Here are some Camp Stories.
***
The day's organized recreation, we were all informed, would involve a 10' red ball, a sandy stretch of the creek about 2' deep, and a no-holds-barred cabin vs. cabin struggle to shove or fling the ball across the opposing side's boundary, ideally while dunking as many of the other team in the water as possible. It was going to be strenuous, ridiculous and probably dangerous. We were sent to change into "crickin' clothes" and then report to the field of battle.
"C'mon, guys," I urged the last two stragglers: shy, awkward girls who reminded me of myself in high school. They lagged behind me with obvious reluctance, much as I would have at their age. I raised my hands dramatically and proclaimed, "Let's get ready to BRING THE MAYHEM."
A polite pause. Then a quiet voice replied, "I don't really like mayhem."
***
There was mist settling on the road as we headed for the farthest campfire site, a mile and change from the cabins. The sky was cloudy, and dusk slid over us as we trudged into the woods, absorbed in after-dinner conversations. Then, nearing our destination, we caught a glimpse of torchlight through the trees -- not firelight from ground level, but firelight from the tops of poles. "What is that," said Gavin or somebody, and I thought of that scene in "Beauty and the Beast" when the townspeople are tromping through the woods with torches. Then we rounded a bend and couldn't see it anymore. It sat flickering in our minds, an unanswered question.
Shane stopped everyone just before the final approach to the campfire site. He said some things I couldn't really hear, from where I stood in the crowd, and then I heard him shout, "And now I give you... the Festival of Lights!" and someone nearby lit a bottle rocket or something that shot up and crackled into flame right over our heads.
Out on the bluff was not the usual tame campfire, but a sizeable bonfire, with cans full of fire on poles surrounding it: some maybe four feet high, some more like twelve. It was a lot of light and a lot of heat, which was not unwelcome on this cool evening. Still, roasting marshmallows was a challenge. I feared for my eyebrows until Whompy hit on the idea of using a piece of cardboard as a shield. Diane ignored our warnings and the smell of petroleum, and toasted her marshmallow over one of the cans-on-poles. Occasionally another bottle rocket went off from a different spot in the bushes. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
The last bit of trail onto the bluff passed through a sort of doorway of trees and shrubbery. The bluff beyond it had become a room delineated by light: inside was the brilliant fire and the s'mores fixin's; outside in the hazy dark was a truck bearing two large containers of water and paper cups. Thirsty after several marshmallows, I went to get a drink and got stuck on the path, looking back into the room of light, transfixed by the scene: silhouettes of clustered figures, laughter and squeals, fireworks; an extravagance of conflagration, framed and tinted by mist.
***
Nobody hangs out on the far edge of the creek. It's the shady side, the muddy side, the side where all the trash washes up. But I was bored. All the other staff present were absorbed in trying to retrieve a lost sandal from the depths of the chilly swimming hole with rakes, and the campers were doing campery sorts of things. I like the campers, but it doesn't seem fair to me to just descend upon their activities uninvited: Hi, I'm an authority figure and I'm hanging out with you now, aren't you glad?
So I walked slowly along the far edge of the creek, just looking. At first my eyes skimmed across the steep overgrown bank, registering only stuff, but I gradually settled into the discipline of seeing: water-weed, empty bottle, rotting branch, sapling; round leaf, pointed leaf, grassy leaf. Water strider, submerged pallet, rock, sand, mud, slime. Watch your step. What's under there? What's behind that? If you were a tiny person in a tiny boat, where would you land it? There? Over there? Mossy log, arching ferns, jewel-colored damselflies...
"Hey!" bellowed Nate, splashing toward me; apparently the sandal-hunt was over. "Hey, you huntin' fairies?"
***
Whisper. Giggle. Thump.
The girls at the far end of the cabin were up to something. Every time someone else moved, they got real quiet. Then, after a minute or two, they'd start again: Giggle. Whisper. Giggle.
What was it, 2 a.m? Should I lie there and wait for them to try to sneak out, or tell them to shut up now? Should I address the situation before or after taking a short walk up the hill to the bathhouse? My head was full of sleepy fog. I wished one of the other counselors would wake up and deal with the situation, but they didn't.
Finally my bladder won out. I sat up, found my slippers, and left the cabin, which was (for the moment) quiet. When I returned, I crawled straight back into my sleeping bag, hoping they had gone back to sleep in the interim.
No such luck. Giggle. Rustle. Whisper. Thump.
I got up and walked halfway across the wide cabin. "There's too much noise going on over here," I hissed. "You need to be quiet and go to slee - "
"Come over here! Come over here!" they whispered frantically.
I took a few steps closer, warily. "What's going on?"
"We heard a scary noise! It was the scariest noise in the world!"
Uh.... "What kind of noise?"
"We can't even imitate it! It was too scary!"
"Now that we're awake," whispered another one, "we think it was just someone sleeping. But it freaked us out, so we all jumped into Christy's bed."
"Okay," I said, reassured by the very lameness of their excuse: surely if they were planning to sneak out, they'd have a more coherent story than that. "Now get in your own beds and go back to sleep."
Much to my relief, they did.
***
A dragonfly spun itself in circles, adhered to the surface of the water. Probably weak and dying, I thought, but why not? I reached for its long tail but dropped it on the first try, startled when it curled around to grasp my fingers. A second try and it stood on my knuckles, gleaming with beads of moisture.
"What is that?" asked Saul, wading over to look. We both inspected it: it certainly didn't look weak. Wide yellow markings splotched its sturdy black body; its translucent wings were wide and unmarred, and its large eyes shimmered like a hologram. "That's a nice one," he said. As we watched, it brushed water from its mandibles, then shivered its wings delicately.
It was in no hurry to go anywhere. We both stood and watched it silently. Though my gaze was fixed on the insect, I became gradually aware of our position in the landscape: golden-brown water cascading over a low ridge, flowing past a tiny island of sand and our unmoving knees; campers sloshing slowly around us or perched on stones; a backdrop of wooded banks. We were standing so still. That's a thing that doesn't happen to me often at camp, to be so still, so focused, so present.
"I wanna see it fly," said Saul, and I directed a light stream of breath at the dragonfly, to dry it up quicker. Soon it tensed its body and, launching itself from my hand, soared off into the trees.
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