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.
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.
