That Time I Was Bitten by a Tree
In the summer of 1988, I was no longer a Counselor in Training. At 17, I could assume the role of Junior Counselor. For the first time, I was part of the real camp staff; no more dishes to wash in the mess hall; no more shoveling sand on the beach. I could have nights out. I received an actual paycheck at the end of the week, a sweet fifty dollars for my time. The junior staff had more experience with the camp itself than other staff members. Most senior counselors would be there for only a summer or two. We were the crew who, for one reason or another, could not quit the place. I had been coming up to Camp Aharah for at least a couple of weeks each summer for the past nine years. I knew the secret places: the clearing beyond the archery range (site of my first tentless camping experience), the sunken cabin in the swamp, and the climbing tree out by the old railroad bed. I took great pride in my ability to navigate at night and rarely took a flashlight in the cabin area after dark. Th...