associations for her. “In the winter,” she added, “my uncle Clyde brings his family up for cross-country skiing and snowshoe hiking.”
“Crazy,” Freddy murmured. “Almost makes me want a normal family.”
She glanced over at him. “Well, if what you see today doesn’t send you screaming back to New York City, you’ll have a tribe of Bellamys all summer long.”
“Works for me. And, ah, did I mention the situation with my apartment?”
“Oh, Freddy.”
“You got it. Jobless and homeless. I’m a real prize.”
“You’re working with me this summer, and you’re living at Camp Kioga.” He was her best friend. What else could she say?
She slowed down as she saw the white flicker of a deer’s tail from the corner of her eye. A moment later, a doe and a fawn appeared, and Freddy was so excited, he nearly dropped his camera.
In the shuttle van years ago, camp regulars used to call out landmarks along the way, each sighting greeted with mounting excitement as they drew closer and closer to their destination.
“There’s Lookout Rock,” someone would announce, pointing and bouncing up and down in the seat. “I saw it first.”
Others would be named in quick succession—Moss Creek, Watch Hill, Sentry Rock, Saddle Mountain, Sunrise Mountain and, finally, Treaty Oak, a tree so old that it was said Chief Jesse Lyon himself had planted it to commemorate the treaty he signed with Peter Stuyvesant, the colonial governor.
Her twelfth summer, Olivia had ridden in silence. With each passing landmark, her stomach sank a little lower and dread became a physical sensation of cold, dead weight inside. And outside, she reflected. The weight she gained represented the stress of her quietly warring parents, the demands of school, her own unexpressed fears.
They passed a glass art studio with a whimsical sign by the road and then a stretch of riverside land, where the meadows were almost preternaturally green and the forest deep and mysterious. High in a sunny glade sat, of all things, a small Airstream travel trailer with a black-and-chrome Harley parked outside.
“Interesting place,” Freddy commented.
“There are still a lot of counterculture types around here,” Olivia said. “Woodstock’s not that far away.”
Passing Windy Ridge Farm, with yet another whimsical sign, they came around the last curve in the road, turned onto a gravel drive marked Private Property—No Trespassing, which wound through woods that grew thicker with every mile. Finally, there it was, a hand-built timber arch looming over the road—the entrance sign to the property. Built on massive tree trunks, it was the signature trademark of the camp. A sketch of the rustic archway bordered the stationery kids used for their weekly letters home. Across the arch itself was Camp Kioga. Est’d 1932 in Adirondack-style twig lettering.
On the bus, kids would hold their breath, refusing to take another until they passed beneath the arch. Once they were inside the boundaries of the camp, there was a loud, collective exhalation, followed by war whoops of excitement. We’re here.
“You all right?” Freddy asked.
“Fine,” Olivia said tightly. She slowed down as the dry, sharp gravel crackled under the tires. As they drove along the ancient road, shadowed by arching maple and oak, she had the strangest sensation of stepping back through time, to a place that was not safe for her.
The pitted drive was overgrown, branches swiping at the lumbering SUV. She parked in front of the main hall and let Barkis out. The dog skittered around in an ecstasy of discovery, determined to sniff every blade of grass.
The hundred-acre property was mostly wilderness, with Willow Lake as the centerpiece. There were rustic buildings, meadows and sports courts, cabins and bungalows lining the placid, pristine lake. Olivia pointed out the archery range, the tennis and pickle-ball courts, the amphitheater and hiking trails that were now completely overgrown.
“Crazy,” Freddy murmured. “Almost makes me want a normal family.”
She glanced over at him. “Well, if what you see today doesn’t send you screaming back to New York City, you’ll have a tribe of Bellamys all summer long.”
“Works for me. And, ah, did I mention the situation with my apartment?”
“Oh, Freddy.”
“You got it. Jobless and homeless. I’m a real prize.”
“You’re working with me this summer, and you’re living at Camp Kioga.” He was her best friend. What else could she say?
She slowed down as she saw the white flicker of a deer’s tail from the corner of her eye. A moment later, a doe and a fawn appeared, and Freddy was so excited, he nearly dropped his camera.
In the shuttle van years ago, camp regulars used to call out landmarks along the way, each sighting greeted with mounting excitement as they drew closer and closer to their destination.
“There’s Lookout Rock,” someone would announce, pointing and bouncing up and down in the seat. “I saw it first.”
Others would be named in quick succession—Moss Creek, Watch Hill, Sentry Rock, Saddle Mountain, Sunrise Mountain and, finally, Treaty Oak, a tree so old that it was said Chief Jesse Lyon himself had planted it to commemorate the treaty he signed with Peter Stuyvesant, the colonial governor.
Her twelfth summer, Olivia had ridden in silence. With each passing landmark, her stomach sank a little lower and dread became a physical sensation of cold, dead weight inside. And outside, she reflected. The weight she gained represented the stress of her quietly warring parents, the demands of school, her own unexpressed fears.
They passed a glass art studio with a whimsical sign by the road and then a stretch of riverside land, where the meadows were almost preternaturally green and the forest deep and mysterious. High in a sunny glade sat, of all things, a small Airstream travel trailer with a black-and-chrome Harley parked outside.
“Interesting place,” Freddy commented.
“There are still a lot of counterculture types around here,” Olivia said. “Woodstock’s not that far away.”
Passing Windy Ridge Farm, with yet another whimsical sign, they came around the last curve in the road, turned onto a gravel drive marked Private Property—No Trespassing, which wound through woods that grew thicker with every mile. Finally, there it was, a hand-built timber arch looming over the road—the entrance sign to the property. Built on massive tree trunks, it was the signature trademark of the camp. A sketch of the rustic archway bordered the stationery kids used for their weekly letters home. Across the arch itself was Camp Kioga. Est’d 1932 in Adirondack-style twig lettering.
On the bus, kids would hold their breath, refusing to take another until they passed beneath the arch. Once they were inside the boundaries of the camp, there was a loud, collective exhalation, followed by war whoops of excitement. We’re here.
“You all right?” Freddy asked.
“Fine,” Olivia said tightly. She slowed down as the dry, sharp gravel crackled under the tires. As they drove along the ancient road, shadowed by arching maple and oak, she had the strangest sensation of stepping back through time, to a place that was not safe for her.
The pitted drive was overgrown, branches swiping at the lumbering SUV. She parked in front of the main hall and let Barkis out. The dog skittered around in an ecstasy of discovery, determined to sniff every blade of grass.
The hundred-acre property was mostly wilderness, with Willow Lake as the centerpiece. There were rustic buildings, meadows and sports courts, cabins and bungalows lining the placid, pristine lake. Olivia pointed out the archery range, the tennis and pickle-ball courts, the amphitheater and hiking trails that were now completely overgrown.
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