Pulling onto the gravel road

Written by Matthew Ranville sometime in 2023.
Matt loves biking, exploring, playing hockey, hanging with his trusty pup, and his cool wife, Erin. Matt writes for fun (and for work), and we think he should keep writing fun things about camp because this one, and the other stories he has written for us, are just so great.

When many people love something, they will, of course, love it in many ways, and for many reasons. If you ask someone for their favorite (or most significant) memories of Camp Chickagami, you will receive an overwhelming range of responses. I have listened to men sharing stories of Boys Camp around a late night fire, young people speaking of the life-changing work they did as staff and councilors, and watched as my friends' baby learned to roll over in front of the fireplace in cabin Esau. 

When I was asked to share some of my writing about this place, I thought, "Good God, how could I ever capture the numberless experiences I've had, let alone the infinite ones others have?"

Then I thought, there is something we share, one experience I think everyone who comes to camp has.

Whether our travel is short or long, no matter your cabin, activities, work, at some point, we all leave the paved road and travel the dirt and gravel one that ends near the lake.

The first time I came to camp, I was, frankly, afraid. I had been invited by a friend, but I knew that she'd be busy and that I would know few, if any, of my fellow campers at the retreat that weekend. I had traveled a frustrating five hours from southeast Michigan, up i75, in my overpacked car. My foot had been hard on the accelerator, my impatience high. 

I had no idea what to expect of the place or the retreat, and I had a keen sense that I was a stranger in someone else's holy land. Part of me kept wondering if this was a mistake. I reminded myself repeatedly that acting from a place of insecurity leads to regrets, that I needed to say "yes" to invitations once in a while.

When I made the right turn on to what my modern car still identifies as Boys Camp Road, when my tires crunched dirt and gravel, I finally let my right foot lift, slowed, and came over the last little hill of driveway. Ahead of me, between Kaufman and the Lower Units, I saw the lake, reflecting back to heaven the bright silver-blue of the late afternoon sky.

I wondered then, and wonder each time I arrive still, how many people have turned off the pavement, full of anticipation, full of insecurity, full of wonder.

I know it is many, and I know that there is at least that one thing we all share. That first arrival at camp.