Crickets

I was never really curious about pioneers or westward expansion. I was interested in moving up the ranks of rangering, and the Park Service loves to pay their people less than other agencies do for the same workload. I jumped ship to the Bureau of Land Management or BLM for short, not to be confused with the much cooler advocacy group, working at the National Historic Oregon Trail Interpretive Center in Baker City, Oregon because they offered me a higher paying ranger job. I had free reign to research and interpret whatever topic that fit within our parameters: Oregon trail, fur trapping, mining, really anything Oregon Trail related. The downside to all this was that most people are like me and not terribly interested in the Oregon Trail history. Some are, to be fair, most people that visit the center were in their '70s or 80s, or they were Mennonites.

I spent most of my time at the center being a paid reenactor. It was fun to play dress up and perform 30-minute vaudeville style programs for handfuls of people, start fires with flint and steel, and fire a flintlock rifle on the back porch. It’s not the first job where I’ve been able to walk through an office and yell, “where the hell is my tomahawk?” and no one bats an eye, (the Marines being the other blade-happy establishment).

Interpretive rangers at the BLM are far fewer than the Park Service, and they had more money to send me to trainings. I was able to learn the science behind storytelling, and I learned to teach other rangers those skills too. I loved that aspect of the job, even if the most interesting thing I found about pioneers was the fact that more of them didn’t die on their journey west than actually did.

There were two groups of visitors that got under my skin. The first was large tour bus groups of senior citizens. On an individual level, they were fine, but when they came from a bus they were like needy teenagers, and they were the worst about stealing.

The other group was another kind of bus traveler, school groups. One summer I was tasked with producing and presenting a series of programs for kids, mainly fourth graders. Guess what topic Oregon fourth graders are taught for social studies. Oregon Trail history. Oh joy.

Okay, a good ranger can deliver a decent program to anyone about anything. I was determined to get these kids interested in the trail, to make it cool, a daunting task. The previous summer I came up with some short kids’ programs about survival that I loved, and the handful of attendees seemed to enjoy. My supervisor loved the programs so much she expanded it to make it a weekly run. This was to be a children’s camp that would go for two hours each class, once a week, for 6 weeks.

My living history talks on the porch where I would demonstrate how to make a fire using flint and steel and a bundle of dry grasses were easy to put on, people loved it, and I got to burn things. It was a win for everyone.

That got me thinking. I was once in fourth grade. Fourth graders love to set things on fire. What if I taught them how to start a fire without matches, with their parents' permission of course, and send them home with the materials to do so.

I had to be careful or else this might turn into the junior arsonist program. That whole experiment gave me a bigger idea. What if I taught kids survival school by exploring various aspects of it from the natural world and human history and survival in today's world?

This was the lineup:

• Week 1 - Plant survival: how to find water in the desert.

• Week 2 - Animal survival: Be nocturnal, or diurnal; how to stay found or how to hide.

• Week 3 - My favorite week, Indigenous people’s survival: how to live off the land, edible plants, hunting and shelter.

• Week 4 - Pioneer survival, this was the Oregon Trail after all, so obligatory. See also: Junior arsonist week.

• Week 5 - Modern survival: winter. Modern problems require modern solutions. I was going to show them how to dismantle a government vehicle and what parts could be used for shelter, signal mirrors, and snowshoes.

• Week 6 - Modern Survival: summer. This was arts and crafts, taught by a Marine. We'd build our survival kits for them to take home, fire included.

The plan was, each week we were going to have some kind of hands-on activity, and at the end of the day the kids would have something useful to take home. Cool right?

I got the okay to go ahead with this scheme. A coworker and I hand forged a bunch of steel strikers to give away to the kids and their parents along with a piece of flint. It was the Oregon Trail after all. What kind of place would we be if we didn’t have our own coal forge? If a student attended four of the six weeks they would get one of my favorite books, Gary Paulsen's classic Hatchet.

For week 3 I had a real treat for the attendees. I found out that I could go online and order a can of USDA approved, grade A fried crickets, as in bugs, and they came in either barbecue or sour cream and onion. I got both. What is wrong with me? Always eating weird things.

Since this was my hairbrained scheme, I’d better lead from the front. So, when the hors d’oevres arrived at the Interpretive Center in little snuff cans, I cracked both tins open and looked at those 20 lightly fried bugs. Sour cream and onion came first. I held that golden breaded insect between my fingers. ‘Here goes nothing,’ down the hatch. It really wasn’t that bad, mostly just crunchy little nuggets of good old American flavor. Sour cream and onion and barbecue: the taste of freedom.

Being the mature adult that I was, I went straight to my coworker, Bobby, who was also a Marine. I told him my plan for week three and we laughed a bit, and I told him that he has to try it, so he grabbed one. He must have inhaled some sour cream dust or maybe one of those sawtooth legs. It lodged in his throat. He started hacking and coughing. His eyes watered and he gasped for air. I was nothing but sympathetic, the way fellow marines are when one was in distress, I couldn’t stop laughing. The more his eyes bulged and pleaded with me I felt red horns and a pitchfork appear in my hand. That’s brotherhood.

Honestly, I had no idea he'd react that way. I was still cackling with laughter as he squeaked out, “Never again.”

That wasn’t good, I couldn’t give those out to innocent children, I die of laughter if they all reacted the way he did. More studies needed to be done. I wandered off to the office in search of more victims/volunteers.

Every person that ate one had the same reaction as me. “They're not bad.” Bobby was just being a baby.

So, how do crickets and Native American survival play off each other? Well scholars, the Northern Piute, who called Eastern Oregon home, used to gather Mormon crickets, big fat nasty looking things, without seasoning and squish them into a paste to make into a flour. The crickets were rich in protein and nutritional. For a month each year they were available in abundance. That was the lesson I was going for. Sure, it's fun to watch greasy dudes on TV hunt squirrels with a bow and arrow, but to be real, very few people know how to do it, and most would starve on that diet if they tried.

The summer program started well enough. We held class in our little outdoor amphitheater with the prominent ridge of the Blue Mountains, called the Elkhorn Crest as our backdrop. There was one kid whose name was Almond. Yes, that was his real name. Nuts, right? Almond knew my only weakness, kids, and he exploited that knowledge to drive me crazy. He also had a little brother with him to round out that dynamic duo. His mom was totally checked out, probably just glad that for 2 hours each week her homegrown terrorist was menacing someone else for a change.

Every 5 minutes it was “Hey Ranger Jeremy, one time I did this thing that you were talking about, but better.” He was always interrupting me or another person, taking their stuff, or beating up his brother. Always Almond, always up to something.

Say one thing about the Almond brothers, they were punctual. They never missed a class. When week three rolled around. We were on the topic of Indigenous survival tactics.

“What would you eat if you had to live out here long term?” I asked my would-be survivalists.

Most of the responses were screamed at me by Almond.

“Deer!”

That started a round robin of boasting by the boys.

“I hunt deer with my dad.”

“I killed a 10-point buck.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. You don’t even know.”

  After that outburst, I said, “And if you don’t have a gun, how would you hunt a deer?”

“Stab it!” This from Almond.

“Easy Rambo.”

Someone from the back of the little semicircle of wooden benches said. “We could hunt rabbits.” Now we were getting somewhere. There were many rabbits on the hill where the interpretive center was located.

“Without a gun, we’re going to spend a lot of energy chasing rabbits on foot,” I said. “What else could we hunt?”

“Squirrels!”

“Thanks Almond. What else?” Things were getting quiet; they were running out of ideas. My nefarious plan was working.

Finally a soft voice from the quiet girl on the edge of the rowdy crowd spoke up. “Bugs?”

“Yes,” I exclaim, “now what-”

Almond charged up to where I was standing, folded his arms and looked defiantly up at me. "I eat bugs… all the time,” he said, very proud of himself.

He gave a half turn back to the crowd with a smirk, proving his fourth-grade manhood. As smooth as a pistol draw, I pulled the can of dried crickets from my back pocket.

“Prove it,” I said as I thumbed the lid open three inches from his nose.

  Almond went white as a fish’s belly.

I picked one juicy specimen up and showed the group. “Indigenous people would never let a healthy, high-protein meal go to waste. They were true survivors. They knew that the land gave them what they needed.” I held the cricket out for each one of them to see that it was, in fact a real insect, and then I popped it into my mouth and ate it with a satisfying crunch. Silence.

I don't expect anyone to eat a bug just because the strange ranger had. That’s when I set the hook. I had worked it out with the gift shop to purchase a bunch of brightly colored survival multitools. These were a combination whistle, compass, magnifying glass, and monocular scope. Who wouldn't want to eat a flavorful cricket for one of those bad boys?

“All you have to do is eat one of these delicious bugs and you get to take home,” I pulled the survival tool out, “one of these sweet, ranger approved, survival combo tools.”

The effect was magnificent. I could see eyes darting from the whistle to the tin of crickets and back.

  Almond had shriveled away and was sitting on the front row. The little crowd of smirking parents had grown, this had become a spectator sport.  

“Any takers?” I urged. I could hear parents starting to murmur. I was in heaven.

  Some kids inched closer to look at the cricket. Yep, it’s real alright. They’d then inch backward, looking around for a sane adult to tell them what to do.

“It's up to you,” I said. I’d learned in the Marines to never make idle threats, but also never make hollow promises. They were not getting the prize if they didn’t complete the challenge. There was no second place in this game.

After what seemed like minutes, a demur girl who I hadn’t seen until that day, her jaw set like a vice, walked up to me. My Valkyrie.

“I’ll do it.”

I offered her a choice of flavors, she selected sour cream and onion.

I nodded. “My favorite.”

  I heard her inhale deeply, and then she bit down with a crunch.

“It’s not bad,” she said, a look of surprise mixed with relief.

  I handed her the prize won by a champion. Girls will always be braver than boys. Always.

  Once the dam broke, there was a clamor to get their survival whistle. The sound of crunching crickets filled the sagebrush steppe. Some kids were coming up for seconds, and it was hard to tell who got their prizes from those who hadn’t. It was pure magic, but there was only a few who didn't have a whistle, Almond was one of them.

  He would walk up, shaky knees, reach out for his cricket, and then I'd hear a retching sound emanate from his stomach, he'd gag and flee, no bug in hand.

  I could see him screwing up his courage to try again, dry heave and run away. Poor guy. I felt for him, but this is survival my dude, the weak shall perish.

  One strategy he tried was to come up to me making an over-exaggerated chewing motion, “Okay, I finished mine can I get my whistle?”

“Really,” I said, “then you should try another flavor, since you eat bugs all the time.”

Defeated, with his bluff called he slunk away again.

  Finally, everyone had their prize except Almond. I almost caved in after his little brother seeing that there was no way out of this predicament, reluctantly ate his without fanfare. He even nodded and gave a curious little “hmm,” after he’d eaten his.

“Hey Almond,” I said. “I know you can do this.  I'll do it with you.” I handed him a cricket.

He closed his eyes and I counted to three.  On three we feasted.

Realization and relief filled his face. “Mom it's pretty good!”

I handed him his prize, well earned.

It’s been years since the crickets, and I hope he’s doing okay, we are brothers now bonded through that shared trauma. At least now he can say, “I eat bugs… sometimes.”

As for that brave girl that faced her fear before everyone else, I don't know her name or where she is today, but if I ever see her again, I let her know that I'd follow her to the very gates of hell without hesitation. I'm not worried about her at all.