We set off down an unfamiliar trail with the sun already high in the sky, presiding over a forest newly vibrant with the warmth of early summer. As we walked in tense anticipation I was keenly aware of how the sunlight would filter down through the trees to flicker across my face, the fleeting glow of which provided me with a temporary distraction and much needed respite. It was to be my third season as a camper in the 11^th summer of my life, and already I was beginning to grow acquainted with that sinking feeling which so often escorts me to the precipice of change.

Unsure of exactly where we were headed, the sight of a figure in the distance walking towards us on the trail did little to quell my discomfort. My uneasiness jerked me from the moment, and as I briefly disconnected from my surroundings and withdrew inwards I found myself thinking back to the events which had brought me to that point. For the past two summers I had been a camper at a fairly normal, if a bit rustic, camp called Timberlake which is part of a greater community of camps called Farm & Wilderness. When we arrived to Timberlake on the first day to check-in, earlier that bright morning, my mother had been the first to receive the news. After what seemed like ages she emerged from the main office with shock and dismay written plainly on her face. “There’s been a mix-up with the paperwork” she told me. “I’m sorry, but if you want to go to camp your only choice is to attend Flying Cloud or spend the summer at home.”

This was a difficult piece of news. As innocent as I was to the ways of the world, my mother may as well have told me she was shipping me off to the Congo. From my limited perspective I couldn’t fathom a more sudden and momentous change, nor a culture more radically different from my own. Nearly all that I had heard of Flying Cloud came from legends passed between Timberlake campers around the campfire. Although all of the camps had slightly different themes of focus such as hiking, farming and gardening, or skills typical of boy scouts, Flying Cloud stood out for its extreme emphasis on survival and primitive living skills. Its campers were said to possess astonishing ability in these areas and their exploits were a frequent topic of gossip. Due to their primitive encampment’s remote location embedded deep in the Green Mountains 9 miles away from the rest of the camps, we would only see them at large and infrequent all-camp gatherings. They would hike all the way down to these events and emerge from the forest like woodland creatures, often barefoot and shaggy. They smelled of smoke and adorned themselves with unfamiliar artifacts as though a part of some lost tribe, which only validated the rumors for me. One popular tale told of a barbaric rite of passage where new members were initiated by being cast out into the wilds for several days with nothing more than a pocket knife and a potato to make use of as they could. The rest was shrouded in mystery, and the subject of much speculation.

Although the little that I knew was surely intimidating, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the idea of Flying Cloud. Rather than share my mother’s dread at the prospect of the switch I was able to swallow the knot of anxiety welling up inside me and give myself over to the new experience. In a sense it was a stroke of luck, because at that age it would have been difficult for me to take matters into my own hands and initiate such a drastic change myself, even if I did find the idea of Flying Cloud strangely appealing. With abrupt certainty I said my farewells to my friends at Timberlake as if in a daze and we set out in search of the dirt road leading to my mysterious new home. I had never been on a dirt road before, and barely had time to absorb the experience before the car rolled to a halt. After traveling several miles, it seems that the road had ended without explanation in an overgrown clearing bordered by crumbling cliffs and rubble. Puzzled, my mom double checked to make sure we had gone the right way before we got out of the car looking for a sign.

It was as we were struggling uphill on a rugged footpath which we presumed to lead in the right direction that I spotted the figure walking towards us. My mind came back into focus just in time to process the introduction of one of the Farm & Wilderness directors who had come to assist us with our luggage. As we all walked together back to the car, he assured us that we were indeed on the right path. The camp is so rustic as to be made inaccessible by motor vehicle, and so the only way to reach it by car is to park in the “gravel pit” and then walk about a mile. Although he had come to help us with the luggage, he took one look at the engorged behemoth of a duffel back that we had packed for Timberlake and began shaking his head. “Mind if I take a look?” he said as he unzipped the bag and began sorting through my belongings. “There’s no electricity of any kind at Flying Cloud, so you won’t be needing these” He said as he pulled out assorted flashlights, headlights, and camping lanterns. “or these” as a watch, alarm clock, and phone were also expunged. “And all this bulky cotton clothing won’t be any use when it’s wet. It won’t keep you warm, plus it’s heavy and hard to dry in the sun’” After all of the electronics and other superfluous items were removed I was surprised to see that my remaining possessions were light enough for us to carry together.

As we made our way up the narrow trail while hefting my newly shameful materialistic cargo, I was introduced to the reality of camp Flying Cloud through the explanation of the director. Flying Cloud was founded in the 60’s by a Native American counselor at Timberlake by the same name, who set it up as a primitive encampment and began teaching survival skills as taught by Natives of his tribe. When Flying Cloud himself died in the Vietnam War, the role of providing guidance to the camp was passed on to other Native Americans in the nearby community, and so over the years there has been a continuous tradition of learning survival skills passed down directly from indigenous people. In keeping with the values of simplicity and community of the camp, there is no electricity or running water. Instead the campers are expected to take turns working for the benefit of the community. Each morning one group of campers pumps water out of a well, while another cooks for the group over an open fire. Still more campers drag dead branches in from the forest while others chop the branches into firewood and set the wood to dry. Every so often all the campers rally together to bring up food from the “gravel pit.” Food is refrigerated in an ice house that is supplied each winter by dedicated campers that cut the ice out of the pond and bury it in saw dust. The counselors mostly just oversee the process and provide guidance along the way, while allowing campers a great deal of freedom and independence.

“Well, here we are” said the director after his lengthy briefing. “Is this the camp?” I said, with apprehension.  All I could see was a clearing where the trail seemed to reach an end. As I stepped cautiously to the edge of the clearing I saw a sight I will never forget. Nestled into the warm lush forest from which we had emerged was an open meadow brimming with waist-high grass moved by the breeze like the windswept pool of a secret oasis. All along the periphery of the meadow were towering teepees covered in primal murals scrawled along white canvas. They stood tall and proud as the trees along the edges of the forest like sentinels keeping watch, exotic monuments the likes of which I had never seen before. It wasn’t long before I was assigned to one of them, and a counselor who was introduced to me as River Holds the Stone was handing me a shovel and asking me to help dig a trench around the new teepee. Somehow they had divined that it might rain the next day and they were concerned about our stuff washing away in a deluge should the torrential rain flow through the teepee. “Don’t worry” I said to my mom as she was getting ready to leave “I think I like it here”.

Not only did I like it, after 4 summers as a camper at Flying Cloud its impact on me was an indelible mark that I carry with me to this day. In my final summer I had the honor of being selected as drumkeeper for ceremonies, which was a sought after leadership position. I became good friends with the firekeeper that season, and he later invited me on a group trip to Africa which was to be my first international journey, the spark that lit many fires. The summers I spent at Farm and Wilderness were an important refuge for me and a crucial part of my development. Not only did I derive many of my values from my summers there, but it was a safe space to heal from my parent’s divorce where I could find a sense of self. In an effort to avoid “cultural appropriation” the camp has since moved away from its roots in Native American culture and spirituality and developed its own unique traditions, I consider myself lucky to have had that experience and cherish insight which it has afforded me. I will always believe in the healing power of nature and put my faith in the bonds that a tight knit community can foster. The decision to attend Flying Cloud that summer was like a stone tossed into still water, whose concentric ripples continue to span outward and reverberate through time.