked crest, we would go prone and using paper towel cardboard rolls, we’d spy on those we left behind. The telescopes could pick out the baking people on the beach and the kids playing in the lake.
After feeding the exhausted troops it was time to make a raid on the village below. If a check on our ammo supply showed a shortage or lack of explosive power, we would still have our trusty muskets.
Not having toy guns was never a problem. A few wooden clothespins and a hockey stick made the perfect Davy Crockett musket. The clothespin is placed about a foot from the curved end of the hockey stick, which is the butt of the gun. A finger pull on the pin caused it to snap off and careen to one side, just like a bullet ejecting from a real gun. That, plus the verbal explosion from the shooter brought us all the reality needed.
Late in the afternoon, the column of brave scouts, or troopers, or Indians, or whoever we were that day trudged into camp behind Steve’s cottage. Another victorious day over, more bad guys bit the dust.
Most of the time, supper would not be ready for a while. There was still time to splash in the lake, catch minnows, skip stones, and plan the next day’s adventure.