On a warm spring evening in , I board a bus in New York City headed for the foothills of Pennsylvania. The plan is simple: spend a long weekend with strangers and relive the camp experience I never had as a teenager: bunk beds, crushes, dodgeball games, and all. Despite growing up on Vancouver Island, where babies exit the womb with a kayak and a membership to MEC, I rarely set foot in the woods.
I was raised by non-campers, and the isolation and vastness of the woods terrify me. Even before COVID, the weekend sounds like the plot of a reality show and my worst nightmare rolled into one. Socially, I like an exit plan. Will a similar impulse take over once I get to camp?
As we weave through the streets of Manhattan, a camp counsellor makes her way down the aisle, passing out beer. My fears are not unfounded. After a booze-and-pizza-filled campfire meet-and-greet, I retire to my top bunk wearing a parka over my pajamas to ward off the bone-chilling early-spring mountain air.
In the middle of the night, I wake to yelling from the shared bathroom. This is terrible. This is horrible! At first, I think I might be dreaming.
When I open my eyes, I see my cabin mate pointing at the bunk beds lining the room. You suck! Shaken, I feel this outburst is as ridiculous as it is familiar. Here it is happening live. The next morning, I stumble down the ladder of my bunk and make my way to the bathroom. I am in the midst of putting in a contact lens when a shirtless guy takes the spot at the sink next to mine and cheerfully introduces himself. I have to acknowledge the human being standing next to me and engage.
