Maine Camp Memories

Some of my fondest memories growing up are tied to our camp on South Arm Road in Andover, Maine. Some of my earliest memories, really—long before I understood nostalgia, or why certain places get stitched into you for life.

There’s a photograph somewhere of my mother giving a very young me in a bath in the camp’s kitchen sink. I sincerely hope that photo is buried at the bottom of a box, under several decades of Christmas decorations, because 57-year-old me does not need that particular artifact resurfacing.

The camp itself was a no-frills, single-story building with a woodshed, an attached outhouse, and—because why not—a second, detached outhouse at the end of a short path behind the camp. Both were two-holers. Don’t ask me why. It was what it was. The attached outhouse wasn’t in use when we bought the place, which was a shame, because it would have been pretty handy on those bitter winter nights when you triple-checked your commitment level before heading outside.

I also remember someone—who shall remain unnamed—placing a cribbage board between the two seats in one of the outhouses. I assume it was meant as a joke, though in fairness, it could’ve been very practical if two people had identical constipation schedules and a very strong relationship.

Just down the road from camp was a place we called Devil’s Den. At some point, Black Brook decided it didn’t like the direction it was heading and rerouted itself, leaving behind its old path for us to explore. There was a cave with no roof—there’s probably a proper geological term for that, but it escapes me—and if you followed the dry channel down, you’d end up at a pool at the bottom.

The brook itself still ran alongside this area, stair-stepping its way down to that same pool. At the top was a deep swimming hole, which spilled into a natural rock chute we used as a water slide. In the height of summer, when the air was thick and the water was shock-cold, it was unbeatable. My cousins and I would spend entire days swimming, climbing, and roaming Devil’s Den and the surrounding woods.

Winter transformed the place completely. Sneakers were traded for snowmobiles, but the exploring never stopped.

South Arm Road still holds a special place in my heart, and I know I’ll return to it again and again. But the first memory I really want to talk about—the one that sticks with me the most—is what we called “going moosin‘.”

Moosin’ was exactly what it sounds like: heading out at dusk to look for moose. There were three or four swampy spots near camp that were prime moosin’ territory. About an hour or two before sunset, we’d pile into the car, park along the edge of one of those swamps, and wait.

We’d sit there eating graham crackers and drinking hot cocoa—or sodas, depending on the season—telling stories, cracking jokes, laughing until our sides hurt. As the light faded, the car would grow quiet. We’d just watch.

About half the time, our patience paid off. A moose or two would step out of the woods, completely unconcerned with us, and wander into the swamp to do moose things. We’d sit there, still and silent, watching until the light finally gave out.

Then we’d head back to camp, wrung out in the best possible way, ready for bed and whatever trouble tomorrow had lined up.

And there you have it.
Until next time.

—JT