Home Away From Home

After the hour-long drive, the sign at the entrance is a welcome and familiar sight. Two tall stone pillars with a wooden sign between them form an arch over the narrow road that leads into the camp. As I drive under, the air seems to change. The scent of pine and campfires is in the air, and though the highway is only a mile away, it feels like I’ve entered another world, one with no traffic, no need for computers or cell phones.

The lake sparkles in the sun as a swan glides across the waters. A thin layer of golden leaves obscures the grass surrounding the lake, and a few fall on my windshield as I drive past. Then, my car enters a tunnel of trees so thick that it becomes noticeably darker. In other circumstances, the phenomenon might have felt ominous to a city girl like me, but in this place, it felt simultaneously familiar, comforting, and exciting. The tunnel led to a different world, one that was just a bit better than the world I came from.

When I step out of the car and my foot touches the ground, the transportation is complete; I am entirely immersed in the camp I grew up in. Though I only spend a week or two at a time here each year, I feel like I know this place better than the neighborhood I’ve lived in for over thirty years. I know where each trail leads; I know what awaits behind every door in every building.

By definition, the camp is finite. There are boundaries that define its property lines, and there are roads that would easily take me back into the “real world,” but standing here, I feel like the possibilities are endless. I could wander the flat paths through the main camp, taking in the fall colors and the rustic cabins. I could make my way to one of the many activity areas that hold so many memories – the arts and crafts cabin, the playground, the pool, the climbing tower, or one of the many campfire circles. I could visit other campers, knowing that I could go just about anywhere in this place and be welcomed.

Or I could wander further into the woods and visit some of the more peaceful places. The long, grassy hill that looks out over the lake. The pine forest with its carpet of soft pine needles and a scent sweet enough to make you want to breathe it in for hours. The path next to the creek with the gentle flow of the river calmly trickling over the rocks and the sunlight finding its way through the tree branches to dance in the water. Or I could climb up the mountain, huffing and puffing to make my way up the steep incline, eventually crawling my way over rocks bigger than me, until I was high enough that I could look out and see for miles.

In name, I’ve only had two homes that I can remember – my parents’ house where I grew up, and the house I now live in with my husband. Yet, somehow, every time I visit this place, I know that it is home too. Here, I feel content, happy, and loved.