We even built a monument at the camp’s entrance, out of rocks held together with concrete made from cement Mr. Schieling gave us. He’d overheard fellows in town discussing what kind of entry marker we might make, and suggested using rocks.

We built it about five feet high, in the shape of the sheepherders’ monuments that stood atop hilltops here and there. Nate said they were from when folks ran sheep in a big way, and the bands would be put in the charge of herders, who sometimes built rock piles just to pass the time.

“We ought to give our camp a real name,” Apple said, as we finished up. “Remember how Major Garrett said we should think one up?”

“What I’ll remember about this place is that it’s where I lived through the coldest days of my life,” said Bo Richards, a Georgia fellow. “I never thought forty degrees would seem balmy, but after what January and February threw at us . . .”

He got a laugh, and he’d given us our name. Cold Day Camp. A couple of the guys volunteered to make a wood sign board, to put next to the monument.

“Guess we’re done here, then,” I said.

“Almost,” Apple said. Hunkering down, he used a stick to put a neat set of initials—E. D.—in the wet mortar.

“Why don’t you just write Apple?” someone asked. “That’s how we all know you.”

“’Cause it’s a nickname that could be anybody’s,” Apple answered. “I’m kind of proud of this camp we’ve built, and of the work we’re going to do, and I want it official. I had a hand.”

There wasn’t any need for more talk. One after another, we put our initials into the monument, until there were two columns of them wandering down between the stonework.

Sam went last and added the year: 1936.

We put up the sign with our new name the morning of the open house, and folks got a kick out of seeing COLD DAY CAMP. And it fit. Another bout of cold temperatures had replaced the chinooks.

Captain Hakes didn’t much like the sign, but it was too late for him to order it taken down. Anyway, he was busy shaking hands with all our visitors and taking congratulations on how nice the camp looked.

Just about all Monroe had turned out, just like it had for our dance. This time, though, women and kids mainly gathered around refreshments in the mess hall, while men gravitated to the project models we’d set up in the rec hall.

With exceptions, of course. A reporter from the Monroe Herald was busy as a june bug on a May day, buzzing about with his camera and notepad. I saw Sam glom on to him and wondered why.