Right up front- I want to say- this will be my last post about my recent trip to the Lala land of Cashiers, North Carolina.
Scout’s Honor Cross My Heart And Hope To Die, which is a not so clever literary maneuver which brings me to the gates of memory lane and the days of ‘Summer Camp‘.
Aah. The lazy hazy days of summer camp.
Deep in green.
Cool water on suntanned skin.
Late night s’mores.
Ghost stories around the campfire.
Making BFF’s for life.
Falling to sleep by the light of the silvery moon.
Awaking to the smell of griddle cakes and bird call…
Because my Summer Camp experience went more like this:
1) Mosquito bitten legs.
2) Crappy food.
3) Bunking with a bitchy blonde, a six-foot-six She-Man with obligatory uni-brow, and an assortment of baby poindexter’s with braces and stuffed bras.
4) Bathing suit removal as a result of over-extended swan dive I had no possible qualifications for attempting.
5) Daily rides on horses- western style.
6) Showering with snakes and the occasional improperly plumbed sewer burp.
7) And, skedaddling with a camp counselor to the local McDonald’s.
I HATED IT! (not the MacDonald’s part- or the cute counselor).
Why? Oh, Why? I asked my mother, did I have to go to camp?
We lived in ‘Camp‘- in the country, with a working farm through the woods, ponds to swim in, a go-cart track in the field, tons of kid’s in the neighborhood, a short bicycle ride to town, and movies for $1.50 on Saturday afternoons.
Are you kidding?
NO, she wasn’t.
So, off to camp my sister and I went.
For one long, boring, irritable, stupid week with scheduled activities and overly enthusiastic staff.
(Do you get the impression I’m not quite over it yet?)
That was my camp experience.
Last week I saw a whole other kind of camp, in the off-season- but pretty impressive regardless.
Sort-of mythical. A place where miracles could happen and there wouldn’t be poison ivy. Where a girl could learn to fletch an arrow and cop a dip in the newest OPI nail color (let’s face it- the price tag for a one week visit is over $5k and would pretty much guarantee a full OPI selection along with some pretty awesome hiking boots).
Down the street from the ‘lil cabin in the mountains where I was staying, Bonnie insisted we explore the world of Camp Merrie-Woode.
Off we went, trekking the lakes, traversing the inclines, poking in cabins, parking illegally.
Not a soul in site.
I could be camper and counselor. My own rules. No rules. Pretending to be Guinevere in search of her Arthur.
Maybe I could learn to forge my very own Excalibur…
|One of the early 20th century hand laid stone foundation posts
under a camper’s cabin at
|A footpath lined with original 1920’s Adirondack-style cabins along Lake Fairfield|
|A restored original hand-turned canoe
waiting for camper’s to arrive.
|Lake Fairfield spreads out
at the feet of
Old Bald Mountain
|An original counselors cabin sided in bark matting.|