No-Man’s Land

Day 2
The grass danced and bent subserviently to the winds that blew across camp this morning. At first, the thick blanket of clouds that had sought in vain to dampen the sprit and ruach that greets this corner of the Catskills every morning had -in combination with the gale-force winds- created the impression that we would soon be privy to the washout of the summer.
But, true to that old adage “ There is NO rain in Camp Simcha”, nature’s trickery let up to reveal that the rumble in the distance was not a bird, plane, or the whole lot of Dembi’s lost socks coming back home. It was the din of impossibly large, imposing blades; those part of the helicopter that would take up campers and bring down pilots. Donning bright yellow tees with the proper credentials, campers were hoisted in threes to the skies over Glen Spey. Through the smoky fog eerily rising from the pines and the rain drops running up the windshield, all (save for the unlucky counselors) were treated to magnificent views the streams, complacent in their stillness, and the gently rolling hills that surround Camp Simcha Special.
It was not long before our new pilots needed to come in for a landing. Even as the soft thud reminded them that they were back on solid footing- even hundreds of feet below those elusive, solemnly beautiful skies, the smiles that beamed across hundreds of faces were a collective testament to the fact that the past 5 minutes had made soar not only campers, but spirits and hearts alike.

By, T.P.