Kelly Thomsen

My piece written for Dr. David Haskell‘s Creative Writing: Narrative Nonfiction class at Sewanee.

We called the raccoon Betsy. The interns named her earlier that summer, after they came face to face with her outside their tent one night. They heard her scratching around in the forest and found their food strewn across the campsite the next morning.

“The bagels and the doughnuts were all gone,” I remember one of them saying. “She only likes food with holes in it!”

The summer I worked for a trips camp on Squam Lake in Holderness, New Hampshire, we camped at three sites: Moon Island, Bowman Island, and Chamberlain Reynolds Memorial Forest. The company’s interns maintained the campsites and checked in campers while the youth program that I worked for took our groups of campers on overnights to the islands every Thursday night. Soon, the interns discovered more and more raccoons– a family each on Moon and Bowman and countless numbers in CRMF. These animals became accustomed to the campers and the endless food that many provided, whether in poorly stowed containers or in scraps that someone carelessly left behind.

Betsy was ruthless. Totally comfortable with humans, she appeared as soon as dusk began to fall and harassed campers throughout the night, unconcerned with sticks and voices that were thrown at her. She simply retreated to the next level of trees where she waited, eyes glinting in the light of the flashlights, hovering until the unlucky campers let their guard down. The first night that I camped on Moon that summer, the second week of camp, was around the time that we realized that there wasn’t just one “Betsy” that somehow swam between islands, but in fact several troops of raccoons, determined in their battle for campsite food. 

She appeared as put the campers to bed. I was sitting on a platform talking to a homesick camper as dusk turned to night when she appeared out of the shadows, scurrying over the tent platform directly across from us and looking around in her shifty, wily way. I jumped up and ran toward her, waving my arms and yelling after her.

The campers seemed half-scared and half-amused as they watched their counselors run yelling after a little raccoon, throwing sticks and rocks to chase her off. They finally settled in and fell asleep, but we did not. We steeled ourselves for a night of battle, building the fire up and waiting with defensive weapons in hand; a stick, a canoe paddle, a shoe. 

My co-counselor that night was John, who came from Chicago, wasn’t really into being outdoors, and claimed to hate camping. Also with us was Carter, our 15-year-old counselor-in-training, who had grown up in these woods and acted as a counselor for the more gritty, outside tasks that John wasn’t up for.

That night, despite our differences, we became a seamless team. We settled into a routine, stoking the fire, holding sticks and rocks we’d picked off the forest floor, stoking the fire because one of us had read somewhere that a fire keeps racoons away. We’d listen for her scampering around in the leaves and when she got too close, we’d take off after her through the woods, flashlights held high, chasing her up a tree or down to the water or just until she lost us in the forest night and we were all reminded that this was her territory, not ours.

She returned again and again, undaunted by our attempts to scare her off, utterly unafraid of our human presence. She appeared right behind us or darted through the campsite unabashed by our attempts to intimidate her. She patiently finished stealing whatever food she chose before running off into the woods and waiting for another opportunity to strike. We saw her eyes reflecting off of our flashlights and run off again. A few times we tried to go to sleep and ignore her, only to soon hear her scratching at our tent platforms, stealing our breakfast, taking campers’ backpacks to search through.

“These are 8-year-olds,” we’d say to each other. “We can’t let a rogue raccoon roam around their tents all night.” We didn’t acknowledge the fact that we were maybe having a little bit of fun. High-stepping through the woods, flashlight in one hand, stick held high in the other, John’s woolen trench coat flapping in the beam of my light, I got the feeling I was in some strange, low-stakes version of the Hunger Games. Primal, animal, defending our territory, playing tag in the woods at night like we were the campers. 

It wasn’t fun the whole night. Soon, we felt exhausted, nerves fried from keeping our heads on a swivel for her glinting eyes, dreaming of our sleeping bags just feet away. We called our bosses for advice. They told us to trek the food across the island and stash it in the bathrooms, which had doors that locked and sealed tight. On our way back, we left Betsey an offering of food scraps, hoping for her to refocus her efforts on that side of the island instead of on our campsite. No such luck.

I called my dad, who offered to boat out to the island and bring what he called a “raccoon spray” that claimed to deter such pests. It contained hot sauce and other strong scents that had been known to protect campsites like ours. Carter and I met him on the trail, weapons held high, jumpy, on the lookout. Dad sprinkled his raccoon spray around our campsite. We went to bed, comforted by the effect of the spray, even if it just acted as a placebo for our own nerves.

This night was a delicate kind of fun, teetering between enjoyment and exasperation, absurdity and frustration, exciting but infuriating all at the same time. It’s my favorite story to tell, and one of my most memorable moments of the summer. It was also a long night. A wild animal come dangerously close to our campers, took our food, put us on edge. We became jumpy, startling at every rustle in the woods. We were so tired I barely remember finally going to bed. 

But we were also running around in the woods like our campers had been earlier that day, laughing silently so we didn’t wake anyone up, acting dramatic and silly. We told stories to keep each other awake. We plotted elaborate schemes to take Betsy out. It was a weird little bubble, that campsite, the circle of light from the fire all night, a sort of alternate universe, an adventure that felt rare.

The next day, we returned our campers to the barn and played games with them until their parents came to retrieve them. Someone pointed out that this was not my first long night of the summer. We reminisced on last week’s campout.

That time, I’d been paired with Maggie, another New Hampshire native and a girl much more comfortable in the great outdoors than Chicago John. We were ready for a night of rain. It held off until we were at Bowman Island.

First, we put together a sort of lean-to over the counselor tent platform, so we could have a dry place to cook dinner. Maggie, Carter, and I worked on hoisting up a huge white tarp while the campers played board games in their tents. The rain started, sliding through the leaves and down our necks. We tried every knot we remembered from counselor training, yanking on slippery cords and wrestling with the rough bark of the birch trees that surrounded our campsite. Carter climbed high in one of the trees eventually, and we finally managed to force the tarp to hang over our platform, held up by Carter’s tree knot and a tall stick propped up in the middle like a circus tent. 

Soaked, chilly, elated by our efforts, we called the campers to come hunker under the dry platform to eat our dinner of Annie’s mac n’ cheese. We played cards through the rain, over and over, working hard to keep the same games fun. When dusk fell, we began the bedtime process.

We knew there was a chance of thunder that night. While our camp directors were careful with weather, they still sent us out to the islands as long as we could get there safely. My boss said that if we canceled camping trips every time there was a chance of thunder, then we would never go camping. As as long as we got off the water and in our tents by the time the storm came, we canoed out. The tent platforms protected us from ground strikes and there was a small cabin existed on the island in case of a real emergency. 

So we felt ready for the weather, safe in our campsite, well-practiced in thinking up ways to keep everyone entertained on a rainy day. That night, however, the storm passed over us a little bit too close for comfort.

Maggie and I woke up in our tent to a tremendous crash followed by a brilliant flash of white. We sat up, startled, and looked at each others’ shadowy forms. When the next flash of lightning came, we saw each other as clear as day. We poked our heads out of the tent door and looked around at the campsite, lit up again and again, imprinted against my eyes when it got dark again. We knew everyone was awake. The thunder rolled over us, slammed into our ears, deafening and threatening. 

The first camper came only a few minutes later.

“Kelly, Maggie?” We heard, and we jumped to let the little voice in. “I’m scared!”

It was our tiniest camper, wide-eyed and soaking wet. We let her under the tarp to dry off and tried to comfort her.

“We’re all okay, it’s going to be over soon, the safest place for you to be right now is in your tight, I know the thunder’s scary but we’re all okay.” 

After she scampered back to her tent, we discussed our next move. Everything we said was true; it would be much more dangerous to move everyone from their tents and up the hill to the emergency cabin than to wait it out. They were safe on the tent platforms. Our camp directors kept in touch, monitoring the weather and ready to step in if an emergency arose. We settled in to wait it out, and made up a game inspired by our first scared camper.

It was called “Camper or Lightning?” and we played it when we saw some bright light from outside the tent. If it flashed and then went out, it was lightning. If it stayed a few seconds too long, it was likely a frightened camper’s flashlight bouncing through the trees. We laid there, watching the roof of the tent, trying to decide which one it was. When a camper came, we’d jump up and repeat the same speech. When it was lightning, we tried to measure how far away the storm was.

It passed eventually. Our campers drifted back to sleep. Maggie and I stayed in good spirits, laughing at our bad luck to end up right in the path of a thunderstorm on the first campout of the summer, relieved that the storm wasn’t gotten any more dangerous. This night was a unique type of fun, too. We were stuck in the rain, a common predicament for camp counselors, and needed to find a way to make it fun. We goofed around trying to set up camp in the rain. We helped our campers by coming up with game after game in our little lean-to tarp. That night, Maggie and I entertained ourselves for hours of comforting and waiting out the storm. 

This would have been a completely different night if the storm had felt more dangerous. A fine line exists between making the best of a bad situation and getting out of a dangerous situation, and I like to think Maggie and I used our best judgement in this instance. Since we took all the necessary precautions in keeping ourselves and our campers safe, there was nothing to do but try to have fun. We laughed in amazement at how loud the thunder was, told stories about other storms, worked on our reaction time in determining “Camper or Lightning?”. We didn’t sleep much that night either, but we came back to camp with a story.

A few weeks went by without much excitement. There was the usual frenzy of a new batch of campers, a new week of adventures and exploration and prepping for the overnight, but nothing like those first two campouts. Then some time in late July, Michael, another co-counselor, and I were assigned to a long paddle with some of the older campers. We planned to paddle past Moon and Bowman, a full five miles out to the other side of the lake to a spot called Hoag Island. 

We went on a beautiful day, sunny and clear, with barely a ripple on the blue surface of the lake. We took out time, following a lazy roundabout path across the lake. Michael and I had worked together for a few years now, so we were a great pair for overnights like this. I think we’d found a mix of goofiness and responsibility, able to work together to keep everyone safe and in line while still keeping the trips fun and memorable. He and I paddled behind two more canoes of campers, with all the supplies for the overnight tucked in between us; food, tents, tarps, stoves, water. We made our way to the east first, toward a place called the Yard Islands. Also known as the “Squam-Bahamas” because of its white sand and clear water, this was a scrubby patch of land halfway to our destination where we stopped for lunch. We stayed off of the land because of conservation purposes, but we pulled our canoes up onto some rocks and waded in the shallow water while we ate PB&Js and took a paddling break. We spend a few hours there, letting the campers snorkel and swim, playing games in the water and lounging in the sun. While the campers played, Michael and I checked the chart.

We had just about three more miles to go, it looked like, a quick paddle to the north toward Mt. Rattlesnake and around Hoag Island into Rattlesnake Cove, where we’d find our campsite. We reapplied sunscreen, made the campers drink a bit more water, and pushed off from the shallow sandy beach. Still lazy, still goofy. We told riddles and stories. At one point Michael jumped into the water to cool off and we left him there, paddling hard until we finally gave up the joke and went back to pull him back into the boat. He splashed me with his paddle for the rest of the day for that one. 

We entered Rattlesnake Cove in the late afternoon, with plenty of time to set up tents and cook dinner, even time for us to paddle back across the cove to Jumping Rock if we wanted. The Cove felt shadowy and cool, under the smooth curves of East and West Rattlesnake rising green and steady above us. The water here was still, sheltered from the wind, and green from the pine trees reflecting all across the surface.

When we neared our campsite, we saw a trail of smoke whispering out from the trees. Michael and I exchanged a look of confusion. Then we heard voices, coming from what was supposed to be our campsite.

“Stay here,” we told our campers as we pulled the canoes up onto the beach and went to see what was going on.

The other campers were a group from Camp Hale, another day camp on the other side of the lake from us. Their counselors explained to us that they, too, had been scheduled to camp on the Hoag site that night. We both called our bosses, who then called the owners of Hoag who are responsible for scheduling the campsite.

“Looks like they double-booked it,” our boss said over the phone. Michael and I looked at each other again, this time in disbelief. “Let Camp Hale stay since they’ve already got their camp set up. You guys paddle back to Bowman and camp there.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael said, once we’d hung up and said goodbye to the other counselors. “That’s four more miles back.” 

“Alright guys,” we said, attempting at enthusiasm. “This campsite was double-booked so it looks like we’re going to have to paddle back to Bowman and stay there for the night.”

“Good one,” one of our campers said. We laughed.

“I know this is something we’d tell you to mess with you but we actually have to paddle back to Bowman. They made a mistake scheduling the site.”

They didn’t believe us. 

“Let’s go!” We said, and started paddling until they followed. 

The resentment that these five teenagers conjured up was impressive. They acted like they were dying. They moaned and ground. They waved their arms at passing boats and yelled for help until we told them to stop or someone was going to call the Boat Police on us. They pretended they were sleeping while paddling, they were so tired. They said it was the worst thing in the world. Michael and I could not stop laughing at their dramatics.

“You are paddling on the most beautiful lake in the world! This is not that bad of a situation!” , we told them.

“I am going to die!”, they told us.

It was a tough paddle, to their credit. The lake became choppier in the heavy afternoon breeze, and we strained our shoulders to paddle against it. We headed back south, across a great expanse of open water as clouds raced overhead. It wasn’t the idyllic paddle from that morning; it was a nine mile paddle in the toughest part of the day. Michael and I laughed at the whining campers and told them to stop their dramatics, but that afternoon challenged all of us.

But then we turned into the final stretch, a still patch of water between islands, sheltered by the pines, bathed in golden hour light. The sun just started to set as we paddled to the west, curving around the tip of Bowman Island, toward Sunset Rock. We were only a mile from main camp, and we could see our side of the lake again, the one we knew like the back of our hand. Great Island to the east, Diamond Ledge just south. Tomorrow morning, we planned to paddle past across this section, past Potato Island and down into the SLA’s cove, past the lily pads and loons.

That evening we watched the sun turn the sky gold and we were all quiet. Michael and I had ceased our efforts to make the day fun and silly, the campers had given up their whining about our long paddle. It was just our three boats on the silky smooth surface of the water, reflecting pine trees and sunset colors, our paddles lapping rhythmically in the shallow ripples, bumping against our boats, a motion that felt like second nature after a whole summer of it. We rounded the edge of the island, the shadowy side, the old wooden dock tucked into the trees. We pulled in without a word and began unloading gear.

“Watch this,” Michael whispered to me.

“Huh. That’s weird,” he said, louder, consulting his map. “Alright guys, we missed our stop. We were supposed to be at the other dock. Pack it back up.”

They protested, they moaned and groaned, but they believed us this time. They packed up and put their life jackets on and sat in their boats to paddle away, and Michael and I cracked up laughing on the dock.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” one of them said in disbelief, laughing despite herself. 

“Come on, let’s go eat dinner,” I said, still laughing at their yells and dramatics, and we docked our boats and carried our supplies into the woods, howling and booing and exhausted and happy.

That day, I think, was true Type-2 fun. We always talk about the types of fun in camp during counselor training. Type-1 is surface-level fun, like that morning had been- sunny days, easy work, beautiful scenery, nothing too challenging. Type-3 is not really fun at all- something too difficult or dangerous to be enjoyable. Type-2 is often the sweet spot- something that’s not particularly enjoyable in the moment- a really hard hike, for example, a rainy day, or, maybe, a nine-mile paddle when you expected to do five. Even though we joked and messed around with the campers all day, we knew it wasn’t easy. 

But it’s days like today that we all will remember. The morning was fun, but the afternoon really meant something. We pushed ourselves physically, we found a mental toughness to keep paddling. We kept ourselves entertained for a whole day in the boats together. We found the beauty even in cloud, choppy weather. The sunset as we rounded the corner of Bowman, the burrito dinner on the campfire that tasted like a five-course meal, the sleeping bags and tents we finally fell into at night were all the more rewarding after a tough day. Type-2 fun teaches you something, pushes you to be better, and makes everything a little sweeter. It reminds us that the counselors learn just as much from these trips as the campers, that as long the activity is safe, a little bit of misadventure sometimes makes the trip. It is the kind of day we remember years later with pride, with fondness. 

The next morning, Michael and I woke up early. After the beautiful sunset the night before, we felt inspired to catch one last sunrise. Next week was the last week of camp, and we were starting to feel that nostalgia that sets in in early August, when you start missing the summer before it’s even over.

I’ve noticed on Bowman, the sun seems to take a little too long to rise over the mountains. We watched Rattlesnake in the distance, glowing with the promise of day coming soon, and laughed a little at the idea that we paddled there in its shadow just yesterday. The water looked so still, nothing yet awake to break the glassy morning lake. The air felt cool on my skin, a reminder that New England fall was on its way. We sat and waited.

“Alright,” Michael said. “Where is it?”

I chuckled. “What if we woke them up for sunrise?”

“They’d never speak to us again,” Michael said, and we laughed, and then it rose, brilliant orange orb above the curve of the mountains, tinging the sky and the water with pink and yellow, a different type of golden hour from the one in the evening. This one felt fresh and new. 

We were all leaving Squam soon. I’d be travelling back to school in Tennessee, Michael to start his first post-grad job in Michigan. John would return to Chicago, Maggie to her freshman year at Colby-Sawyer College, Carter to his junior year of high school. Bittersweet, that last sunrise, thinking about our dispersal.

Months later in the winter, these campsites are what I remember most, Running through the woods, delirious with exhaustion, in disbelief that a raccoon was causing us all this trouble, sprinkling a magic potion to keep it away. Laughing in the rainy woods, watching from our tents as lightning flickered through the trees. Hypnotic paddling, playing on the lake, joking at our own bad luck. That kind of fun felt rare and sweet. On a background of easy days in a routine, these misadventures stand in bold, snapshots of a silly summer, a summer of growth.