Page 51 of Holding Ground

As we approach what’s clearly a spot for campfires, given the circular rocks in the middle of a larger circle of large logs laid on their sides, I picture a bunch of kids here with marshmallows on their sticks, singing campfire songs, and just generally goofing off with their friends.

It reminds me a lot of how my cousins and I spent our summers.

“They do. There’s the odd camper here and there who gets homesick, but we sell out in the first few days that registration opens, so we must be doing something right.” The words are spoken with a quiet pride I’ve not seen before from Elliott.

We pass a large outbuilding.

“That’s where all the water equipment is kept—paddle boards, life jackets, water trampoline, canoes…things like that.”

We remain on the path, passing the building, trees lining either side.

“Why did you decide to start this camp?”

He doesn’t answer right away, a wistfulness in his pause. “Growing up, my siblings and I used to come here every year during the summer. Roy had the hardware store to run, and once we were out of school, that was more difficult with four kids running around. The old owner, Dean, gave him a break on the cost of the camp because they knew each other, and he knew what Roy was dealing with. Knew what my siblings and I were all dealing with.

“It might sound dumb because we grew up not too far from here, but we all had such a blast. Running around, meeting other campers who came from different places around the country. For a brief moment in time, we weren’t the kids whose entire family had imploded. We were just regular kids, exploring the outdoors and learning new things. It all helped to take our minds off what was missing. It helped us feel normal, at least for a while.”

I’m assuming that what was missing was his parents, given the fact that Roy seems to have raised them, though this doesn’t feel like the right moment to ask.

“Did you ever work here as a counselor or anything as you got older?”

He shakes his head. “No, we all put in our time over at the hardware store, but not here.”

We come upon another log building off to the side of the path.

“This is the arts and crafts building.” Elliott motions to the building, but we don’t stop walking.

“So how did you end up being the owner, if this place was around when you were young?”

“It went up for sale because the owner was retiring. There were people interested who were going to buy it to build a home on the land. A developer or two came sniffing around. But I couldn’t stand the idea of other kids not being able to have the same amazing experience that my siblings and I did. It was a healthy escape at a time in our lives when we needed it. The community was going to be losing something important, something that mattered, and I thought, ‘I have the work ethic and the skills to keep this place going.’ Before I knew it, I was approaching the owner. He agreed to hold the mortgage on the place for me.”

“That says a lot, that he’d take that risk on you.” Though I understand why the man would. I don’t know if I’ve ever met a more loyal, dependable man of his word than Elliott.

Our hands brush each other’s as we navigate the path, and my breath hitches, though we both pretend not to notice.

“Agreed. That’s one of the bonuses of growing up in a small community—people know each other. He’d known me since I was little, knew what kind of man I was, and felt comfortable that I’d work hard to continue to make the camp successful and wouldn’t default on the loan. Banks don’t generally take that kind of thing into account, and at that age, there was no way I was getting a bank loan for it.”

We come across the largest building yet, and Elliott comes to a stop in front of it. “This is the dining hall. There’s a full commercial kitchen inside, though a lot of the equipment is a bit dated. The campers eat three meals a day in there. I usually try to employ kids from the food service program at a small college nearby to work it for the summer. Figure it gives them some experience and a thick skin.”

I tilt my head in question.

“There’s no one pickier about food than a bunch of kids, believe me.”

I chuckle, and Elliott smiles at me before turning and leading me farther down the path.

“Being out in the woods like this reminds me a lot of where I grew up in Alaska.”

His head whips toward me, forehead creased. “Alaska?”

I nod. “That’s where I grew up. In a small town called Sunrise Bay.”

He frowns. “I assumed you were from Boston.”

“You know what they say about assuming…” I smile at him so he knows my words are in jest.

Elliott rubs his palm over his jaw. “Well, I certainly feel like an ass now.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past. Let’s just move forward, okay?”