A satin flow of water glides over the crest of Fleming Falls in the top picture. The marvelous stream that feeds the falls (bottom picture) rolls under the twin bridges in front of the camp’s dining hall as another aging camper (middle) ponders her own memories.

CAMP MOWANA—

It was an intense immersion in nostalgia the day of my recent visit to my childhood church camp. You see, those two, one-week experiences happened about 56 or so years ago.

Imagine a small city boy, then suddenly in woods full of critters with creeks full of pollywogs and trees that were about 5,000 feet tall.

Imagine us around those roaring campfires, being smothered with the legends and lore of this mysterious yet enchanting place.

And, the old craft cabin is up there on the hill just like it was. My favorite project was one of those nifty whistle lanyards we were thrilled to weave out of that brightly colored, flat plastic thread.

And, my old cabin named Tecumseh was still there. Much smaller of course. I could peer in the windows and see the ageless metal bunk beds with sunlight streaming thin rays through the musty air of accommodations closed now for approaching winter.

I remember being able to lay in bed in there and watch the tops of the trees bend to the wind of a growing storm and hear the sudden deluge as rain pummeled the cabin roof and lightening made thunder rattle through a very angry sky.

Later in my visit I crawled along a rocky ledge of creek bank to make another picture and encountered the old concrete dam that used to create our swimming hole down in front of Oneida Hall. The wall remains but has been long breeched by the relentless flow of the stream.

High up on the sandstone rock formation above the Fleming Falls pool I could still see the life-size relief carvings of two human faces said to be of those who owned a mill just above the falls and who were slaughtered by the Indians after a disagreement with those then encroaching settlers from the east.

True? Maybe. But young boys risk much peril, indeed, to question the yarns of wise and all-knowing camp counselors.

I had a small shiver yet as I pondered those memories from long ago.

Then, I chuckled as a small frog plopped into the still water and I wandered on to savor that beautiful fall day—and feeling very thankful I still could, and my old church camp was still there.