More than a Camp

I've been rolling my eyes at all the recent attention and media posts from my friends about Lost Lake Scout Reservation closing. I’ve been saying things like, "We all knew it was possible." And a few hours later- it hits me. I know I wasn't there as long as many of my friends and colleagues, but I was there. That place meant a lot to me- it was a home for me when I felt like I had nowhere else to go, when I was confused or scared, when my dad died- I had camp. It was always there for me- waiting- like milk in the fridge, or God... it's just always supposed to be there.

 

I was never more myself than I was when I was at LLSR. All the people I left behind... that were still around me as long as I was up there.... I feel like I lost them all over again. LLSR was... a home. I never felt so accepted before. Hell, Day One: I knew NOBODY, and these guys, these crazy, pierced, smoking, loud rowdy guys pulled me into an overfilled camp truck and treated me like an old friend. And that's just the way it was. Noplace in the world will ever be like that. And I'm going to miss it.

 

I feel hollow.

 

The people, the relationships... all the shit we went through. We all say it meant nothing, but look around. Look at all of us. Face it- we're upset.  We're united. We're all hurt or crying or drinking or.... we feel it. And as long as we feel it, it mattered.

And THAT is what hurts.

 

We have PROOF. We KNOW what that camp is, what it means to be at Lost Lake; to be staff member is like an immediate initiation into a club that has your back no matter what, good times or bad. It’s hard work, sweat, blood, lost sweaters and broken hearts. It’s midnight rides in hijacked golf carts, it’s spicy fries and a corner jukebox, an old tree out in the middle of nowhere. It’s belonging to something bigger than yourself.

 

It’s an amazing thing, to work with a scout. Sure, you can meet at a local library, but nothing will ever compare to leaving your laptop, iPhone, and parents three hours behind you, and getting thrust into the woods with a bunch of crazy counselors who want to sing and jump around and joke and flip your kayak right when you think you’re finally getting the hang of it. It’s rainy nights, and sharing a can of Pringles with a group of hungry CIT’s in the basement of Bennett Lodge during a tornado. It’s breaking your foot on a renegade turtle rescue during that same tornado. It’s the scouts and friends and fellow staff that made that place come alive, but without that place… none of those wonderful things that shaped us, that shaped those scouts into young men, men who are responsible and kind and successful… without Lost Lake, where would we be?

 

And where do we go now?

 

Just get over it, get on with our lives. “It’s only camp,” is the mantra from my non-scouting, my non-LLSR friends. Even among us, we talk of how we needed to be free of “the crutch” and how good this will be for our tight-knit cliques built on years of experience and grudging seniority. I agree only slightly. That camp, those 2000 odd acres of carved trees and broken glass, fire pits in the middle of nowhere and secret spots with names like “The Oak Tree,” “The Duck Pond,” and “Cabin 2,”- those places are our homes. They house or memories, our hearts. They taught us more than knots and fishing. We learned about life- as cliché as it is, it is sadly true. We learned about responsibility, honesty, friendship, and the true value of a helping hand. We learned not to sweat the small stuff, and some days- it’s ALL small stuff. We saw the fruits of hard work, and we basked in the glow not only of oversized bonfires, but in our scouts. Every high-five or youth-protection-violating hug we dodged taught us just how much our work mattered.

 

So where do we go from here?

 

Back to work, back to classes, back to bed. The world spins on, oblivious to the hearts that are simultaneously breaking. We have places to be, deadlines to meet. We cannot drop our lives for an extra moment to pick up our memories. That’s not how it works, this life. So we continue on. We go to school, to work, to our families. We push against the torn edges of our hearts, making grocery lists and memorizing the periodic table. And over time, the pangs will dull, the edges soften, and eventually it will stop. We’ll have our memories; we’ll be those grandparents talking about how things were “-when we were young.” But it will always linger, that feeling. We’ll always remember how being out at Lost Lake made us feel. Maybe one day we’ll be at the beach, and the smell of the sand and water will hit us with a thousand memories. Maybe we’ll pass a tree limb that resembles something other than a limb. Maybe we’ll remember a ridiculous song about a turtle, and we’ll smile to ourselves. And that’s what we’ll have to carry with us to keep the spirit of Lost Lake alive.