On the last day of their sleepaway camp deep in the North Carolina mountains, each boy gets a T-bone steak, cooked to his liking. There’s a side of potatoes and chocolate pie for dessert. It’s their celebratory meal after two weeks living out in the woods.
Some have fought bees or poison ivy. For others, there’s been a mild case of homesickness and a desire for air-conditioning. Yet when the boy armies arrive in that mess hall for the last time and gather around the ancient pine tables, things look different. Sure, there are a few more scars and some mild bruises. One kid lost a tooth. The sun has wreaked its havoc; the proof is in the smattering of sunburns and freckles. But there are invisible measures of growth. For some, it’s a secret language, nicknames, inside jokes, stories about late-night escapades and who swam the farthest. For others, it’s a changed perspective or less worry about doing something new – like the mile swim. They’ve mastered their skills: woodworking, homesteading, and trap shooting. They’ve milked cows and taken care of goats, and they’ve found their way back to camp in the middle of the night without a flashlight. All the bulls-eyes are tallied, along with the near misses. There are bragging rights and high-fives and a few disappointments. But all of the winning and the losing adds up to something. Between the archery bows and the campfires, jumping onto the iconic blob and riding the zip line into the lake, boys turn into young men.
Camp never felt as transformative for me. Most summers, I stayed closer to home. But one year, I went out to Cimarron, New Mexico, to Philmont for a ten-day backpacking trip. That adventure changed me. Hiking was hard, and then it seemed impossible. Guys got blisters and heat stroke. We all wanted home and food. At night, we put up bear bags to keep the grizzlies away from our tents, and on one summit, we had to ration our water. It wasn’t just an experience. It was survival. I still remember trekking up Old Baldy at 12,441 feet. Before I left, I knew it was going to be the toughest endeavor I’d undertaken in my young life. That made it cool and terrifying. I came home with a belt buckle and a patch, but the real trophy was the time I spent in the wilderness, getting away from the routine, sweating, hurting, and climbing into the unknown. But all of us found our way. And though I don’t remember what our final meal was back at base camp, I do recall asking my parents to bring me a Domino’s pizza for the car ride home from the airport.
As visions of summer begin to take shape, a different kind of mountain looms on the horizon – the rapidly changing adolescent landscape between my two boys. Ages twelve and fourteen, they display a striking contrast in their interests and pursuits, next to the true transformation that comes from the beginning and end of middle school. One is drawn to the gym, fueling his body with smoothies and squats, while the other loses himself in the basement, excavating the LEGO bin for a specific piece. Between them, there’s a mere two-year gap, yet the chasm feels vast, echoing the timeless adage – they grow up so fast.
In the warp-speed journey of early parenthood, the moments that once seemed distant and theoretical become immediate and tangible. I find myself enchanted by the swift, yet nuanced transformation of my boys. Who they were versus who they will become. Blink, and Atticus is borrowing my shoes; blink again, and his feet no longer fit into them. Levon wasn’t sure what to ask for on his birthday because most toys have lost their luster. The metamorphosis unfolds slowly and then all at once, leaving me in awe of the emerging young men in my home.
The juxtaposition of their individual journeys – one navigating the complexities of adolescence with a focus on physical fitness, the other caught between trading cards and sports – is a reminder of the variety within the shared terrain of childhood. It’s a landscape where each child forges their path, guided by their unique interests, challenges, and triumphs. At first, the boys sought adventure in the backyard, and then the treehouse, and then the woods. The boundaries are gone now. The treehouse is now a home for squirrels. But it’s these safe slivers of exploration that add up to something else, and that makes them who they are.
As I contemplate the summer ahead, I am acutely aware that camp doesn’t last forever, nor does adolescence. Seven summers is nothing, and yet that’s the honest math before they’re out of the house for good. Until then, each two-week session gets them ready for life’s peaks and valleys, not just in those North Carolina mountains, but here at home, too. I’ve even scribbled down a list that I keep on my phone. It’s not just places to go, but skills to master: time management, basic plumbing, networking, cooking, and negotiation. Each one is another merit badge of sorts that chisels our children into resilient and capable individuals – young men shaped in the crucible of life’s adventures.
Tonight, when we sat down for dinner, we talked briefly about summer camp and the beauty that a real adventure brings. There weren’t any T-bones or chocolate pies – just pasta, homemade bread, and a salad. Levon told a joke about the difference between Batman and Superman, and Atticus mentioned his new bench-press personal record. In hearing it all, I knew each of us was right where we needed to be.
