Finally, we, ourselves, saddle up and move out at about 10:30 a.m. Why not? This day is meant for being leisurely.

The trail makes a gentle descent until we reach the valley rim, but for some distance back we can hear the rush of Aqua Fria Creek far below. Aqua Fria rises in a spring west of Philmont Ranch and flows easterly through the valley until it is captured by the Rayado, coming in from the north.

From where we stand, Aqua Fria sounds like a mighty river. In fact, however, it is a relatively shallow stream, perhaps 20 feet wide. Its sounds are magnified as they are funneled up to us by the walls of the valley.

The descent is steep and rocky, carrying us down past jagged outcrops of rock and then to the river's flood plain, which is littered with stream-tumbled rocks and boulders of every size. There are occasional clumps of grasses and plants, but it is obvious we are in an area of periodic flooding and of a complex geological makeup. We are seeing lots of volcanic rock already, and as we continue eastward we will see even more. When we pass through Rayado Canyon tomorrow, we will see the remnants of a volcanic vent which 2 million years or so ago covered the region with thick basalt.

To make our way to Fish Camp, we must cross and re-cross Aqua Fria a half-dozen times. Some crossings are merely stepping stones in the water, usually an inch or two below water level and often quite wobbly. Other crossings are worse: slick tree trunks felled between the banks. The occasional "SPLAT" which the crew is hearing is me getting another bootful of water after losing my balance on some three-inch diameter log and extending a foot into the creek to keep some semblance of dignity.

A little past Aqua Fria Camp, which was a pleasant overnight stopover for last year's crew, we encounter a group of Wood Badgers. Wood Badge is the advanced Scout leader training program. The men in this particular group are the instructors for the course. They are exploring the back country in advance of the program.

One of the Wood Badgers is a hat-pin trader and swaps his New Mexico council hat pin to Richard for his Atlanta Area Council hat pin. All members of the Atlanta contingent were given hat pins before leaving the airport.

After passing some time with the Wood Badgers, we decide we need to push on. Soon, we are passing camp sites strung out along the river. We cross and re-cross the waterway again and at last spy the buildings which comprise Fish Camp. There are several lodges, one on either side of the stream, and up ahead there is a real bridge we can use to make the next crossing. We proceed across this sturdy structure and rack our packs against a large tree.

The rangers come out to greet us. They are a friendly, outgoing, helpful lot. Before much time has passed, we are being led up a jeep trail past the headquarters cabin to a campsite they tell us is not very far away. We are thankful that we aren't being marched back to some of the outlying sites we just passed.

We are near the point at Fish Camp where the Rayado and Aqua Fria intersect, but the campsite we have been assigned is a little north of the camp complex, up a jeep trail which follows the Rayado corridor.

To get to the site, we must cross the Rayado twice. The first crossing is not far from the headquarters complex cabin and makes use of a real bridge. The second is a little beyond that and amounts to a round, slippery log stretched across 20 to 25 feet of water, some of it a foot to a foot-and-a-half deep. The crossing is a little treacherous, but most get across via the log. Since both of my boots already are filled with water, I decide just to walk right through the stream.

Our campsite is just beyond this point, right off the jeep trail which also has crossed to this side of the stream. This, it turns out, is the jeep trail to Phillips Junction.

We move into camp quickly, set up tents and tarp and hang enough clothes on lines to make it look like a full-scale laundry operation. Lunch is put together quickly, and just as quickly devoured.

There are two options this afternoon. One is to fish and relax. The other is to see a little more of Philmont's wonders by hiking up to P.J. to draw the remainder of our supplies, a round-trip hike of perhaps four miles. Choices are quickly made. Chip, Mitch, Daniel and Thomas will hike with me to P.J., while Geoffrey, Richard and Tim will remain with Mr. Hand to try their luck with the trout. Those who plan to remain behind prepare shopping lists of goodies they want us to obtain for them from the trading post, and soon the P.J.-bound hikers are setting out, shopping lists and money in hand.

The hike is easy and pleasant. We take several backpacks for retrieving the food supply from PJ, but they, of course, are empty and the rest of us are carrying nothing. What a strange sensation to be hiking these hills with no weight on your back! Our leg muscles feel more powerful. There is a spring in our step.

The trail winds its way to P.J. through a cleft in the hill country above Fish Camp, staying pretty level for much of its course. To the sides are fine stands of aspen and fir. Not far from camp the trail passes a horse corral. Perhaps this is where they bring the horses from Beaubien during the off-season. We're in a talkative mood this afternoon as we amble lazily up the gentle trail, freed from our normal hiking loads.

Back at camp, the other half of the crew is getting a tour of the facility that gives Fish Camp its name: Waite Phillips' fishing lodge. It is a tin-roofed, roomy structure made with timber from the surrounding countryside. There is a comfortable living room and dining room. Recessed wall cabinets provided a place for Mr. Phillips to place his fishing and hunting gear and, perhaps, to conceal any spiritous liquors he may have kept there to entertain visitors. Prohibition was in effect during that era, making it illegal to possess hard liquor. Many Americans disobeyed the law.

The cabin also shows what extraordinary measures he took to ensure the safety of his young children. Their bedrooms were reached through a hallway off the living room with steel-backed doors at either end. In time of trouble, the children could lock themselves in the hallway. The safety measures no doubt reflected the times. The tragic Lindbergh baby kidnaping was much on America's mind, and wealthy fathers likely felt their children potentially at risk.

After the tour, crew members are given some instruction in fly-tying and then are turned loose to tie their own. After that, they are allowed to check out rods and reels and try their luck.

It would be hard to imagine a finer summer day or a finer place to be. Just below fish lodge, the two waterways converge at the foot of Lookout Peak, whose soaring, jagged bluffs stand in bold relief against a rich blue sky. Great stands of fir and other softwoods roam the slopes while below them gentle aspen leaves stir on invisible eddies of air. Amid the beauty, the river banks are littered with pock-marked, river-tumbled lava, a silent reminder of the region's violent geological past.

Up at P.J., the food-gatherers have found the place deserted except for staff. That means there is time to fool around in the trading post and get news and information from the staffers. The word here is that two people are now known dead in Sunday's plane crash on Baldy and that it is certain no Scouts were injured. We're still hearing, however, that the plan was some sort of government aircraft.

Turning to other matters, we kid the rangers about the hand-lettered sign tacked outside the building which purports to give trail mileage and average hiking times from P.J. to various point. They estimate 1:00 to 1:30 for the trek to Apache Springs, which took us 1:45. They tell us their estimates are correct and that we must just be poking along.

The hike back to Fish Camp is as pleasant as the hike up. En route, we stop a bit to observe a beaver dam and pond just below the outpost. We observed it yesterday, of course, but did not stop for a close inspection.

This was not here last year. Sometime between then and now, some industrious Beaver family has been hard at work and has dammed up the Rayado quite well. We do not see the animals, but it's interesting all the same.

Back at camp now, the food-gatherers decide to kick back and relax in the tents for a while. Meanwhile, I head down to the camp complex to see what luck our fishermen have had. While there, one of the rangers offers me my own personal tour of the cabin and a chance comment from him prompts a little re-interpretation of one small chapter in Philmont history.

The ranger remarks that the building has been added onto in the past, but says he is puzzled about one particular architectural feature. Aha, I think. This is a job for Mr. Hand, who just happens to be an architect. So for the next hour or so, Mr. Hand and the ranger look over the structure inside and out and compare its present configuration with old photographs.

From this, Mr. Hand suggests that Waite Phillips' Fish Camp Lodge was not built from scratch, as had previously been believed, but was constructed on the foundations of an earlier lodge built by George Webster, a developer who sold portions of what is now Philmont - then called "Urraca Ranch" - to Phillips in the 1920s.

It had been thought that Webster's lodge was situated on the opposite bank and had burned to the ground. Today's research, however, indicates that what is now known as the Fish Camp cabin dates from 1901, Webster's days, instead of 1925.

One other interesting feature of the lodge is that it is frequented by hummingbirds. The staffers have suspended a bottle of colored nectar from the rafters of the porch, and every now and then a high-pitched buzzing sound announces the arrival of yet another of these very tiny birds to sip from the bottle.

Down at the stream, our fishermen have had good luck. Richard hauled in a 10-inch Rainbow and a couple of Brown trout. Timmy hooked a couple, too, but decided he didn't want to dine on fish tonight. Obviously, if you catch 'em you gotta eat 'em.

Photo At Left: Geoffrey With His Catch

We've piddled a bit longer than we planned at the cabin, so dinner tonight is late. In addition to our normal freeze-dried fare, we decided to try to find enough dry wood to get a fire going for fresh-caught fish. The fire is balky and doesn't want to start, but we eventually get a small blaze going. The fish are cleaned and then skewered on small stakes embedded in the ground near the flames.

Darkness is near. We gather the crew around the light of the fire for a special religious service. Somehow, we missed the opportunity Sunday or Monday, but we attempt to make up for that now. Chip is asked to read a short homily from the booklet, "Eagles Soaring High," which was written by the Philmont chaplains and given to each crew member upon arrival at base camp.

Service over, it is clean-up time. Chores are done by flashlight. Then someone declares that the fish, cooking all this time, are about ready to eat. Although some crew members have turned in by this point, the fishermen chow down on their catch.

The last chore of the night is the worst - hanging the bear bags. The cable is across the creek, just up from our campsite. And our bear bags are heavier than usual today because they are filled to capacity with a brand new supply of food. But Richard and Chip heave them over their shoulders like stevedores and cross the slippery log that serves for a bridge. Then they make it back sure-footedly to camp.

That done, it is time to hit the sack. We start early tomorrow because we've got a long hike through the rugged Rayado Country.