The narrow forest road, mostly single lane, had been freshly graveled. In places where the sides were washed out, peeled spruce guard logs had been laid. Some Dartmouth boys were cutting brush. The foreman of the student crew was a blue-eyed, crew-cut blond called Sanders of the River. He and his staff had been at it since 5 in the morning, and they looked tired, fly-bitten, sunburned and starry-eyed happy. You could feel their esprit de corps at a distance of a hundred yards. It was contagious.
"How far to the Management Camp?" I asked Sanders of the River.
"You're almost there."
"This is really something, isn't it?" I said. "Do you suppose he'll actually come?"
"I hope so!" said Sanders of the River.
"Same here," I said.
Five minutes later I had reached my destination and was shaking hands with Bob Monahan, a slim, smiling, redheaded man who loves his work, which is forestry. I think he even loved the weeks of anxiety, responsibility and meticulous planning requisite to the President's imminent visit. He had flown the area with the Secret Service in a military DC-3, conferred endlessly and was now concerned with the problem of ice for cooling the luncheon salad and preserving the steaks, foresightedly on hand in case the trout weren't biting.
Bob showed me into the Management Camp. It is a frame building with brown clapboard siding. The main room is about 24' by 26', with a stone fireplace at the left, two small bedrooms on the same side and a lavatory with a shower. Bob told me I was to share one of the bedrooms with Sidney Hayward, who was off fishing.
"President Dickey and Ted Weeks have the other," he said.
Ted Weeks is Edward Weeks, editor of the