This reflection was shared anonymously by a member of the camp community.

Places matter a lot to me, the geography of things.  I can never seem to remember a person’s name when I first meet them, or what someone told me at a party. But I can visit a place one short time and remember the way back.  I can hike a high-mountain trail and see the details of it as a walk through my mind’s eye decades later.  I can recognize the Bar 717 Ranch from 35,000 feet on the way to Seattle on a clear day as well, as long as the tears are not flowing too hard.  It’s only a few miles down, I think, why not just drop in?

I was 10, I was shy and maybe unhappy for reasons I could not really grasp at the time, and I was going to camp for a whole month.  As we pulled up in the family car, we were on the late side, most of the other campers had already arrived, and I was full of nerves.  Other boys on the platform ran up, whisked me away from my parents, and my life changed course that moment.  I immersed myself in the simple beauty of a rustic place, found peace in song and silence and nature and hard work and complete acceptance of who I was, and developed a toughness I had not known before.  My love affair with the natural world, my spirit-temple, was born that summer and has sustained my life ever since.  I returned 12 years later to be a counselor and found new joys of working with children that set the course of my career.

Twenty six more years passed without returning. Life picks up speed, gets busy, and one can easily forget what’s most important, such as one’s favorite places.  I won’t tell you about all those years.  It’s not important for what I want to tell you.  What I want to tell you is that after a long, healthy and happy period of my life, things have gotten pretty rough.  I have a bag of tools for coping with this.  Do you know what usually works best?  I lie down or sit quietly and open my mind’s eye.  I see Gates Mountain, the horse barn in the foreground, and a view from Friendship Hill.  I pour the batter for my pancakes.  I walk to Vespers, say nothing, and listen to the breeze and the good, gentle people making music or poetry around me, and watch the sun setting.  I walk down the hot, dusty path, scramble down the rope, and float on Hayfork Creek, looking up at a skinny bridge.  I square dance under the stars, and hope that cute girl notices me.  I lie in my sleeping bag and listen to the crickets.  The next day I sit under an apple tree and think of the future, my good day and the world stretched out before me.

I return to now, and here. My heart has slowed, my thoughts are settled. I am terribly grateful for this place, though I can only mind-travel there.  It is my heart’s home.  Please drink in the goodness of your life, be slow and present in the peaceful, beautiful world, and call upon it in your mind’s eye when the road gets bumpy.