White Stag - 3.5

Everybody is at camp and I have never felt more alone in my life and I thought that maybe if I wrote about White Stag and spilled my heart out onto the page it would make me feel better so here I am at half past 1 in the morning trying my best not to stain my pillow with tears I miss everybody so much I miss being a PC I miss the feeling of being surrounded by love and joy. A lot of people ask me why I love White Stag so much especially when dust clouds rise every time I walk and mosquitoes cover my arms with itchy bumps and sweat trickles down my cheek like a tear drop but honestly the answer is simple; when I'm at White Stag, it's like the earth stops spinning. Time stops, and it's like I'm trapped in a picture in one of those smiling candids of a family behind a shield of glass that preserves a memory in time forever it's like I'm in one of those photographs except it's not forever it's only for a couple of days and then the glass shatters and the bubble bursts and everything is back to normal but that normal is not okay when my normal has become White Stag when I wake up every morning wondering how long I have to get ready until Opening begins when I go to meals and do grace and cookies like it's second nature when I sit on a bench in the Campfire Bowl sandwiched in between two best friends and I feel at home when I think of home and my mind wanders to Piney Creek when I hate the goddamn outdoors but at White Stag I can't help but be in awe of nature's exquisite masterpieces. When I'm at White Stag I don't think of anything other than White Stag I don't think about piano or debate or tennis or the SAT or AP classes or the last fight I had with my parents or how somebody from school is mad at me. Everything melts away and I am living in a pure ecstatic exhilaration and then camp ends and I feel empty and hollow and I return back to my regular world of stress and compulsions and grades and college preparations. This year, every time I felt like stomping up the stairs and slamming the door and punching my pillow and screaming into my backyard at night, I would think about the next staff development or about camp or about a previous heartfelt memory and that would be enough to carry me through to the next day and I don't know how to live without White Stag anymore I don't know who to talk to when I desperately need somebody to listen I don't know what to look forward to it's like my life was a blank canvas before I entered the program and now this camp has painted it a vivid blend of extraordinary hues. The candidates will be arriving in the morning and I won't be there and it breaks my heart into a million little shards.

White Stag - 3.0

I hear the bubbling creek. I hear the frogs croaking, but I can not see them. Birds sing their carefree tunes around me. Flies and mosquitos buzz past my ears. I hear the laughter of my friends, the kind of genuine laughter that can only be achieved by real happiness. I hear the songs of the crickets, calling out in the darkness of the night. I hear the yelling, sense the spirit embedded deep within them. I hear the whispers of reflections across the camp, hear the silent tears as friends think about impending goodbyes. I hear the crackling of a campfire, the pops of flames licking the air, the brush of cloth against cloth as we sway to the melody of a slow song. I hear the thump of boot against dirt, hear the scratching of stave against rock, hear the splash of patrols wading through the winding streams. I hear the skim of khaki against lush green leaves. I hear the sincerity of the "I love you"s. 

I feel the dirt. I feel the dust caking up on my skin layer after layer until the soapy wet wipe that I use in a desperate attempt to clean myself comes back brown. I feel the scorching heat, the waves of heat that roll off of me like a tsunami of fire. I feel the sweat that drips off of my nose and makes my glasses slip. I feel the cool refreshing relaxation of dipping my bare feet into the creek, squirming at the touch of weeds brushing past my toes. I feel the breeze that lifts my hair and makes it dance - it feels like heaven. I feel the sharp pain of burrs in my boots or splinters in my fingertips. I feel the weight of my backpack on my hips as I trudge step by step up a steep hill. I feel the exhilarating punch of cold water against my skin as I stand beneath the spigot and let the stream cool my body. I feel the fabric of my sleeping bag soft beneath my exhausted body. I feel the weight of my friends against my sides as we cuddle together beneath the stars. I feel the ache in my stomach from laughing too much, too hard. 

I taste the water. I taste the way the clear filtered water from the spigot reminds me of home. I taste the salty drops of sweat that drip down my face and roll onto my lips. I taste the creamy warmth of my favorite soup from Central. I taste the wind on my tongue. I taste the sweet, dried papaya that we clamber for in the trail mix. I taste the crunch of chocolate chips in those lovely soft brownies that melt in my mouth as we sit in a circle and evaluate the day. I taste the love that spills off of my tongue and solidifies into words as I talk about my experience in the White Stag program in front of a campfire of people.

I smell the crisp air free of pollution. I smell the musky cows that I walk past every single day on my way to meals. I smell the garlic bread and the marinara sauce in the campfire bowl. I smell the humidity in the showers that makes it almost difficult to breathe sometimes. I smell the overwhelming scent of the leaves that crowd around the bridge and engulf me every time I need to cross over to the other side.

I see the clouds of dust that rise every time I take a step. I see the streaks of dirt on my arms and legs. I see the way that my friends' eyes swell up every morning, and I can't stop laughing. I see the illuminated paper bags that light up the trails to ceremonies. I see the stag, shining bright against the branches of a tree. I see the laugh lines in the familiar faces around me. I see the creek, teeming with tiny bugs and leeches, rushing over smooth gray stones. I see the exhaustion under my friends' eyes. I see the giant expanse of stars above me, like powdered sugar juxtaposed against a black canvas. I see the occasional shooting star that I make wishes on - I wish for the moment to never ever ever end. I see the dim light from my lantern as I scribble down the day's memories in a notebook in my tent, past midnight. I see the explosions of water droplets in the pool as we splash around during the Class A swim. I see the tears that stain the cheeks around me. I see the rhythmic swaying to slow songs. I see the hugs so tight that my knuckles turn white. I see the intense love that surrounds me from every single side.

Before camp started, I remember writing in my journal that I was dreading going to White Stag. Because if camp started, then it had to end, and I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to let go of the memories that this program had given to me. I didn't want to let go of the friends that had become family over just nine lightning quick months. I didn't want to let go of all of the traditions and quirks that this program had adopted throughout its lifetime. 

Last year, during a campfire, somebody told me that being a candidate was like getting 1% of the White Stag experience, and that the other 99% could only be achieved by being on staff. I now genuinely believe that that is true. 

I am so eternally grateful for what this program has given to me. White Stag, thank you so much.