The camp house on Duncan Hill Rd was the source of many fine memories and a few harrowing escapes. One such escape occurred in 1967 when Ernie and I ...

were on Guard Duty assigned to the old covered feed trough outside the main gate in the barbed wire fence which kept the cows, horses and on that day, the Indians at bay and the camp house safe. It was a cold dreary day with a slow drizzling rain. I was watching the road and the barn and Ernie was supposed to be covering the rear watch. When the Indians started their war chants right behind me I knew it was too late for us. Ernie had fallen asleep while on watch and we were doomed. As it turned out Grandma Whiteman had watched us deploy to our assignment and vigilantly laid in wait watching until she knew Ernie was asleep and then had crept up to the back of the feed trough and commenced to howl like an entire tribe of indians! Needless to say I wanted Ernie courtmarshalled but all Dad and the rest of the occupants of the camphouse could do was laugh.  

Cecil Bell Jr. (Grandma Whiteman is my mother's mother, Ernie is Ernest Bell my brother, and Dad is Cecil Bell Sr., the occupants were various family members, I was just shy of six years old at the time.)