Let me start by taking you back . . .
Young Camp
Eleven years ago, I got out of a van that had taken me from my house to this random park. I was with 12 other kids from my neighborhood, some of whom I knew from school, and others I had just seen around. We walked over in a little blob to these log benches arranged as an amphitheater. I found a spot, sat, and looked around. I watched older kids jumping up and down and singing songs about a moose with juice and some guy getting on a ship sailing across the Irish sea. These weren’t like the middle schoolers I had imagined. They seemed so serious and grown-up — sort of what I aspired to be.
I sang along and eventually was put in a group with 11 other kids and my first counselor, Marissa. Our lunches spilled out of ripping paper bags, and the smell of sunscreen lingered in the air as we sat in a circle and told each other our names.
I knew we were all going to be friends.
We had so much in common: we were all in elementary school, our parents packed our lunches, we were all wearing shoes — I mean, we were set up for success!
Even though we were just sitting on the grass, the world appeared brighter, bigger, and more alive.
I felt like I was in a world created by Monet, each blade of grass added by a gentle brush stroke, and in the sky above a curated collage of birds and clouds gently framed the sun.
At the pool, some would have described the smell of chlorine as suffocating, but we didn’t care. We saw an unexplored water body where there might be secret treasures or other friends to make. We turned our camp counselors into krakens and squealed as they stomped toward us.
We were told stories of Jake the Giant and the leaf people. If we left gifts for them, maybe in return they’d leave something for us. Every little disturbance was just the leaf people or another mythical creature.
When I got home after that first day of camp, I couldn’t wait to tell my parents about everything I’d found and the things I’d learned. What to them probably seemed like a bunch of nothing meant so much to me, shaped by discovery and my awe of anything new.
That sense of wonder is why I love to tell the story of my first day of camp. Even though I’m only 17 now, as I’ve been faced with more responsibility and a busier schedule, I’ve often let routine take the place of wonder. I think this is a common theme as we get older.
I keep coming back to this question: How can we find wonder and a little bit of whimsy in our everyday lives? I strive to recreate that magical curiosity and feeling that everything is new and wonderful. How did I let that feeling slip away?
It really comes down to our striving to be more serious. Maybe we don’t actually want to be more serious, but we want to appear more serious and to make sure that other people think we’re grown-up — even if we miss seeing the world as we once did.
At camp we have no stakes. There’s no one to put on an act for, no one to impress with how mature we are. When we’re put in that situation, we can come back to the vision of our younger selves.
Older Camp
When I was in middle school, I was pretty typical. I was nervous about what other people might think about me and what grades I was getting. But when I went to camp, none of that mattered. I was surrounded by other people who just wanted to have fun and run around, not worrying about their math test or who they were going to take to the winter dance.
I knew there were kids at my school who would’ve thought it was cringy, but I didn’t. I found the people who could see a cake in a pile of mud and a castle in a tree.
In my final summer as a camper, I was a part of a group named “The Beans.” This name came from our inability to form even circles when sitting down. Though we spent more time bonding over simple conversation than when we were younger, we never passed up an opportunity to make mud or play a game of tag. When we’d suggest things to do, most people would start with “Remember when we…” and reminisce about an event their eight-year-old selves found important enough to store away.
“Remember when we caught crawdads with sticks and grass?”
“Remember when we competed to see who could jump in the air for the longest?”
“Remember when we created a new song to sing to the entire camp?”
Deep down, I think we were really just saying, “Remember when we didn’t feel like we had to be so serious?”
When our group went canoeing, the power of six 13-year-olds wasn’t capable of moving the canoe faster than an average walking pace, but that didn’t matter. We weren’t chasing a gold medal in a race or looking to impress other people. We laughed at how slowly we moved while pushing even harder and splashing water all over each other. In the end, we finally made a lap around the bay and came out absolutely drenched.
Looking beyond the bay to the ocean, the water sparkled as if glitter had been poured into it, and the seals barked and splashed around near the docks.
Our memories weren’t of our top speed or how long it took us, but of the chant we made to stay in time and when we rolled in the sand afterward to become human churros.
Throughout my middle school summers, I held onto that camp whimsy for as long as I could. It seemed so hard to replicate that feeling when I wasn’t around other people who thought the same way I did — until I realized the only thing holding me back was me.
I could recreate that feeling. When I just let myself relax, I began to find joy in minor events. I opened up my senses to experience everything that surrounded me, and I discovered that there was so much more to see than I thought. The colors of a bird and the texture of a leaf — these objects I’d previously walked past without a second thought were suddenly part of an expanded sensory experience. The grass was a little greener and the sky a little brighter.
Counselor
As I moved into high school, I returned to camp once again, but as a counselor. I thought that might mean that I wouldn’t get as much of that camp magic anymore, since I’d be on the other side of the experience.
I was selected to be one of the camp photographers, and that came along with different responsibilities from my friends who were going to be with groups. I was supposed to run around all day and take photos of as many kids as I could, make sure that faces were in focus, and try to catch them smiling. (Keeping focus on a running nine-year-old is hard!)
On one occasion I had just finished taking pictures of a group in their secret fort, and on that day the tree ninjas had visited and brought them some special rocks. One of the campers served me cookies, and another offered mud tattoos of birds. On my way out, I stopped to thank the counselor for creating the kind of camp experience that I remembered having as a camper. And as I walked back to the main park area, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears remembering myself at seven making rock sculptures and leaving gifts for the leaf people.
That’s when I really understood that my job wasn’t just to capture pictures of the kids for their parents, but to capture camp’s magic and the joy that comes from imagination.
Now I tell young campers about how, “a hundred years ago,” when I was a camper, my group nearly saw Jake the Giant. I tell them I made friends with the leaf people and how to make the queen’s favorite meal, a mud pie, of course. And I’m not just sharing the magic that I’ve experienced, but inspiring them to create their own — a set of memories they’ll share with others in a few years. This cycle is part of what makes camp so special.
Tying It Together
When I look back at pictures of myself when I was a camper, I see beyond the photos. I remember my group’s name, the inside jokes, and the friends I made. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but there are another thousand words of memories behind each one.
Camp changed the way I think about memories. Creating them, recalling them, sharing them with others — they create more than images of who we were and how we lived in the moment; they evoke emotions that truly make us feel alive.
In the end, it still comes back to allowing ourselves to see the world through the lens of whimsy.
Understanding that not everything has to be perfectly efficient or straight to the point, and in appreciating the small details that we may have previously overlooked, we see more. We can find the nuance in everything and find something that brings wonder to our lives, just like when we were younger. And we can capture those moments in vivid memories.
Experiencing camp and all of its magic has permanently altered the lens through which I see the world.
If you haven’t already, this summer, I challenge you to find a place or a feeling where the grass is just a little greener and the sky a little brighter, and to hold onto that feeling when you return home. I know when I go back home to find the pencils on my desk slightly moved from when I last saw them, I’ll wonder if the leaf people came around and drew something with them while I was gone.
Liam Doran is a recent high school graduate looking forward to attending college this year. He soaked in the magic of camp for a dozen years as a camper and then counselor and loves music and robotics.
