John “Denver” Daggett

by Matthew Randall

02/06/2018

There is something unexplainable, but very real about the bond forged through the shared experience of serving together in a summer camp environment. Its impact is so great that staff who worked at different facilities seem to connect instantly. This phenomena encapsulates my definition of what many describe as the “magic of camp.”

The physical property is not what creates the magic, of this I am certain. Camps change over time. They get sold, altered, ruined, or expanded based on the prudent or petty leadership of whomever the guardians of the place are at a given moment in time. As staff, our role is care for the place the best we can while it is under our watch, and hopefully pass it along in better shape than we found it. Properties can be gone overnight, but the bond between staff lasts a lifetime.

What a camp does do is serve as the vehicle through which these dynamic groups of people meet in the first place. It breaks the ice, and puts the staff in situations during the season where they must grow, trust, and respect themselves, and each other, in order to be successful. Each of these encampments represent a unique set of geographic coordinates all over the globe, but they achieve the same end result of forging strangers into a cohesive unit.

The plot of earth where I became exposed to the “magic of camp” is at 43.9497° N, 70.4690° W. There are far too many stories to relay in one written piece, about this pine-tree-covered lakeside summer property in Maine, but one of the great opportunities afforded me was to serve as Camp Director. It was not the title, or the perceived power that came with the position that, for me, was the gift. The true joy was being able to watch people grow into their own, and to help position and empower them, using their new-found skills and confidence, to positively impact others. The staff did all the work; as director all I did was give them a platform to succeed.

My tenure at camp bestowed upon me the privilege to observe three different generations of Scouts grow from campers, to counselors in training, to staff, and finally area directors. One such lad was John Daggett. He appeared, to me, as the living embodiment of Goofy from Disney. Tall, lanky, accident prone, and taking on the world with a childish optimism, tempered with what one calls “an old soul.” As a camper John was dedicated to Scouting, but seemed always one step off from the rest of the group. I am aware enough to realize that creative types do march to their own drum — since I are one myself — and John was definitely marching to his own tune.

My point here is as a young teen, the drum he was listening to had to be deafening…because he was not just dancing his own jig, he was dancing in his own universe. John and his troop would come to camp annually, and I considered it a “win” that no major tragedy fell upon him. I worried that he’d just wander along, living in his own mental space, and do something absentminded…like walk off a cliff during a hike. But he continued to defy the wrongful limitations I had created for him in my mind.

One fateful year this young man showed up, with a brand new eagle sewn on his uniform, asking to be staff at Camp Hinds. I was the Program Director at the time, and thought he’d be a disaster, determining with no proof at all, that he’d be completely overwhelmed. By the scouts in his classes. By the nature of the work. And by the interference from his constant day-dreaming. The story I had created for this person I hardly knew, changed at the interview. His sheer will won us over, because he passionately wanted to do this job. All it took was to look into those deep, expressive eyes, which would then tag-team with a toothy but sincere smile, and we were hooked.

His first few years were definitely learning years, and time was required to have the staff warm to his unique way of working with people. John’s musical tastes, love of science fiction, creative mind, quiet manner, and “old time” values put him at odds with staff peers whom were growing up with Pogs, Nintendo, and Metallica. Senior staff love to see junior staff “earn their stripes” by getting in lock-step and following the flow. John could not do that; he had to be true to himself, and people who did not take the time to get to know him those first few years would become frustrated working with him.

But I knew what we had after spending the first season with John. You can teach somebody how to tie a knot, shoot a bow, and paddle a canoe. You can not teach people how to connect with kids, how to stay positive in times of stress, and how to genuinely care about others. Those traits can be emulated, but it is up to the individual to determine if they will embrace these qualities or not. John came to us with them already in place; all we needed to do was work off the rough edges…as was done for me by many others, and over many years. His greatest joy was helping another person succeed at something. It was his drug. And since purely good people can never be ignored, John’s stock among the staff family as a valued member grew quickly.

With each season came more responsibility. John worked in the dining hall for a spell, and then camped out in the craft shop. Then he turned eighteen and ended up in the archery area, and for my tenure we put him in charge of the Nature Area. He had grown from a camper to an Area Director, and helped to shape and guide the property and program for future generations. One of the places John’s way of interacting with the world manifested was at the weekly Sunday and Friday campfire programs. He loved to perform. The staff did not always understand the creative license he would take with the skits and cheers he would do, but the scouts loved it. Singing was a strength, and he began to showcase it at our weekly Duty to God service. He soon became a part of the team that would conduct this program, and I named them my “God Squad.”

After some gentle nagging, John was convinced to start closing our Friday campfire with his guitar. He eventually agreed, usually singing the Green Day song Good Riddance (hope you had the time of your life), or squeezing in a John Denver or Muppet tune. John “Denver” Daggett was born, and the guy became so comfortable in this role that there were weeks when he would crank off multiple tunes, all unscheduled and unapproved, with what was becoming his weekly solo concert for the masses. It got to the point that he needed to be told “one song, or no songs.” I mean, we did have a schedule to keep with the campfire program, and people wanted to get home after a long week at camp.

But that was typical John. The crowd loved his performance, and it fueled him. Eventually we got him onboard with understanding why he needed to keep the show to a minimum, and Johnny D closed out each week for the youth on a very somber, optimistic note, for many seasons. It remains, to this day, one of the most beautiful and vivd memories I carry from my time at camp.

Eventually my time ended, and John remained on staff to support three other camp directors beyond me. His dedication to that place and program is matched by very few in the annals of Camp Hinds lore. I lost count, but John had to be pushing close to a decade of service by the time he moved onto the next chapter in his journey, having etched life-changing memories on the souls of thousands of Scouts, volunteers, and peers. But his heart was too big, and he felt called to share his light with more than just the Scouting community, so he moved on from Hinds.

Kermit the Frog said that “life is full of meetings and partings,” and I have now had my first parting of a member from the team I was fortunate enough to serve with at summer camp under my stewardship. It hurts, and I feel I somehow failed to protect him from this. I do not know why I feel that way. Maybe it is because, in my mind, all my former staff are supposed to outlive me. What I do know is I cared about the man, I enjoyed working with the man, and I admired what the man represented.

The “magic of camp” has been in full force this week. As the bugle call echoed across social media, more and more of John’s camp family are being made aware of his departure. My heart soars to read all the fond remembrances people have shared, and more importantly of the lasting impact he’s had on all our lives. One concept with regards to achieving immortality is that the more people you influenced, the longer your impact exists. If that is the case, we shall all benefit from the after effects of John’s presence for decades to come.

I am blessed that this seemingly insignificant parcel of dirt in Maine afforded me the chance to have John Daggett as a part of my personal growth. When I close my eyes, a smile breaks across my face…and I see him, in the center of the campfire circle, singing with such grace and passion to hundreds of completely entranced visitors. The troubadour, putting on a show, exactly in his element.

Taps has sounded. Harry Kakelegion has been sung. The Great Scoutmaster in the Sky has pronounced ‘till we meet again. And John “Denver” Daggett is sitting around a new campfire, with new friends, singing away…exactly in his element.

Our camp staff balladeer has left the stage.

John, keep a few benches at the fire’s edge free for the rest of us.

See you up the trail, friend.