When arriving in the meadow, you know that you are close to home. Not close enough that you feel confident you could get there on your own, but close enough to feel the ache in your knees blended with the anticipation of "home."If it has rained any that day, the grass has gathered much water and waited for your jeans and socks to pick it up. The tall grass reminds you that God is keeping the lawn and he likes it tall. Besides FPYC campers, few people walk here. The old logging road is abandoned and slowly being taken over by nature's way.
As you look at the birch trees, you remember that its bark can be used to start a fire - oh yes, campfire tonight. You might even prepare for silly campfaire songs, talk with cabin mates or friends about what silly song you might sing tonight.
"There's a hole in the bottom of the sea," is sung along the hike more than in any other place besides the campfire itself. Lots of jokes have been told in the meadow. Lots of friendships made as well.
It is at this point in the hike that the conversation with the person you are hiking with has gone beyond the surface recapturing of a year apart or the gettting to know you and deeper into the stuff of life. Problems and failures, successes and lucky breaks are more easily shared by the time you get to the meadow. The meadow offers a sort of metaphor for the depth conversations take at this point, a brief coming out of the woods to openness. No longer shielded by the forest canopy, you are open and exposed - but usually pretty safe.
1 comment:
Hi, Chris--
What a joy to read your descriptions of the "Ten-Mile Hikes" and remember that they used to seem like 10 miles, anyway.
I remember cooking like crazy so that I'd be able to go on the hike and have something ready to serve for supper afterward, counting on the time everyone else had for a swim and shower. (I got a #10 can of hot water in the "Bat Room" in the old laundry room off the old dining hall.) I loved the hikes because I saw so many beautiful leaves,ferns, flowers, trees, juicy berries. Nature always recharged my soul.
I remember carrying a canteen and a wash cloth or bandana, which, when wet, could cool a wee camper and get the dust of the gravel pit off their face and out of their eyes. We'd practically have to carry some of the kids, and then, miraculously, they'd get their second wind and run the last part of the hike. "Swim period" was their mantra.
Chris, your enthusiasm for camp is a tremendous encouragement for Al and me both. We love to see your family there. We are so proud of you!
Love,
Dale
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