From about the age of 8 or so until I was probably around 12, I spent 2 weeks every summer in a place called Camp Segowea. I think it was in Massachusetts, somewhere in the mountains in or near the Appalachian Trail. It was very green and misty and rustic and full of bugs and little critters everywhere.
Since moving to Asheville, which is way further south but still in the Appalachian Mountains, I frequently feel as though I’m at summer camp. Whether it’s the morning drizzle that quickly dries up and turns to sunshine or a small road that is full of trees, flowers, and ferns, I can’t help but be reminded of Camp Segowea. I know “you can’t go home again”, but there’s something very comforting about that feeling.
It’s pouring rain right now, which also reminds me of summer camp, and my cat spotted a little visitor from his perch in the window. This is the first frog I think I’ve seen in the wild, probably since summer camp. It’s been a long time anyway.
I went outside to take a photo and he didn’t seem bothered by me at all. He’s still there, enjoying a big puddle on my walkway. That’s about how I remember frogs to be. The boys at camp used to catch frogs and have frog races. All they had to do was walk up to a frog and grab it – they never tried too hard to run away.