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The summer entering seventh grade, I begged my parents to send me to sleep away camp. They were baffled, since we lived in the South Bay — a beautiful summer vacation destination on the Pacific Ocean. Why would I trade that for humidity, bugs, communal showers, and mess-hall slop?
I had my reasons.
The last few years, my best friend had gone off to an Upstate New York camp and returned with a great tan, elaborate friendship bracelets, and salacious stories of getting felt-up by a counselor-in-training in an upside-down canoe.
Unlike me, she wore padded bras and a newfound sexuality on her sleeve.
I wanted to be just like her — which meant, I had to follow in her footsteps — going to second-base after winning color war, whatever that meant.
After a few google searches, I settled on a random camp in the Berkshires — guided by nothing but an intriguing brochure and an infatuation with the first act of The Parent Trap, I convinced my parents to sign me up for a month-long session.1
When I arrived, I realized that campers had been summering together since second grade. No one new came to camp at thirteen years old… and definitely no one came from outside of Massachusetts.
As the lone Californian new girl, I was excited to explore this new ecosystem and pleasantly surprised with how quickly bonds formed.
Despite my early letters home declaring, “I’M MISERABLE — GET ME OUT OF HERE!” (I always had a flair for dramatics) — I loved the weeks of kayaking, woodworking, softballing, cabin raiding and plenty of illicit backwoods fun.
It was sublimely picturesque.
I never went back to camp.
Until 18 years later.
My dear friend Charlotte hosted a weekend at her family’s Minnesotan lake house aptly deemed: “Camp Hardy.”
Eight of us descended on the land of ten thousand lakes.
A gaggle of folks in their late-20s and early-30s who — for a few days — agreed to leave behind our work and partners and earthly obligations in various major cities.2
I pulled into the driveway late at night, a little nervous. I only knew the host well. Instead of a fearless horny seventh grader, I was now a medicated socially anxious adult.
My trepidations melted away as I was greeted with a “Welcome Drink” — a pickle-back shot — and a fired-up grill. They’d waited to eat, true class acts.
As we dug into late-night lobster rolls under the stars, an inky black lake in the distance, I finally relaxed. We had made it.
This camp had chardonnay and cigarettes and caffeine — but it also had canoes, friendship bracelets, communal meals, story time, campfires and s’mores.
Strong cold brew and stronger martinis, paired with morning lake dips and late afternoon showers. There were bills to pay and leases to sign, but there were aspirations and dreams.
We discussed the lives we had and the lives we wanted, while swinging in hammocks without make-up or shoes. Popsicles and ice cream sandwiches in the afternoons.
We played music from an eclectic CD collection and an old boombox, working in the kitchen as everyone contributed to our new self-sufficient society.
Each night, we gathered round the table and said a secular “thanks” before digging in. Reminiscing on the day’s perfect sunset pontoon and afternoon sandbar “float-illa” — followed by living room games and tipsily finding our way to bed in the early morning hours, excited to wake up and do it all again.
The trip culminated in a themed final dinner, “Birds of a Feather.”
Each gal debuted a curated look — red robin, peacock, swan, parakeet, phoenix, flamingo, and platypus.
Somewhere over smoked salmon dip and lake trout, I realized that over the past three days — we really had become birds of a feather.
The next morning, I pulled out of the driveway lined with my new pals waving goodbye. As I turned up the aux, rolled down the windows, and marveled at the grandiose size of Minnesotan American flags — I smiled.
Instead of discovering my womanhood, I’d returned to my girlhood.
Ever been to summer camp? How did it inform your summers? What about an adult trip that brought back that childlike wonder? Let’s talk about it in the comments. xx
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