An Exploration of a Camp Counselor's Experience

For the... MAYBE two of you out there unfamiliar with the southern Californian junior high curriculum, there is a program which all sixth graders must attend called Outdoor School, wherein students are shipped off to the relative wilderness for a week, and return with a greater affinity for nature and more keen understanding of the importance of conservation. The program has an able team of administrators, but must draw from the dubious talent pool of high school kids to fulfill the nominal and menial rank of cabin counselor. (Or councilor; I'm not really sure what the difference is, despite my sagacity.)

Going back a number of years when I attended my own outdoor ed program, located at Camp Bloomfield, Malibu, I remember a great deal. Every attendee picked a nature-related nickname for the week. I chose Shadow. Lame. My councilor was named Cougar. I was in cabin 11. And I got sick that week, so I was unable to go on the beach hike. This left a mark of disappointment on the whole experience that lingered for years to come.

My limited experience at outdoor ed was a part of the reason I wanted to return, but also to make a mark on the next generation (read: plant the seeds of corruption) as Cougar had done for me. As soon as I heard about councilor applications, I signed up, and after an interview and many many forms, I was in. For one week, I was Thunder, boy's cabin 11 counselor. I was depended upon. I was the boss. People knew my name and valued my opinion. I was somebody.

The cooperation I received from my kids was mixed in more than one way. There was the inherent disobedience that came with being that awkward age between childhood and adolescence; between docility and rebellion; between inanity and maturity.

On the other side of the coin, I was bigger than them. I could beat them up. I wielded subtle weapons of authority and loyalty, like the driver's license and the razor blade. My assigned position as their cabin councilor- the defender of their sanity and sanctity- drove them to be reliant upon my wisdom and knowledge.

They approached me nonstop with a barrage of questions. "Thunder! Thunder!" said the incessant chorus of their inquisitive voices. To answer every voice was impossible due to the sheer volume of their queries, but that isn't to say I didn't try my hardest. Mostly they asked what time it was or where they were off to next. But they also requested tidbits of personal information, about which I either lied or withheld to maintain the mystique of my counselordom.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" They inevitably asked. "I've had a few in the past," I responded. A vague, white lie to keep their minds wondering without me appearing pathetic to them. "What's your real name?" they also often asked. I changed the answer every time, however. As far as they know to this day, my real names include Adam, Derek, Leonard, and Dave. A young fellow disinclined with English as a first language once asked "What school is you go to, Tawnder?"

His name was Jimmy, or Tornado, and he became my buddy. As did Matthew, who payed the paid the closest attention to my every command. There was also Tristan, the self proclaimed second-in-command, a position consisting entirely of yelling "You guys, shut up!" as loud as he could, usually to no avail. One boy had hair longer than any girl's, another could complete a Rubik's Cube in less than two minutes, and another spoke even less English than Jimmy, but was a consummate guitar player. It was a mixed cast of colorful characters in cabin 11, with its share of rebels, loyalists, and separatists.

They respected- and feared- me. No matter how they disobeyed me, and no matter how hard I scolded them when they threw fucking rocks at each other or ran down Hamburger Hill, they had undying and infinite capacity to forgive me. In a way, they loved me. Indeed, the greatest realization of the power I possessed came when I unleashed all manner of unholy chastisement upon a particular insubordinate nemesis. I saw in his eyes defiance, and then ignorance, and then... guilt.

The councilors also were charged with maintaining order during mealtimes. I will not delve into the specifics of meals, but I will say that I felt like I was propelled far into a dystopian future, where all foodstuffs were constructs of essential nutrients, ingested on a strict schedule and administered by our robotic usurpers.

Of course, I wasn't in the nonstop presence of my cabin kids. In addition to cabin groups, there were trail groups, and trail group time was essentially break time. Either we counselors were assigned to accompany a trail group and assist the "naturalist", or camp teacher, in keeping the kids in line- not terribly difficult, most of the time- or we had two hours to ourselves, to spend in the councilor's lounge, take a shower, or to explore the trails and paths of Camp Bloomfield's intricate terrain. Even in these moments of silence, the chorus still chimed "Thunder! Thunder!" faintly at the back of my head.

And after lights out, and all my cabin kids were to bed, I went outside to patrol the cabins. Surrounded by night, enclosed by trees, and lulled by the oddly soothing dissonance of a million crickets and frogs by the creak. If I really concentrated, I could even hear the waves crashing on the Malibu beach on the other end of the valley. It was a transcendental experience.

It is interesting to note that during the Summer, Bloomfield is a camp for blind children. This comes to me with great irony as it is located in the least blind-friendly terrain imaginable. You take a bad step, and you are falling down a fucking cliff.