My Suburban Escapes

In 2015, I had the privilege of helping kick off a summer program for teens with the Friends of Rye Nature Center which we named Paddle Adventure Camp (PAC). It has shaped my adult summers in the manner that sleepaway camp shapes kids. I never imagined I would be doing it this long, never thought past jumping through the hoops of getting it up and running. We had kayaking and lifeguard certs to secure, first aid to learn, adventures and routes to recon and gear to buy. Our system has evolved into a perfectly imperfect schedule dictated by weather, American Camp Association rules and the logistics of traveling with kids and kayaks: must have two lifeguards on paddle trips, must have counselors over 25 years of age to drive the kids, must have someone who knows how to back up a trailer, must expect Covid to scuttle any of these things at any time. It’s the greatest summer job ever.

Immersing teenagers in the great outdoors is no small task these days. Cell phones constantly compete for their attention, hissing constant promises of instant gratification. Even though they leave their phones in the van, the pull is as palpable as gravity. It takes a while to break the habit of phone in hand and its painful to watch. They are so accustomed to multi-tasking that to do one thing fully is hard on them. Sometimes I think of camp as an intervention, a painful necessity. But once the habit is broken, the joy returns. The skill of talking to your peers rather than Siri.  The empowerment of figuring out where you’re going by just doing it, map in hand, rather than googling. The practice of packing in and packing out. The taste of food in the outdoors rather than a drive-through or a snack bar. The blessing of a skinned knee.

They arrive each morning around 9am and we return them safely each afternoon, filthy dirty and exhausted if we’ve done our job.  Sleepy boys and girls of all sizes, shapes and temperaments appear, clutching backpacks and trying to wake up while they stare at their phones. We hop in the big passenger van, crank on some tunes and hit the road.  They generally don’t speak much before we arrive at our destination, but when we hit the trail phones are put away and the unfurling begins like flowers opening to sunlight. It’s a lesson from which we could all learn.

In our eight summers we’ve logged in 5 trips a week for approximately 280 trips in total. Our first year we offered 6 weeks of camp in two-week sessions with both hiking and paddling daily. While hiking, one of us counselors would run back to get the kayak trailer to a body of water and ready to go when the other counselors arrived with the hike-weary campers. We quickly figured out that this was ridiculously exhausting for all and switched to alternating paddle and hike days. We slowed down our pace and took our time…stopped to smell the roses…and all of us benefitted.  We now offer 8 one-week sessions, with many repeat campers. 5 trips per week. Paddle, hike, paddle, hike, paddle. Live and learn.

We’ve kayaked the Hudson River, the Long Island Sound, Canopus Lake in Fahnestock State Park, Lake Sebago and Storm King Lake in Harriman State Park, Crom Pond in Theodore Roosevelt State Park, the Croton River, Constitution Marsh and Blind Brook.  We’ve hiked in the Hudson Highlands, Bear Mountain, Turkey Mountain, Fahnestock State Park, Sterling Forest, the Mianus River Gorge, Ward Pound Ridge, Westmoreland Sanctuary, Butler Preserve, Cranberry Lake, Rockefeller Preserve and sections of the Appalachian Trail.  We’ve walked the same paths and paddled the same waters which Revolutionary soldiers traversed.  We’ve visited mines and caves. We’ve licked slugs (well, some of us have) to prove that they do indeed have numbing qualities. We’ve collected cicada husks and snake skins and feathers, rocks and driftwood and pinecones, wasp nests and flowers, sea shells and snail shells. We’ve spray painted dried out horseshoe crabs. I have a huge basket with my collection – my pride and joy – which would be in the top ten on my list of things to save if the house caught fire.

We’ve picked and eaten sun-warmed berries, made Dashboard S’mores in the truck and sampled the best ice cream around. Caught crayfish, frogs, butterflies and sunfish. Seen beaver dams and trees with fresh teeth marks.   Cleaned up trash. Watched painters practice their craft en plein air.  Discussed politics, zombies, zombie politics, architecture, travel, cooking, cultural differences, books, video games and rap music (old is better than new).

We’ve talked to through-walkers on the Appalachian Trail who’d been on the road for months. Watched fire ants wage war on black ants, stealing their eggs and plundering their homes. Played in waterfalls, trudged kayaks through overgrown water chestnut, heard the noon bells at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point as their helicopters hovered above us in training. Had a bald eagle fly right by us on a mountain top. Watched hail and lightning storms from the safety of our van.  Dunked our heads and feet in cold streams. Painted over graffiti on rocky cliffs in gray/brown tones to mask it. Painted our faces and bodies in river mud for sunscreen. Played soccer under weeping willows and countless games of Mafia while waiting for weather to clear.  Worn Mugwort leaves in our hats to ward off mosquitos. Learned to read trail maps, charts and trail markers. Found petroglyphs drawn by Lipan natives.  We’ve learned to get along and leave no man behind, to be prepared and to THINK in order to elude potential danger, rather than be afraid.

Camp has ended now, and I’m almost my other self again.  I’m still too feral to eat indoors or make polite conversation with adults, but I’m getting there. The time has come to let some new counselors have the fun I’ve had, but my teenage camper self will always reign supreme.