I don’t regret not going back. It was the right choice; it just wasn’t the same there anymore. My time at this place had come to an end, but if I close my eyes, I can transport myself back to the place that I used to call my second home.

There I am. Sitting on the bus next to Allie, knowing we are about to make that last turn on Camp Road that will let us see our lake. The lake that I swam across three times in the annual Swim Across the Lake challenge, the lake that got me obsessed with sailing and then completely terrified of it when the boom hit me in the head and knocked me off the boat, the lake that I jumped into off the tower that always seemed so tall when I was young. Then there it is; The Lake of Two Islands.

We pull up to the front gates. Screaming counselors and unit heads blasting music waiting for us campers. We all got off the buses and everyone cheered our names and helped us with our toolboxes, filled with anything but tools, and backpacks. I looked around trying to remember my first time there. I had tears streaming down my face and I just wanted to be home with my family. But now I am so happy and I look up to see the Camp Timberlane sign that reads the three words: Spirit, Integrity, Tradition. The three words I will always associate with this place. I felt the gravel underneath my feet, I smelled the fresh air, and I heard the tiny ripples of the lake hitting the docks at Riv Beach. The white house where the handyman Terry lived in that always seemed so creepy, was still in its rightful place right in front of the gates.

We walk through Boys Camp. We passed the hill up to skateboarding; my least favorite period at camp. Just the thought of the buckets filled with stinky elbow pads and kneepads makes me gag. Before I know it I am standing at Main Docks. I see those sailboats drifting as far as the rope will let them in the lake and the inner tubes sitting in the first area of how the docks are separated. I see the tower rocking back and forth with the dock in the distance. And I see the trees. They were painting the sky. I never believed they were real until I took a canoe all the way to the side of the lake and saw for myself that they were rooted into the ground. All the hangouts on main docks, all the 2-day color war openings, when I was captain and crowned winner of Olympiad; it all happened here. When I had to mud wrestle Alexa and lost was right here on the sand.

I turn around to see the basketball courts where I would pretend to know how to play. And then I kept walking. And there is the Rec Hall and the Outdoor Stage. All the socials and Sunday Night Lives and evening programs were all in there. My name, hanging on the plaque for being the Norway Captain in the Olympiad tournament is hanging proudly next to previous captains and winners of Olympiad that date back to first year of Camp Timberlane. The time I slid down the giant rock and sprained my ankle all happened here. The Mess Hall, where the crappiest tasting food seemed good. Where I would sit and eat with my friends every meal every summer for 5 years. Then there is the hike up to tennis, the ropes course, and soccer my friends and I avoided making because in reality, would we ever participate? Probably not.

Then Girls Camp. All the cabins I lived in through the years. When some boys came into Girls Camp and changed the shower house to say “Whore House.” The fire pit where we sat and ate marshmallows that we were too lazy to roast. Then the ski docks. I would never ski, but we would tan, and if it was a nice night, we would sit out here and watch the stars, or shave our legs if we were too lazy to do it in the shower.

Then past all of it was the Chapel. The walk was always muddy. The tree Alexa and I tied boondoggle string to my first year still resting there completely untouched and not even losing its color. Then there it is, Chapel. The logs always seemed to be wet, always had spiders crawling up and down them, but we never minded. We would sit and listen to Barry, the founder of camp, talk and say the Hatikvah. I would watch everyone look at Barry when he speaks. His classic line at the end of the every summer, “don’t forget to leave room in your duffel bags for memories,” makes me cry for the last time. It really was my time to go.

From chapel, one of the islands was visible; solo island is what everyone called it. I remembered sleeping there the night it was my turn to go solo. I curled up in my sleeping bag and watched endless amounts of movies on the DVD player I snuck into camp. My friends could stand on Girl’s ski dock and scream goodnight to me across the lake.

But the other island was untouched. No one ever went on it, people even kept their canoes and kayaks far away from the island.

I live on that second island now. It was always there at camp with me, but it was something so far away at the same time, like my real home was back at home. I never wanted to be on the second island, I never had the desire. But now, I know it is where I am supposed to be because camp will always be a place in my heart but not a place I should call my second home anymore.