The calendar insists that it is now autumn. There is a sense of sadness and departure in the air. The nights are clear, the sky is a deep blue, and the birds have suddenly disappeared. The fall leaves begin to take on an entirely new set of hues. Splashes of red, orange, and yellow stain the leaves that now droop from tree branches that were once full and green. I stare outside my window as a feeling of desolation begins to creep into my body. The first thing that my eyes focus on is the magnolia tree that sits all alone in my backyard. The towering Himalayan native seems to isolate itself from its neighbors as though it acknowledges its role as an outsider. It seems lost and out of place. The white and pink colors that once flooded the tree have now vanished. These colors have been replaced with a less appealing brownish tint. The flowers have already begun to wilt. I sit down, realizing that summer has left me behind with no intentions of returning anytime soon. I waited to see if the lifeless, rotting buds on the Magnolia would stop being so stubborn and just change back to their beautiful display of pinks and whites like I wanted them too. They never did. It would be three full seasons before summer arrived again. I tried to remember back to my childhood summers in the Boundary Waters. I spent almost every summer as a kid at the edge of the Boundary Waters at Camp du Nord. Whether I was in a tent or in a cabin, I had a view of the massive pines and calm lakes topped with enormous summer clouds. Camp du Nord was a wilderness family camp near the Canadian border in northern Minnesota. Starting when I was about four years old and continuing on through the summer of my high school graduation, I was blessed with being able to spend my summers there. In many ways, I took from the camp experience what I intended. I made countless new friends, gained a measure of self-reliance and bonded in a setting initially quite foreign and intimidating. Every summer brought new challenges, new levels of patience, new physical demands, and new responsibilities. Without the aid of the seasons, friendships bloomed faster during my weeks at camp than the flowers on the Magnolia tree. I looked up to each and every camp counselor I had. I knew that one day, I would proudly wear a staff shirt. I aspired to impact the lives of kids like my counselors did for me. They were my role models; it was time for me to be somebody else’s.
I look at the calendar. It claims that it is now winter. I look outside to confirm the date myself. A brilliant white has absorbed the colors of fall overnight. The days are now shorter, darker, and more desolate than usual. Tatters of orange serve as the only remains of fall. Winter has stripped the color and aroma from the magnolia. All forms of life seem to have left the tree. The magnolia seems burdened by the winter air. Just like me, the magnolia longs for a summer breeze again. There are still no signs of green, no signs of color, no signs of summer. I close my eyes and the frost-covered magnolia transforms into clear water with shadows of pines resting atop its waves. I sit on the dock dangling my toes in the cool June water. It is my first summer back at camp since taking a five-year break due to being busy with hockey and tennis camps. I am now fifteen years old. I was no longer just a camper. I was a part of the YMCA Leadership Development Program at Camp du Nord. The program was basically a leadership seminar to prepare former campers to become counselors and full-time staff members at the camp. Usually three consecutive summers in the program ensured a spot on staff the following years. The campers referred to us all as support staff. Much of my time on support staff was spent with some of the older counselors and camp directors doing teambuilding activities. In the two-week program, I bonded quickly with the eleven others that I worked alongside on support staff with. The weekends were spent canoeing through the lakes of the Boundary Waters, hugging the edge of wilderness. We were pushed to our limits, forced to embrace the obstacles that the lakes had to offer. There was something important about being outdoors, respecting the lakes and working as a team. It is a place where there is no implication of success or failure. A place where you are free to investigate the natural surroundings at will. A place where appreciation and education grow in a wild setting rather than in an institution. Camping in the Boundary Waters provides a sense of convergence, where home, work, and school are all essentially located in the same spot. A relaxing night around the campfire didn’t come without teamwork, cooperation, patience, and determination. During these camping trips with the other eleven support staff members, we learned to get along with each other no matter what the circumstances were. Cooperation during a hard portage was essential because these same people cook your dinner and share the campfire that same night. We were fresh out of middle school in a setting that felt more adult than anywhere we had ever known. It’s hard for me to gauge what my youth and adolescent years would have been like without the time spent in the Boundary Waters, but I think about it often. It may have taken me a whole childhood to realize it, but children need the Boundary Waters. My eyes suddenly open and the snow outside brings me back to reality. As time passes, the seasons change and summer grows closer. No matter how long winter may seem to last, I know that spring will always follow. Without winter, there would be no summer.
Spring showers begin. The flowers slowly learn their brightly colored shapes again. I recognize the earthy smell. All my memories begin to lose themselves in the lilacs blossoming from branches that appeared so lifeless just months earlier. The birds embrace the new colors with their own unique songs. I glance at the calendar to ensure that it is already near the end of March. The vibrant pink and white colors slowly begin to paint themselves on the Magnolia again as the flowers start to bloom. The flowers offer its branches company as the white snow turns into a dirty slush, eventually giving way to the green grass again. I eagerly walk down the stairs to my basement. I open the drawers to my family’s immense collection of photographs. Each small piece of photo paper possesses a different moment captured in time. I reach for the photo albums of all my childhood summers in the Boundary Waters. As I flip through the pages of captured moments, the memories begin to paint themselves on the wall. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. I see myself as a four year-old kid holding my counselors hand as we play by the beach. I watch myself sloppily scarf down a watermelon at the camp picnic at the age of ten. I quickly skim through my adolescent summers on support staff, remembering the friends I made and the skills I developed. I approach the end of the photo album. The pictures are of the summer of my high school graduation. A week after high school ended I was up in the Boundary Waters again. I was now a first-year staff member at Camp du Nord. This is what I have been waiting for. On my first day of age groups I play games, sing songs, and read books to the three and four year-olds. One little girl named Greta caught my attention right away. She looked so familiar. At the end of age groups, Greta’s father came to pick her up. Now it was clear, I knew her father from somewhere. I flip back to the beginning of the photo album trying to pick out the memories. I come across a picture of myself at the age of four with my arms wrapped around the legs of a big burly young counselor. This counselor also happened to be Greta’s father. At four years old, he was my camp counselor that I looked up to, and now, fourteen years later, I am his daughter’s counselor. Her role model. The person she looks up to and admires. It was all in one short moment when I put everything together and realized the significance of my discovery. That moment of realization meant a lot to me. As I continue to grow and gravitate towards other pursuits with my academics I realize that I am richer and more enlightened due to my wilderness experience. I learned as much during all those summers as I did in all of elementary, middle, and high school. Education takes many shapes, but there is a unique and indispensable offering from the Boundary Waters. Empty pages still fill the back of the photo album. They will hopefully fill up with the timeless memories of my summers to come. I close the photo album, and spring quickly comes to an end.
Summer begins. The magnolia tree is now covered in soft and colorful flowers. It remains unshaded as it towers alone in my backyard. I slowly inhale its delicate perfume. Summer is finally here. The colors are more vibrant than ever before. This is the season I’ve been waiting for since I left the Boundary Waters at the end of the summer less than a year earlier. The first sunset of summer makes the three months of waiting almost completely worth it in just five minutes. There is a consciousness that summer is infinite. I now realize that the frequency of the seasons cannot be tampered with. To enjoy the benefits of summer, one must endure through the other three seasons. As the seasons pass, each trying to swallow up the memories of summer, I just have to rekindle the summer fire inside of me in order to keep my thoughts and memories of summer alive. I glance outside my window and watch the sun gradually vanish behind the colorful magnolia tree beaming with life. I save the beautiful image in my mind for when the emptiness of winter takes hold of me. And when the snow begins to fall, I close my eyes and relive that moment. As the image of the sunset is painted in my mind, I can almost hear the summer fire crackling in the distance.