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.