Jeraal Boone propels his wiry 12-year-old frame some 40 feet into the air. "You're on a roll, son. Keep it up," yells Uriah "Rocky" Young, as he tugs on a rope to stabilize the Germantown boy's climb.

On the ground, twigs snap under the white sneakers of dozens more boys waiting their turns on Camp William Penn's newest activity, the ropes course. Boone makes it to the top and Rocky, the camp head, encourages him to shout out his group's name: "Where you from?"

The boys below are silent. Boone hesitates, "Um…"

Rocky tries again, louder this time, "Where you from?"

moving experience: After lunch, campers and counsellors work off their meals by dancing. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Boone responds in a clear, strong voice, "Frontier!" Then he slides to the earth and is greeted by applause from fellow campers and a chummy slap on the helmet.

"This was my first time doing it," he says, "but I just listened to what they said. It wasn't hard."

This summer, Boone and 600 other children are spending five nights at a camp located on 671 acres of pristine city-owned land in the Poconos. In many ways, they're lucky. Philadelphia is the last major city in the country to own and operate an overnight camp and many of those who've been there can recount the benefits years later. Since private camps cost upwards of $1,000, Camp William Penn offers an opportunity that otherwise wouldn't be afforded to many city youths. But

despite the positives, the camp's tenuous financial future and place in the political landscape have put it in jeopardy.

Although few dispute the camp's educational and emotional value to young people, some question whether it is the best way to spend taxpayer funds.

Taxpayers pick up most of the $450 price tag associated with sending one child to Camp William Penn. For the bargain price of $70, the children sleep in tents under the stars, roast marshmallows around a campfire, catch fish, swim in a lake, make arts and crafts and row boats. They'll see skunks, and maybe even a black bear. "They have fun up here, but we want to give them more than fun," says Young, a 28-year-old who teaches fifth grade in Ewing, N.J. "We want to teach them social skills and personal development."

During budget talks last spring, Councilman Frank DiCicco suggested selling some or all of the land to casino operators. "I didn't know if it made any sense for the city to own and maintain it based on the low number of young people who used it on a very limited basis during the summertime," says DiCicco, who hasn't visited the camp. "We were talking about closing rec centers, not opening pools, laying off employees. Tens of thousands of kids use those [urban] facilities for 12 months a year."

Councilman Frank Rizzo Jr., who traveled northwest to see the camp two summers ago, agrees. "Does the city have a significant asset here?" he asks. "Is it something we should consider putting on the market? Is there another option for taking care of children to same degree or better?"

The councilmens' interest over the past few years in the camp is motivated partly by economics. It's also a political strategy to counter recreation cuts proposed by Mayor Street. For the last few years, Street's budget has cut funding to heavily used city amenities. In response, council looked for other places to save money. Camp William Penn's remote location and the relatively low number of children it serves hundreds, not thousands made it the perfect bargaining chip.

It's a favorite program of Recreation Commissioner Victor Richard III, a Street hire who, to stave off continued attacks on the camp, will launch a fall marketing campaign aimed at raising enrollment and revenue.

"If anything, the place is undervalued," he says. "It can stand up to and beat any other camp in the region."

The camp does have a chance to save itself.

If the city chose to sell some of the land, the proceeds could bankroll it for years to come since the property straddles the state's fastest growing counties. Thanks to an influx of New York City commuters, Monroe County grew by 45 percent and Pike County grew by 66 percent from 1990 to 2000, according to U.S. Census data.

As the camp takes up just 100 of the some 700 acres owned by the city,

Richard favors leasing or selling some of the unused portion for residential development. He has also suggested that the city contact Marriott or Sheraton operators to gauge their interest in developing the land for corporate retreats. It's an idea Richard's predecessor, Michael DiBerardinis, also floated during his tenure under Mayor Rendell.

"When we looked at the land and interest and its value, there just wasn't enough," says DiBerardinis, who is now secretary of the state Department of Conservation and Natural Resources. "I was hoping that it would be millions because you could shave off a portion of that and invest in back into the camp."

In 1952, the city bought the camp from Girard Estate for $25,000, or less than $50 an acre. The last appraisal of the land pinned its worth at less than $1 million, but Richard says that number is low and the city's Department of Public Property is working on a second appraisal. Despite Richard's stance, Street spokesman Joe Grace bristled at the mention of another appraisal.

"We're not at any stage yet where we're going to sell any part of Camp William Penn," Grace says. "The city is always going through the process of evaluating public property."

Without money from leasing land, Richard can hope to supplement the camp's budget — currently $278,889 a year — by adding campers. Richard wants to double the $70 encampment fee and look for scholarship money to keep parents' out-of-pocket expenses low. As it is, a fifth encampment was added this month and Richard has plans to add a sixth next summer. At full capacity, the camp can accommodate 900 kids, but this summer many campers who were registered had to back out for summer school.

Richard talks about sending camp director Michael Shelton to more churches and schools to talk up the camp during the off-season. He also suggests pumping up its Web site with a virtual tour. The camp made some cash by hosting a wedding and church retreat this summer, and this week 160 parents and their children are attending the first ever Latino Family Camp at Camp William Penn, paid for by money raised at the recent Love Park Domino Festival. Over the past three years, fewer than 5 percent of campers were Latino, Shelton says.

Diversification is part of the effort to change the camp's image from that of a "black camp" or a camp for "bad kids," Young says, while watching a group of boys splash in the lake. As a boy, he attended camp for four years and remembers how a counselor comforted him during a lightning storm.

"We all have the opportunity to give back to camp what camp gave to us," says Young. "This place gives them a sense of community. Being in a new environment is a challenge for them and when they have the right guidance they can walk away with a positive experience."

game on: Lifeguard Greg Bullock tosses the ball up for grabs during a swim session. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

As Young talks, some boys who say the lake has snakes sit on logs or play catch. When he's at home, 13-year-old James "I don't do lakes" Montz watches TV and plays video games all day. Camp means "getting away from home and from doing dishes," he says.

The night before, Victor Jackson, an 11-year-old boy from Germantown, slept in the woods. "It wasn't like the city," he says. "You didn't see anything. There were no lights. It was pitch black. I thought that was pretty neat, like you were blind." What would he be doing in Philadelphia? "Sitting home bored."

Before the boys swim, counselor John Ferguson, 20, asks the Pioneer group how they keep their responsibility to the environment. Most fiddle with their goggles or pull on towels draped around their necks.

"Don't waste water," someone says.

"Don't kill the animals," another offers.

"Yes, when we're around the cabin and we see all the little insects we don't necessarily like, we don't have to kill them," says Ferguson, adding later, "A lot of them have never been away from the city. You can never judge them in the first few days. They have a wall up."

While bouncing over logs and exposed tree roots on a John Deere Gator utility vehicle once used at the Vet, Shelton beams with pride over the camp. Growing up in the Northeast, he first visited the camp as a boy in the 1980s. He came back again and again as a counselor, wrote two camping books published by the American Camp Association, and told Richard that being director is his "dream job." At the property's highest point, Shelton points to young pine trees thriving in the untouched landscape.

"Even if you're not a camp person," he says, "how could you sell this?"