On April 30, 2007, an article about a girls’ camp appeared in the Montreal Gazette. I found myself examining memories for the first time in at least a decade – maybe more – and remembering a name that I had almost forgotten: Oolahwan. That was when I wrote this article.
In the very early 80s, I applied to the girls’ camp “Camp Oolahwan” for a summer job. I had never been to camp before, but my sister had been kitchen staff at a camp, and although she hated the work, she made the money! I didn’t need much money and the thought of being up in the Laurentians all summer appealed to me.
On a cold February day, I had an interview at the camp office in Montreal. The camp director was a tiny, friendly woman with a tiny, friendly dog. “You’re nineteen,” she said to me, “so why would you want to work in the kitchen instead of being a counsellor?” “I don’t really want to want to work with kids,” was my frank reply. She told me that she appreciated my honesty and offered me the job of assistant business manager.
It made for a great story: applying for a kitchen job and ending up as assistant business manager. Despite the fancy title, my job was very simple. I filled out government forms and drove campers to their canoe trips in the camp van. Over the years, I’ve become more aware of all the dangers and pitfalls that can come upon us at any time, and I am therefore horrified that they actually stuffed nine little girls and their counsellor into a van and sent them off along the Laurentian Autoroute and places beyond with a nineteen-year-old driver. But youth ignores the presence of impending disaster, and I had nothing but confidence for the task. Perhaps that confidence itself kept us all safe. I fulfilled my summer driving duties with only one annoying incident: the canoe trailer slipping into a ditch during an ill-considered u-turn.
My camp duties did not take up much time. I wasn’t being paid much, but it felt like too much for all the free time I had. However, the unfamiliar camp scene intrigued me, and at the encouragement of the camp director, I got involved as much as I could. I took my turn sitting at cabin tables at mealtime so that the counsellor could have a break and sit at the staff table. I joined a couple of the hikes and overnight trips. I played the camp games, joined in the singsongs and participated in the activities. The campers liked me; I found it easy to be friendly to them. I liked them too, since I didn’t have to be responsible for them. My camp name (due to the unfortunate thing that happened to my nose every summer during my pre-UV-conscious days) was Rudolf. The kids would often serenade me with the song.
My favourite activities for filling in time, however, were my early morning swims in the lake and my hikes on the woodland trails. I got up before anyone else in the camp and enjoyed the bliss of gliding peacefully through the still water while gazing upon the coniferous-lined shore – though I am now terribly aware of the danger of such a solitary undertaking. My hikes took place in the afternoon when I had nothing else to do. I had to put a stop to them, however, when I ran into a group of campers out for a hike. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself, Rudolf,” declared their horrified counsellor. I resented the limitations placed on me, but I knew she was right.
The girls that attended the camp were full of life and enthusiasm. I had a certain understanding for some of them – that is, the homesick ones. I myself was still very attached to my home and my parents, and I had never found it easy to slip into new social situations. Many of the girls there felt the same way, and they had my sympathy. One particular twelve-year-old cried every day for her parents. I knew from personal experience that one should never give in to homesickness, and so I was secretly pulling for her. I was pleased to see that she stuck it out and even started laughing with the other girls. For one evening camp activity, we all drew names with the purpose of getting to know someone we’d never spoken to before. I ended up with the homesick twelve-year-old. She spoke to me freely and cheerfully, telling me that she liked camp but was really looking forward to going home. I knew exactly how she felt.
I was on good terms with the rest of the staff, but I detected a certain strain in my interactions with them as the summer progressed. I attributed this to my own social awkwardness. I found out later that there had been some serious tensions occurring among them. Such things have always escaped my notice. Problems among the staff never seemed to translate into problems with the campers, though. The kids always had a wonderful time, and the end of each session of camp was accompanied by massive outpourings of grief that the good times had come to an end.
I’m very grateful that, though it came late in my youth, I had the camp experience. I’m grateful that it occurred at Oolahwan. I’m glad that I got to swim by myself in a still lake and never drown, that I explored the woods and never got lost, and that I travelled by van all over the Laurentians and never caused an accident. I’m especially grateful that my awkward self had a chance to deal with staff all summer, for good or for bad. I’m grateful that a few of those staff were willing to befriend me. I think that the whole experience helped me when, in the fall, I moved to Ottawa to go to college and establish my own life there. This, after all, is what camp is supposed to be: a place to make friends, have some great experiences, and be better prepared for life.
Living the Canada Life 
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