Sent : Wednesday, April 4, 2007 2:54 PM

Surfing the i-net, it was with sadness I read of Bob's passing and the

sale of The Skinner Brothers Wilderness School (That's what it was called

years ago.). I have no questions for you, but do have a bit of a

testimonial, if you like.

49 years ago this past Christmas Monte was my instructor at Sun Valley,

and he and Bob took the opportunity to show my folks and me some movies of

the Wilderness School. Mom was so excited, she signed me up on the spot

and in June put this 11 year old on the train in Olympia bound for Rock

Springs, where - if he made it - the Skinners would be waiting to pick him

up and drive to Pinedale. He made it. (Can you imagine parents encouraging

that today?) Anyway, that 11 year old went again as a 12 year old, and

each of those two summers came to be indelible month-long experiences that

played integral roles in who that person came to be. (A 60 year old 6th

grade school teacher/coach, who still thinks he's a bit of a 12 year old

cowboy, and spends the summers innovating projects and living/loving the

great outdoors.)

Some of the principles endemic to their programs (their very beings)

included integrity and honor, courage, a sense of adventure and fun

tempered by foresight and planning (for safety sake), social

responsibility (What is right for the group is what's right for the

individual.), and, simply, the commitment to know and do the right thing.

There were heavy lessons. My tent mate from Illinois failed to remove his

horse's tie rope from its neck, worse he did not tie a bowline initially;

the horse was found the next night, dead, strangled as the tie rope was

caught between a front hoof and shoe. Same year I had written my father

how homesick I was, he called the Skinner Brothers' parents in Pinedale,

word got to Monte at Burnt Lake. He pulled me aside to talk about it, and

I don't remember what magic he purveyed, but from then on it was a great

trip. As the youngest kid of around thirty with ages going up to 17 or 18,

free time was spent doing a lot of observing. Because it had been

emphasized that a sharp knife was much more useful than a dull one (A

lesson still practiced today.), I often worked my hunting knife on a whet

stone during those moments of observation. Call it a nervous habit. A 15

year old named Harold Jamieson from California tested the sharpness of

knives by lightly dragging the blade across his forearm, and he had the

cuts to show for it (That macho thing boys do sure is dumb.). One evening

in the chow line he asked to test my knife, and in doing so lacerated his

arm to the point of having to go to Pinedale for stitches. As a 12 year

old the next year, Monte asked if I would be interested in putting on any

of the lectures about survival strategy. Knife sharpening and care was one

they let me do, also the importance of shelter and conserving body heat

and how to improvise with rudiments you may find in the woods. That simple

turn of events ratcheted up my confidence a lot. Too much. When it was

time for the survival hike they caught me trying to smuggle extra .22

shells, fishing line, and lures. My punishment was no sleeping bag.

Courtney, bless his heart, carried two sleeping bags all the way up the

hill without my knowing it, and after we got there, and after it started

getting cold, and after I learned a little bit about appropriate

confidence, he let me sleep in one.

Today's American kid culture has few valuable elements that are not

overwhelmed by parental oversight (or lack thereof), political

correctness, and/or video game obsession. The experience at Skinner

Brothers still serves as good perspective. I saw Courtney about 10 years

ago at Jackson Hole, still skiing, coaching, same guy. That was close to

40 years after being a camper with him, and it was as if the time was

irrelevant. The experiences and lessons simply, undeniably shaped who I

came to be, and it is with gratitude and respect for Monte, Bob, Court,

Quent, and Ole that this note comes to you.

Casey Jones

Olympia, Wa.

PS. Jerry Enyeart was a camper there my first year. He was the stud of the group that year, a little older than the others. His letter hit me right between the eyes. ...amazing.