Campfire Tales | Bring Camp Home

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

There are certain questions that seem to follow anyone who works at a summer camp: What’s your favorite activity? Do you ever sleep? What do you do the rest of the year? And, of course, “What makes camp so special?”

After more than thirty years of doing this work, you’d think I’d have a polished answer by now. Instead, I usually find myself fumbling through one explanation after another, never quite satisfied that I’ve captured it. I can certainly describe camp. I can tell you about our waterfront, our trips, our electives, our traditions, or the incredible staff who make Chestnut Lake what it is. I can show you photographs or point you toward our highlight videos. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think any of those things really explain camp. Describing camp and explaining camp aren’t the same thing.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot over the last few weeks, partly because we’re approaching the end of First Session and partly because I recently reread some sections of Adam Grant’s Originals. One of the themes that has always resonated with me is the idea that organizations improve when they’re willing to challenge assumptions instead of simply accepting the way things have always been done. Reading it again reminded me how often we ask ourselves those kinds of questions here. Why do we do it this way? Is there a better way? What would happen if we started over instead of tweaking what already exists? Those questions eventually led us to build Campbase.

That probably sounds like a strange turn in a blog about camp, and I promise I’m not about to spend the next thousand words talking about software. Campbase is simply one example of something I’ve become increasingly convinced of over the years. Excellence isn’t usually achieved through one brilliant idea. More often, it’s the result of hundreds of small decisions made by people who refuse to become comfortable with “good enough.”

Most camps purchase activity scheduling software. We almost did. In fact, we spent nearly two years looking at the options. Some of them were very good. They solved real problems, and they would have worked for us. Instead, we decided to teach ourselves something none of us had ever done before. Looking back, that sounds a little ridiculous. We aren’t software developers. We’re camp people. But somewhere along the way, we realized we weren’t really building software. We were trying to build a better camp.

Campbase isn’t important because of what it does. Most families will never see it, and frankly, I hope they don’t. Its value isn’t in the technology itself but in what the technology makes possible. If a better system gives a Division Leader another twenty minutes to spend walking through cabins instead of sorting schedules, that’s meaningful. If counselors can spend less time tracking attendance and more time talking with campers, that’s meaningful. If we become just a little more intentional about how children experience each day, that’s meaningful. The software isn’t the point. The people are.

That sentence probably explains more about how I think than almost anything else I could write. The funny thing is, I don’t think I arrived at that belief because of the camp I direct today. I think I arrived there because of the camp I attended as a kid. By today’s standards, it wasn’t especially impressive.

Our basketballs were so worn that sometimes they barely bounced. The softballs had frayed seams and were slowly unraveling. We swam in a lake that always seemed to have something floating on the surface that nobody could quite identify. There was no inflatable aqua park, no waterskiing, no climbing tower. The docks in the lake (which was more so a pond) were made of metal and became almost too hot to stand on during the middle of the afternoon. Even the canoes felt like they’d been sitting inside an oven. If someone toured that camp today in the state that it was in when I went in the 1970-80s, they might leave with a fairly long list of things they’d want to improve.

I left with my life changed.

Not because of the basketballs. Not because of the lake. Not because of any activity I can actually remember. I honestly couldn’t tell you what I did on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon during the summer of 1983.

I could, however, tell you about my counselor. One Closing Day, when I was twelve years old, he hugged me goodbye. I don’t remember anything profound being said. I don’t remember a speech about friendship or growing up or staying in touch. I just remember crying. Not the kind of tears a twelve-year-old hopes nobody notices. The kind you can’t stop even if you want to. Looking back now, I think it may have been the first time I had ever allowed myself to be that vulnerable with someone outside my own family. I don’t think I understood it then, but I understand it now. That moment became part of me. It quietly shaped the husband, father, camp director, and person I would eventually become. No activity schedule could ever take credit for that. People could.

That’s why I’ve always been a little skeptical whenever camp conversations focus too heavily on facilities or activities. Don’t misunderstand me — I love what we’ve built (and what we’re enthusiastically and quickly building) at Chestnut Lake. I love that our campers have opportunities I never had. I love watching a child go tubing for the first time, return from an unforgettable trip, or discover a passion in one of our specialty programs. Those experiences matter. They create excitement. They create stories. But they aren’t the stories. They’re where the stories happen.

The story is the counselor who notices a camper sitting apart from others. It’s the friend who quietly saves a seat. It’s the conversation on the walk back from the lake that somehow changes the course of a friendship. It’s the cabin that figures out how to live together despite all the ordinary messiness that comes with being eleven or fourteen or sixteen years old. Those moments rarely make the highlight video. They’re also the ones that seem to last the longest.

Which brings me to something I’ve noticed every Closing Day.

Parents almost always ask the same question: “How was camp?” It’s exactly the right question. It’s also an impossible one.

Imagine trying to summarize twenty-eight (or twenty-one, or even fifty) days of your life before you’ve even unzipped your duffel bag. Where would you begin? With the Color Run? The counselors? The argument with your best friend that somehow turned into an even better friendship? The night everyone laughed so hard they couldn’t fall asleep? The homesickness that disappeared so gradually you never noticed the exact moment it was gone? The really tough moments you overcame (with a little help, or without)? There isn’t an answer big enough for that question.

When Ann and I were raising Lily, I asked the same kinds of questions after school, after soccer practice, after just about everything: “How was your day?” Even now, with her in graduate school, I still catch myself asking questions that don’t invite much of an answer. I’ve slowly learned that better questions don’t simply produce longer conversations. They produce more meaningful ones. What surprised you today? What challenged you? Who made you laugh? When did you feel proud of yourself? Those questions don’t just uncover memories. They help children organize them. They help them make sense of experiences that are still unfolding long after the experience itself has ended.

That’s really why I put together the Bring Camp Home guide that accompanies this week’s Campfire Tales email (you can also find it here). Not because I expect anyone to sit down and work through it like homework. Not because I think there are magical questions that unlock every camper’s heart. I simply wanted to give families a few more ways to begin conversations that deserve a little more time than the ride home from the camp bus pick-up usually allows.

A few summers ago, I had an experience that unexpectedly reinforced all of this. Our baggage company abruptly went out of business just before the end of camp. Overnight, we found ourselves responsible for delivering hundreds and hundreds of bags across the Northeast/Mid-Atlantic region. We rented trucks, reorganized schedules, identified staff, mapped routes, and somehow made it happen. I ended up driving a twenty-foot rental truck to Philadelphia with a few staff members, partly because we needed another driver and partly because it gave me an excuse to introduce them to my favorite cheesesteak.

As we finished making our delivery, camp buses started arriving. For one of the very few times in my career, I stood off to the side and watched parents welcoming children home. It was quieter than I expected. There were hugs that lasted a little longer than usual. Smiles that appeared before the bus doors even opened. Parents reaching for duffel bags while simultaneously trying not to let go of their kids. It struck me that nobody seemed particularly interested in hearing how many electives their child had taken or whether they finally landed that trick on waterskis. What mattered first was much simpler. Their child had gone away. They had grown. And now they were home. The stories could wait.

In many ways, I think that’s what camp has always been about. Not creating perfect summers or checking off activities, but giving children experiences that gradually become part of the stories they tell about themselves. Some of those stories begin around a campfire. Some begin in a cabin. Some begin with a counselor’s hug. Many of them won’t be fully understood until years later. That’s why I called this little guide Bring Camp Home. Not because I expect you to recreate camp around your kitchen table. You can’t. And you shouldn’t.

Camp belongs to your children. That’s part of the gift. They had adventures that were theirs, solved problems that were theirs, formed friendships that were theirs. We don’t want to take that away by asking them to relive every moment. But we can help them reflect on it. We can ask questions that invite stories instead of summaries. We can help them notice how they’ve changed without insisting they explain every detail. And if we’re lucky, those conversations won’t end this weekend. They’ll continue over dinner next month, in the car this fall, or years from now when an old camp song or an unexpected memory finds its way back into the conversation.

The older I get, the less I think camp is mostly about camp. I think it’s about everything that comes after it. It’s about the confidence that appears in a classroom in October, the resilience that shows up during a difficult season in high school, the lifelong friendship that began over a card game in a cabin, or the adult who, decades later, still remembers what it felt like to be seen, encouraged, and loved by a counselor.

Twenty-eight days has never felt like enough to me. Certainly not twenty-one. And not even fifty. Maybe it never will. But perhaps the measure of camp was never how much could happen in those days. Perhaps it’s how much of those days children carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Campfire Tales | What Kids Already Know

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

One of the things I’ve found myself doing from time to time this summer is walking into our Main Office’s small conference room, reaching for one of the books on the shelf, and giving myself five or ten minutes to think about something that has nothing to do with the decision or issue sitting in front of me. I should probably be honest, though. I’m not a great reader. At least not in the way real readers would define it (and by “real reader,” I mean Ann Selkow!). I don’t sit down and read a book from cover to cover over the course of a week. I skim. I bounce around. I’ll underline something, dog-ear a page, put the book back on the shelf or nightstand, and come back to it days later because I remembered one idea that I wanted to revisit. I finally unpacked a collection of books I’ve accumulated over the years and put them on the shelves in our office this summer. It only took me six years to officially move in, which feels about right.

What’s been interesting is that the books seem to have started talking to each other. Rutger Bregman’s HumanKind, Lisa Miller’s The Spiritual Child, and Kate Bowler’s Joyful Anyway are very different books written by very different people, yet each of them, in its own way, keeps coming back to the same question: What is it that human beings actually need in order to flourish? Not what entertains us. Not what impresses us. Not even what makes us successful. What do we genuinely need if we’re going to become the people we hope to become?

I’ve found myself thinking about that question while walking around camp this summer. My days, like every camp director’s, are wonderfully unpredictable. One moment, I’m meeting with a Division Leader about a camper who’s finally settling in after a difficult first week. Next, I’m watching a counselor patiently teach a child to waterski for the very first time. Somewhere in between, I’m answering a parent’s email, sitting in on a staff meeting, grabbing lunch with a group of campers, listening to a counselor tell me about a breakthrough conversation she had with a homesick child, or simply wandering through camp with no particular destination because that’s often when I see the things I most need to see. If you asked me to describe my day, I’d probably mention radios, meetings, staffing, phone calls, and a thousand moving parts. But if you asked me what stays with me at the end of the day, it is almost never those things. It’s the little moments that no one plans and no one schedules. They are easy to miss if you’re moving too quickly, but I have come to believe they are where the real story of camp is almost always unfolding.

That question wasn’t on my mind, at least not consciously, when I stopped six campers on a path yesterday. We had been walking together and talking about whatever happened to come up, when I interrupted the conversation with a challenge. I asked each of them to think of the one thing they loved most about camp, but to answer with only a single word. Before anyone spoke, I made them promise to settle on their answer first and not change it after hearing everyone else’s. I wasn’t trying to conduct a survey. I simply wanted six honest answers instead of six children following the crowd.

The answers came one by one. One camper said, “lake.” Another answered, “community.” A third smiled and said, “fun.” And three all landed in essentially the same place, choosing either “friends” or “friendship.” It was over in less than a minute, and we continued walking as though nothing particularly meaningful had happened. I doubt any of those campers gave the conversation another thought.

But I did.

Over the next day, I found myself replaying those six answers in my head, and the more I thought about them, the less different they became. At first glance, they sounded like six separate responses. One child loves the waterfront. Another values community. Three cherished friendships. One simply wants to have fun. But after sitting with those words for a while, I began to wonder whether they were all describing the very same thing from different angles. The camper who answered “lake” wasn’t referring to a body of water. She was talking about swimming to the raft with her friends, laughing through a waterski lesson, sitting on the dock, or jumping around the Aqua Park while waiting for her turn, and discovering that one of her favorite places in the world has become meaningful because of the people who share it with her. The camper who answered “fun” wasn’t describing an activity either. Fun is not a scheduled event between two periods on a daily schedule. It’s an emotion that almost always emerges from shared experiences. Even the child who chose “community” wasn’t talking about an abstract value. She was describing what it feels like to be known, to be welcomed, and to realize that your presence actually matters to the people around you.

The more I reflected on those answers, the more I realized that what struck me wasn’t simply what the girls said. It was what they didn’t say. None of them mentioned culinary, basketball, tennis, or drama. No one said Tribal. No one said the climbing tower, the Flying Squirrel, the Canteen, or even her cabin. Those things all matter. We pour ourselves into making them exceptional because they create the experiences that define a Chestnut Lake summer. Yet when six children were asked to reduce camp to a single word, none of them instinctively reached for an activity. Instead, they reached for a feeling. They reached for relationships. They reached for belonging.

I suspect that’s why those few minutes have stayed with me. As adults, we spend an enormous amount of time talking about camp in terms of programs, facilities, activities, schedules, traditions, and experiences. Parents naturally compare camps that way, and camp directors certainly do. We should. Those things matter. We devote months each year to improving them because they shape the environment where children spend their summers. But perhaps, every once in a while, children gently remind us that we’ve been paying attention to the frame while they have been admiring the painting.

Reading those books this summer has only sharpened that realization for me. Bregman argues that human beings are fundamentally wired for connection and cooperation. Lisa Miller writes about children’s deep need for relationships, nature, and a sense of belonging to something larger than themselves. Kate Bowler reminds her readers that joy is rarely manufactured through perfect planning; more often it surprises us in ordinary moments shared with people we love. None of those authors are writing about Chestnut Lake Camp, yet standing on that path with six campers, it felt as though all three were quietly nodding in agreement.

The truth is that every winter, we spend countless hours trying to make camp better. We refine schedules, improve facilities, develop new programs, strengthen traditions, and recruit extraordinary staff members. We invest heavily in training because we believe deeply that remarkable adults create remarkable childhoods. We spend hours thinking about how to help campers make friends more easily, how to create traditions that bring people together, how to help counselors build stronger cabins, and how to create opportunities for children to discover strengths they didn’t know they possessed. All of that work matters, but this little conversation reminded me that none of those things are really the destination. They are the means by which something much more significant becomes possible. Great activities create opportunities for friendships. Beautiful spaces invite children to gather. Caring counselors create the safety that allows children to take risks, to laugh at themselves, to apologize, to forgive, to encourage one another, and ultimately to grow. Everything we build ultimately exists to serve relationships.

I have no idea whether those six girls would answer my question the same way if I stopped them again tomorrow. Maybe one of them would suddenly decide that pickleball or tennis or rock back or Casino Night or Lip Sync deserved the top spot. Maybe another would surprise me with an answer I never would have expected. But I have a feeling that if I ran into those same campers ten or fifteen years from now and asked them what they remembered most about Chestnut Lake, they probably wouldn’t begin by describing the activity schedule we worked so hard to perfect. I think they’d begin with a person. A counselor who believed in them. A cabinmate who became a lifelong friend. A Division Leader who listened. A group of girls who somehow became a second family. They would remember laughing until they couldn’t breathe, finding confidence they didn’t know they had, and discovering what it feels like to belong to a community that asks you to care as much about everyone else’s experience as your own.

Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about six simple words offered by six unsuspecting campers. They weren’t trying to explain childhood, and they certainly weren’t trying to explain camp. They were simply answering a question honestly. Yet in doing so, they reminded me of something that adults sometimes overlook. The places that shape us are rarely remembered because of what they offered us to do. They endure in our memories because of who we became while we were there, because of the people who walked beside us as we became that person, and because, long after the details have faded, we can still remember exactly what it felt like to belong.

Children have a remarkable way of instinctively understanding that. Every now and then, if we’re paying attention, they’re kind enough to remind the rest of us.

Campfire Tales | Practicing Character

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

I’ve been thinking a lot about character this week. Not because it’s suddenly become a topic around camp. Truthfully, it’s always been a topic around camp. It’s one of those things that, if you’re lucky enough to spend your life working with children, you can’t help but think about. After thirty-plus summers, I’ve watched thousands of campers grow up. I’ve seen children become teenagers, teenagers become adults, and adults become parents who now send their own children to camp. Somewhere along the way, I stopped paying attention to anything but the big moments. I started noticing the little ones. In fact, I’ve come to believe that the little moments are usually the ones that matter most.

The game-winning basket is exciting. So is the standing ovation at the end of the Camp Show. Rope Burn at Tribal. Community Campfire. Those are the moments that naturally become memories. They’re wonderful, and I hope every camper has plenty of them. But I don’t think they’re the moments that change children. I think children change in much quieter ways.

They change when they decide to move over on a bench at the Campitheatre so another camper has somewhere to sit. They change when they don’t make it to the top of the climbing wall on their first try but decide to give it another shot anyway. They change when they notice someone who looks lonely and invite them into the GaGa game. They change when they tell the truth after making a mistake, or when they discover that helping another person actually feels better than winning. Those moments happen here every single day. Most of them won’t ever be photographed. They won’t make the highlight video. They probably won’t even be remembered a week later. And yet, I suspect they’re the moments that matter most.

People occasionally ask me how camp builds character. It’s a fair question, although I’m not sure I love the way it’s phrased. The older I get, the less I think character is something anyone really teaches. We can certainly talk about it. Parents do. Teachers do. Coaches do. We do. We can encourage it, celebrate it, and recognize it. But I don’t think children become people of character because an adult gave a particularly inspiring speech. I think they become people of character because they practice.

And that’s one of the things camp does better than almost anywhere else. Parents spend years raising their children. Schools play an enormous role in helping them learn and grow. Camp doesn’t replace either of those things, nor should it. What camp offers is something different. Children spend all day together. They solve problems together. They disappoint one another. They forgive one another. They laugh together, eat together, clean together, lose together, succeed together, and wake up the next morning to do it all over again.

Every single day presents dozens of opportunities to make little choices.

• Will I include someone?
• Will I keep trying?
• Will I encourage a friend who’s struggling?
• Will I put someone else’s needs ahead of my own?

One choice doesn’t define a child. But thousands of those little choices, repeated over time, begin to shape the kind of person that child is becoming.

A few nights ago, I stood in our basketball stadium and introduced something new to our campers on behalf of our leaders (and a special “Shout Out” to our wonderful Wellness Team for being such a big part of the overall effort to rebuild our Character Development program this summer!). Every camper received a simple “Wear Your Character” bracelet. It’s nothing fancy. In fact, I hope by the end of the summer it looks like it’s been through camp. I hope it’s scratched, stretched out, and definitely dirty. Because the bracelet itself isn’t what matters. What matters is what it represents.

Throughout the summer, campers will have opportunities to earn three different Character beads (along with other special ones, such as those for their Tribal Team). Not because they’re the fastest runner, the best athlete, or the loudest cheerer. They’ll earn them because someone noticed the way they chose to show up. An Inspiration bead recognizes a camper who lifts someone else up. A Determination bead recognizes someone who keeps going when things become difficult. An Acceptance bead recognizes someone who helps another person feel like they belong. Those three words — Inspiration, Determination, and Acceptance — weren’t chosen by accident. Before camp began, our leaders spent a great deal of time talking about the kind of community we want Chestnut Lake Camp to be. We weren’t looking for a catchy slogan or a new program. We were trying to find simple language for things we’ve always believed mattered. The bracelet simply gives us one more way to notice those moments. And just as we were creating something new, our long-time campers and staff knew that this was also a tribute to the “old” Chestnut where beads were given to campers at times throughout the summer.

I’ve smiled over the last couple of days watching campers wearing their bracelets and being asked about the beads. Perhaps most importantly, they’ve begun to notice these character qualities in one another. That’s really the whole idea. Once children begin looking for inspiration, determination, and acceptance, they start seeing them everywhere. Better yet, they begin looking for opportunities to practice them themselves.

Last night we gathered for Tribal Campfire. Hundreds of campers and staff discovered whether they’re Minsi or Unami. They’ll soon receive their tribal beads and shirts, sing their songs, and officially become part of a tradition spanning many years for Chestnut Lake campers. People often think Tribal is about competition. It isn’t. Competition comes later. First comes belonging. I’ve always believed that’s one of the most important lessons we can offer children. Before we ask them to challenge one another, we make sure they know they’re part of something. Children who feel like they belong are more willing to take healthy risks. They’re more willing to fail. They’re more willing to try again. They’re more willing to cheer for someone else’s success because they aren’t spending all of their energy wondering whether they fit in.

One theme this summer is “It’s Always Summer”. For me, that has never meant trying to make summer last forever. It means believing that the best parts of camp don’t have to end when camp does. They can show up back at school, on a team, around the dinner table, in a college dorm room, or years later in a workplace or a family of their own. One day, those bracelets will wind up in a drawer somewhere. The cord will eventually wear out. A bead may fall off. I doubt many campers will remember exactly when they earned each one. But I hope they remember something more important. I hope they remember what it felt like to encourage another person. I hope they remember what it felt like not to give up. I hope they remember what it felt like to make someone else feel welcome.

Because those aren’t really camp lessons. They’re life lessons. And when I think about what I hope our campers carry home from Chestnut Lake, it isn’t just songs, cheers, traditions, or stories — wonderful as all of those things are. It’s the quiet confidence that comes from practicing, over and over again, becoming the kind of person they want to be. If we can help children do that, even just a little, then we’ve done something that reaches well beyond a summer in the Poconos.

Campfire Tales | Seen

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

Seen

Yesterday was my 56th birthday.

When you’ve spent as much of your life at camp as I have, birthdays begin to feel a little different. By my count, I’ve now celebrated 51 of them at summer camp. It’s hard to imagine another place I’d rather be. There is something wonderfully special about spending your birthday surrounded by children who are laughing, counselors who are pouring themselves into making camp magical, and colleagues who have become part of our extended family. Throughout the day, I wore the same birthday shirt that every camper and staff member wears on their birthday. Hundreds of campers wished me a happy birthday as I walked around camp. There were songs, hugs, pictures, an incredible birthday cake decorated in Philadelphia 76ers colors, and even birthday cake for the entire camp at lunch. By any measure, it was a birthday I’ll never forget.

But none of that is what I’ve been thinking about today.

Last night, during our Friday night Community Campfire, I was invited on stage to receive a Community Service Award. It caught me completely by surprise. Over the years, I’ve quietly received a few nominations from campers, but they’ve always been handed to me privately. This time, because it was my birthday, one of our campers wrote something so thoughtful that our leadership team chose to read it in front of the entire camp. Standing there, I honestly wasn’t thinking very much about myself. Instead, I found myself thinking about what those awards have come to represent at Chestnut Lake.

Community Service Awards have become one of my favorite traditions, not because of the handful of names that are read aloud each Friday night, but because of the hundreds of names that aren’t. Every week, campers and staff members take a few quiet moments to recognize someone who made a difference in their lives. Sometimes it’s a counselor who offers encouragement when it’s needed most. Sometimes it’s a bunkmate who quietly welcomes someone new. Sometimes it’s a camper who demonstrates kindness when nobody else notices, or a staff member who simply makes another person’s day a little brighter. They write those nominations in their own handwriting, explaining why that person mattered to them. Our campus leaders select a handful to be shared publicly each week, but every single nomination is delivered to the person for whom it was written.

Think about that for a moment.

Even if your name is never read in front of the camp, someone still took the time to notice you. They saw something in you that mattered enough to sit down, think about it carefully, and put it into words. They wanted you to know that your kindness, leadership, encouragement, friendship, or compassion made a difference. In a world where so many young people wonder if they are truly seen, I can’t think of many more meaningful gifts than that.

As camp directors, Ann and I spend a great deal of time discussing some of the Chestnut Lake values, such as Character. Leadership. Confidence. We hope those words become more than posters on a wall or beads on a bracelet. We hope they become part of the way our campers think about themselves and about each other. The Community Service Awards have become one of the clearest expressions of those values because they don’t celebrate talent or popularity. They celebrate humanity. They remind us that the most important people in a community are often the ones who quietly make everyone else’s experience better. As I stood on that stage last night, I shared something with the campers that I have continued thinking about ever since.

If I can receive a Community Service Award, then every single person at camp can receive one. I don’t mean that modestly. I mean it sincerely.

The people making the biggest difference in camp aren’t usually the ones standing on stage. They’re the counselor who notices the camper who seems a little quieter than usual. They’re the division leader who spends an extra ten minutes helping a homesick child settle into bed. They’re the friend who scoots over on a bench at the picnic table in the Grove to make room for someone who looks like they need a place to sit. They’re the Varsity camper who takes a younger child under their wing. They’re the maintenance staff member who quietly fixes something before anyone knows it was broken, the nurse who comforts a frightened camper, the specialty counselor who celebrates a child for trying something difficult instead of simply succeeding. Those people make our camp what it is.

One of the things that has struck me most during this first week has been how often I’ve seen those moments unfold. I’ve seen them in our new garden program, where campers eagerly harvested food that, until recently, was just tiny seeds in the ground. I’ve seen them on the pickleball courts, where a group of campers at our first-ever Pickleball Specialty Camp yesterday refused to let the heat diminish their enthusiasm for a sport they are quickly falling in love with. I’ve seen them during evening programs, on athletic fields, in bunks, and simply walking from one activity to the next. The headlines of camp are often found in big events and exciting traditions, but the heart of camp has always lived in the small interactions between people who choose, over and over again, to make someone else’s day better. Perhaps that’s why the Community Service Awards mean so much to me.

They remind us to pay attention. They remind us that kindness is rarely loud. They remind us that leadership is often quiet. Most importantly, they remind us that every child deserves to feel seen.

This year we’ve decided to do something new. In the coming days, if your child received a Community Service nomination this week (whether it was read aloud at the Campfire or handed to them after the program ended), we’ll email it home for you to read. Long after the summer ends, I suspect those handwritten notes will become some of the most meaningful souvenirs they bring home from camp. As for me, I’ll carefully tuck my own nomination away with a handful of others I’ve received over the years. Not because I think I earned special recognition, but because every once in a while it’s nice to be reminded that someone noticed.

The truth is, that’s something all of us need from time to time. Whether we’re fifty-six years old or ten. Whether we’re the camp director or a first-year camper. We all want to know that somebody saw the best in us.

Campfire Tales | Our Stewardship

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

There is something about these last few days before camp begins that I have never quite been able to explain. People often assume that because we’ve been doing this for a long time, Opening Day somehow becomes routine. They imagine that after nearly two decades at Chestnut Lake, and more than thirty years of professional camping between Ann and me, we simply check things off a list, welcome another group of campers, and watch another summer unfold.

The truth couldn’t be further from that.

In many ways, this is the most emotional week of the year for us. The anticipation is enormous. The excitement is real. There is an incredible amount of energy around camp right now because everyone knows what is coming. We know that in just a few days, buses filled with children will begin entering through our front gates. We know those buses will be carrying campers who have been counting down to this day since they climbed back on them last August. We also know they’ll be carrying children who have never been to camp before, who have spent the past several weeks wondering what their counselors will be like, whether they’ll make friends, whether they’ll fit in, and whether this place that everyone keeps talking about will eventually feel like home. We’ve spent an entire year preparing for that moment.

Sometimes people ask me what we do during the months when camp isn’t in session. I usually smile because it’s almost impossible to answer in a sentence. We hire staff, design programs, improve facilities, evaluate every aspect of the previous summer, rethink traditions, introduce new ideas, solve problems we didn’t even know existed a year ago, and constantly ask ourselves how we can make an experience that we already love even better. By the time staff training begins, most of those plans are already in place. And then something interesting happens.

During these last two weeks, all of those carefully constructed plans suddenly became secondary to something much more important. The conversations change. Instead of asking whether an activity will be fun enough or whether a schedule works efficiently, we begin asking questions about children. We talk about the camper who may be arriving, not knowing anyone else on the bus. We talk about the child who always appears confident but quietly struggles when no one is watching. We talk about homesickness—not as something to fear, but as something to understand. We talk about kindness, belonging, inclusion, patience, encouragement, and the thousand small interactions that determine whether a child simply attends camp or truly feels that they belong here.

I’ve realized over the years that this is what staff training is really about. Yes, counselors learn songs. Of course, they have their heads full of tons of information about child development and behavior management. They practice some fun skits. They prepare incredible activities. They review safety procedures and camp logistics until they become second nature. All of that matters, and it should. Parents should expect nothing less. But beneath all of those practical things is a much deeper conversation that we return to again and again.

These children belong to someone else.

I know that sounds almost painfully obvious, but I have learned that obvious truths deserve to be repeated. Every camper who arrives at Chestnut Lake is somebody’s son or daughter. Somebody taught them to ride a bicycle. Somebody stayed awake when they had a fever. Somebody celebrated every birthday, sat through every school concert, worried through every disappointment, and smiled through every success. Long before they became our campers, they became the center of someone else’s world. For a few weeks this summer, our families are trusting us with something precious. That thought never leaves us.

When Ann and I became parents ourselves, I think we understood this responsibility even more deeply. Raising your own child is one of life’s greatest privileges, but it is also wonderfully forgiving. None of us gets it right every day. We make mistakes. We lose our patience. We say the wrong thing, offer advice that isn’t particularly helpful, and occasionally discover that our children were wiser than we were. The beautiful thing about parenting is that tomorrow almost always offers another opportunity. Relationships grow over years, not moments.

Camp is different. We don’t have years to build trust. We may have just one summer.

That isn’t a source of pressure for us. It’s a source of perspective. It reminds us that every interaction matters because we don’t have the luxury of assuming there will always be another chance to make a first impression or to help a child through a difficult moment. We have to earn your trust from the very first day, and then continue earning it every day that follows.

Several years ago, I read Michael Thompson’s wonderful book Homesick and Happy. One of the ideas that has stayed with me ever since is his observation that children can be homesick and happy at the same time. At first glance, those emotions seem contradictory, but anyone who has worked with children knows they aren’t. A camper can miss home deeply while also laughing with new friends. They can wish Mom or Dad were nearby while simultaneously discovering that they are stronger, kinder, and more capable than they imagined. That isn’t a problem to solve. It’s childhood doing exactly what childhood is supposed to do.

More recently, I found myself reading Jonathan Haidt’s work about what he calls the importance of helping children spend more time in “discover mode.” His research focuses on many of the challenges facing young people today, but what resonated with me was something camp professionals have believed for generations. Children grow when they are given opportunities to discover things for themselves. Confidence doesn’t come from being told you’re capable. It comes from realizing you’re capable. Resilience isn’t developed because someone gives a lecture about perseverance. It develops because a child experiences something difficult, works through it, and discovers they can do hard things. When I think about camp through that lens, I realize that our work has never really been about activities. Activities are simply the setting. The real work happens in the relationships that develop around them. A child remembers the counselor who believed in them long before they believed in themselves. They remember the friend who invited them to sit together at lunch on the first day. They remember the division leader who noticed they were unusually quiet one evening. They remember laughing until they couldn’t catch their breath. They remember failing, trying again, and eventually succeeding at something they were convinced they could never do. Those are the moments that stay with people for decades.

As I walked through camp this morning, I found myself thinking about all of this. Everywhere I looked, people were working hard, but what struck me wasn’t how much there was still to do. It was why everyone was doing it. Nobody was painting a building because it needed paint. Nobody was reorganizing equipment simply because things should be neat. Nobody was reviewing a schedule because they enjoy moving blocks around on a spreadsheet. Every one of those jobs, no matter how ordinary it seemed, was ultimately connected to a child who would arrive here in just a few days. That’s what makes this work feel different. We aren’t simply preparing a place. We’re preparing to become temporary stewards of something that matters more to you than anything else in the world. I don’t use that word lightly.

Stewardship means caring for something that doesn’t belong to you. It means recognizing that what has been entrusted to your care is both precious and temporary. That’s exactly how we think about your children. They are not ours. They never will be. They belong to you, and at the end of the summer, they’ll climb back onto those same buses carrying new friendships, unforgettable stories, greater confidence, and, we hope, a deeper understanding of who they are becoming. Our responsibility is to help make that journey possible. Our privilege is that you’ve invited us to be part of it.

In just a few days, the buses will arrive, another Chestnut Lake summer will begin, and this remarkable place will once again be filled with the laughter, energy, friendships, and joyful chaos that have defined it for nearly nineteen years. We’ll welcome returning campers back to the place they already think of as home, and we’ll welcome first-time campers who have no idea yet that they are about to become part of something much larger than themselves.

Thank you for trusting us with the people you love most. We promise never to forget whose children they are.

Campfire Tales | Camp is a Gift

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

For the first time this summer, nearly our entire staff community is together. Over the next week, these remarkable young people will participate in Staff Week as they prepare for the arrival of our campers. While campers and their parents are never physically present for moments like this, I have always believed that families should have a window into what happens here and understand the values, expectations, and purpose that guide our community. This evening, I spoke to our staff in the Campitheatre. Rather than summarize those remarks, I thought I would simply share them. What follows is the message I delivered.

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Tonight feels different.

Not because camp starts tomorrow. It doesn’t. Not because everything is ready. It isn’t. And not because every member of our staff community is here yet. A few people are still finishing responsibilities at home and will join us in the days ahead. Tonight feels different because, for the first time this summer, we are almost all together.

Look around for a moment. The people sitting around you arrived at different times and for different reasons. Some of you got here just a few hours ago. Some have been here for days. Some have been here for weeks. A handful have been here since May. And while you may have arrived at different times, tonight is the first night we start to feel like one community. Before talking about what’s ahead, I think it’s important to recognize what it took to get us here. Our specialty counselors have already spent days preparing activity areas, training, planning programs, and learning how to lead their spaces. They are counselors first and foremost, but they are also helping create the experiences that will make this summer unforgettable.

Before them came many of our support staff — the people who help keep us healthy, the people who keep us safe, the people who maintain this beautiful property, the people who move equipment, transport people, solve problems, prepare meals, clean spaces, and do countless things that most campers will never even notice. And that’s exactly why their work is so important. Because when they are doing their jobs well, camp simply works. Some of those staff members have already been here for weeks, and I don’t think it’s possible to overstate how much they have accomplished. The food has been incredible. The spaces are coming together. The details are being handled. The place is starting to feel alive again.

And before them came our SUPES Team. For weeks now, they have been preparing to lead this community. Some are experienced educators. Some are coaches. Some work with children professionally. Some are still finding their path. But every one of them has chosen to be here because they believe in what this place can be. And that’s one of the things I want to talk about tonight: choice.

Because every person sitting here made one. You chose to be here. You could have spent your summer somewhere else. You could have taken a different job. You could have stayed closer to home. You could have chosen something easier. Instead, you chose this. And I don’t take that lightly.

When I look around this Campitheatre, I see people who will make a difference in the lives of others. Some of you will become teachers. Some of you will become coaches. Some of you will become parents. Some of you will work with children. Some of you will go into professions that have nothing to do with any of those things. But I have a feeling that many of you will spend your lives helping other people in one way or another. That’s one of the things that brought you here in the first place.

And if I’m being honest, when I was your age, I would not have necessarily seen any of that when I looked at myself. I certainly didn’t see a future camp director. I wasn’t studying education. I wasn’t preparing for a career working with children. I wasn’t building some master plan that would eventually bring me here. Truthfully, I was mostly interested in sports. School was something I did. Athletics were what mattered. And camp? Camp was just where I kept showing up.

I started as a camper when I was five years old. I turned six during my first summer. Then I just never really left. Not because I had some grand vision. Not because I knew what camp would eventually mean to me. Mostly because I didn’t know anything else. Many of you are actually more thoughtful about this than I was. You applied for this. You interviewed for this. Some of you traveled halfway around the world to be here. Some of you chose Chestnut Lake because someone you trust told you this place was special. I love that. I respect that. And I also know that, in some ways, it means you are starting with more intention than I did.

Over time, I got better at camp. I became a decent counselor. I learned how to run programs. I figured out some things. But one of the most important summers of my life wasn’t spent teaching basketball or running activities. It was spent working in the camp kitchen. And looking back, that summer changed everything. Because when you’re responsible for taking care of people, you learn humility pretty quickly. You learn that communities don’t function because of one person. You learn that every job matters. You learn that taking care of other people is hard work, meaningful work, sometimes thankless work, and incredibly important work.

Without that experience, I’m not sure I’d be standing here tonight. I don’t know that I would have understood what it really means to lead a camp, because it’s not just about standing in front of people. It’s about noticing what has to be done and being willing to do it. It’s about caring when no one is clapping. It’s about understanding that the smallest details can make another person feel seen, safe, and cared for. Because of that, I think I understand at least a little bit of what some of you may be feeling. Maybe you’re excited. Maybe you’re nervous. Maybe you’re wondering whether you’re ready. Maybe you’re sitting here thinking, “What exactly have I signed up for?”

At some point during the next few weeks, almost every person sitting here is going to have a moment when they think, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” And when that moment comes, I want you to know something: That’s normal. It’s supposed to happen. None of us started with all the answers. Not me. Not the people leading this camp. Not the people sitting beside you. The goal is not perfection. The goal is growth. The goal is effort. The goal is to show up every day and try to become a little bit better than you were the day before. That’s what we’re asking of you. We’re asking you to care. We’re asking you to try. We’re asking you to put children first. We’re asking you to live the values of this community. Not because we expect you to be perfect, but because we believe you are capable of being extraordinary.

And yes, you are going to make mistakes. I hope you do. Because mistakes usually mean you are trying. Mistakes usually mean you are stretching yourself. Mistakes usually mean you are putting yourself in a position to learn. We will help you through mistakes. We will teach through mistakes. We will grow through mistakes. What we will not accept is indifference. What we will not accept is choosing not to care. Because these children deserve adults who care deeply.

Now there’s something else I want you to understand about this place. Many of you came here because someone recommended Chestnut Lake Camp. Somebody told you this was a special place. Somebody told you this was where you should spend your summer. Or maybe the greatest staff recruiter in history, Sam Roberts, looked into your eyes — which felt like he was seeing clear into your heart — and made you feel like you needed to come to Chestnut to fulfill your destiny. When people hear that about a place — whether from friends or from members of our leadership—they often assume it has been that way forever because it sounds ideal. They assume, because of that, that it is finished. They assume it is complete. They assume somebody else has already built all of it and that coming here will mean jumping into a place that is fully formed.

But that’s not true. Some of you may not even realize that our first summer wasn’t until 2008. When people talk about Chestnut Lake Camp today, they often talk about it like it’s always been here. Like it’s been around forever. But it hasn’t. Nineteen years ago, there wasn’t much here. There were ideas. There were dreams. There was hard work. There were people willing to believe that something special could exist. Every summer since then, another group of people has added something — a tradition, a program, a friendship, a culture, a standard, a memory, a story. Some stayed for one summer. Some stayed for many. But every one of them left fingerprints behind.

And tonight, you become part of that story. You didn’t come here to observe it. You came here to write part of it. Chestnut Lake Camp is not finished. It is still growing. It is still becoming. And now you are part of what comes next. Years from now, there will be counselors sitting exactly where you are sitting tonight. They will benefit from traditions you helped strengthen, programs you helped improve, relationships you helped build, and culture you helped shape. They may never fully know your name. But they will experience your impact, just as we are still experiencing the impact of those who came before us. That’s how communities work. That’s how legacies are built. One summer at a time. One person at a time. One choice at a time.

And that brings me back to where I started: Choice. Because years from now, when you think about this summer, I don’t think you will remember every schedule. You won’t remember every meeting. You won’t remember every training session. What you will remember are the people, the moments, the challenges, the growth, the laughter, and the feeling that you were part of something bigger than yourself.

I’m 55 years old. I’ve spent more than thirty years doing this work. And when I think about camp, I don’t just think about this summer. I think about summers long ago. I think about the people who shaped me, the lessons they taught me, the confidence they gave me, the responsibility they trusted me with, and the ways camp helped me grow up. When I was your age, I thought camp was a place. At 55, I know better. Camp isn’t a place. It’s a gift.

It’s a gift that keeps unfolding. The lessons don’t arrive all at once. The impact doesn’t arrive all at once. You discover pieces of it years later. You discover it when life gets hard. You discover it when someone depends on you. You discover it when you are asked to lead. You discover it when you are raising a family. You discover it as you try to figure out who you want to be. I opened that gift a long time ago. And somehow, after all these years, I’m still finding things inside it. That’s what I hope for you. I hope you have a great summer. Of course I do. I hope you make memories. I hope you make friends. I hope you make a difference for children.

But more than that, I hope this experience stays with you. I hope thirty years from now you can still feel it. I hope thirty years from now you are still benefiting from it. I hope thirty years from now you can point back to a summer in Beach Lake, Pennsylvania, and say that somehow, in ways you couldn’t have understood at the time, it helped shape who you became.

So on behalf of our leadership team, our year-round staff, our seasonal leaders, and my family — Ann, Lily, Pearl, and me — welcome. You chose this place. Tonight, we’re choosing you too. Welcome to Chestnut Lake Camp. Welcome to Beach Lake. Welcome home.

Now let’s get to work.

Campfire Tales | Before the Campers Arrive

By Aaron Selkow, Owner/Director

As I write this, we’re still more than two weeks away from Opening Day. The bunks are waiting. The lake is quiet. The athletic fields are green and ready. There are projects still underway, schedules still being refined, and a seemingly endless list of details that need attention before the first buses arrive at Chestnut Lake. To most people, camp hasn’t started yet. But the truth is, camp has been underway for quite some time. Remember…It’s Always Summer.

Some members of our leadership team arrived in early May. Together, we’ve spent the past several weeks preparing every corner of camp for the summer ahead. We’ve hired staff, planned programs, reviewed procedures, solved problems, walked the property countless times, shared information about the amazing campers still to arrive, and worked through thousands of decisions — most of which campers and parents will never see, but all of which help create the experience they will soon enjoy. The past week marked another important step in that preparation.

Nearly fifty members of our leadership team (which we refer to as the “SUPES” here, who are part of the larger “Blue Team” of adult staff) gathered for five days of intensive training. We spent long days together discussing leadership, child development, communication, supervision, safety, culture, and the tremendous responsibility that comes with helping shape a child’s summer. There were presentations. There were discussions. There were role-plays. There were moments of laughter and moments of reflection. And there was the exercise that we closed with, which has truly resonated for me.

Our supervisors gathered around a large drawing of a “SUPE” and answered a simple question: “What kind of leader do you want to be this summer?”

Each supervisor was asked to consider their own answer to that question. And after we shared them all, with more than 200 affixed to the wall, I invited each of the leaders to select one written by another person and place it on the drawing of a “SUPE”. It was important that they chose one from another team member, because while each of us will aspire to meet our own goals, this team’s success will be marked by how well it supports others. Their choices quickly filled the flip-chart sheet.

Present. Approachable. Consistent. Proactive. Impactful. An active listener. Someone people can trust. Someone who makes a positive difference. Someone campers and staff can come to when they are struggling. Someone who is constantly learning and adapting. One note simply read: “I want to make a difference.”

As I stood there looking at the wall, I found myself thinking about some things that weren’t written. Nobody wrote, “perfect.” Nobody wrote, “finished.” Nobody wrote “expert.” Instead, what covered the page were qualities that require intention. Qualities that require effort. Qualities that require practice. Qualities that require growth. And that’s when I realized that the exercise wasn’t really about leadership. It was about becoming.

There has been a lot written recently about young people, confidence, resilience, independence, and anxiety. Much of it centers around an important question: “How do children become confident?” For years, many of us assumed confidence came first. Then came the challenge. But experience tells us something different. Confidence often comes after the challenge. Confidence comes from discovering that you can do something difficult. It comes from walking into a bunk where you don’t know anyone and somehow finding your place. It comes from climbing higher than you thought you could. It comes from speaking up when you’re nervous. It comes from trying something new. It comes from making a mistake and realizing you can recover from it. It comes from being homesick and making it through the day. It comes from failing, learning, adjusting, and trying again. And eventually, looking back and realizing that you’ve become stronger than you ever were before.

That is what camp has always offered children. Not a summer free from challenge, but a summer filled with the right challenges. The kind that help young people discover what they are capable of. One of the things I love most about leadership training is that it reminds us that growth isn’t reserved for children. We spend a great deal of time talking about how to help campers become more confident, more resilient, more independent, and more connected. But the adults in the room are engaged in that same work themselves. Before we ask campers to step outside their comfort zones, we do the same. Before we ask campers to learn resilience, we practice resilience. Before we ask campers to grow, we commit ourselves to growth as well.

The photo accompanying this Campfire Tale was taken at the conclusion of that exercise. What you’re looking at isn’t a strategic plan or a list of responsibilities. It’s a collection of aspirations. Nearly fifty leaders identifying the qualities they hope to embody this summer. What I find most reassuring about that isn’t that they have all the answers. It’s that they continue to ask the right questions. How can I be better? How can I serve others more effectively? How can I help someone feel seen? How can I make a positive difference? The best leaders I’ve known have never acted as though they had everything figured out. They simply remained committed to becoming better versions of themselves. Perhaps that’s one of the greatest lessons camp has to offer. Growth isn’t something we finish; it’s something we practice.

Every summer, children arrive at Chestnut Lake as works in progress. They leave as works in progress, too. The difference is that somewhere along the way, they discover new strengths, new friendships, new confidence, and new reasons to believe in themselves. The same is true for all of us. So here we are, a little more than two weeks before Opening Day. The campers haven’t arrived yet. The songs haven’t been sung. The games haven’t been played. The campfires haven’t been lit. But growth has already begun.

And if the conversations, commitment, and heart I’ve seen from our leadership team over these past several weeks are any indication, this community is ready for a remarkable summer.