The Rev. William James Burger was making a parish call. After he passed the guarded gate at Lower Cupsuptik, he drove through the Maine dusk between high forest walls of spruce and balsam. By the time he reached the Crowley Brook Camp, five deer had bounded out of his headlights' glare.
In the bunkhouse, 70 men lounged on the benches or in the double-decker bunks, reading pulp magazines by the dull oil lamps. The rafters over the hot stoves were festooned with drying socks. As soon as the poker players cleared the cards and...
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