Anna Britton Brannen

Mr. Norment

AP Lang

22 February 2023

 

 

Casting Off My Years

“In years to come our hearts will turn,

Back to Ton-A-Wandah,

And eyes will shine and hearts will burn,

Loving Ton-A-Wandah,

And all through life, we’ll find a way,

To nobler work and finer play,

Because God led our steps one day,

Up to Ton-A-Wandah”

Ton-A-Wandah, Alma Mater

 

 

For the past nine years, since the summer I turned seven, I’ve spent three weeks of the

summer at a small camp in Hendersonville, North Carolina, away from my parents and any form

of technology. I returned year after year, just like my grandmother, my aunts, and my mom. This

past summer was my final one, and as I look back and reflect on my time spent there, I find the

one aspect that kept drawing me back was the peace and comfort I had found in nature. As

author Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the

snake his slough, and at what period soever of his life, is always a child. In the woods, is

perpetual youth (Nature, 505).” Emerson impeccably described the freedom I always felt

returning to the mountains, in knowing I was able to be as child-like and tranquil as I pleased.

 

For those three weeks of the year, I was the most care-free version of myself. I revisited

all the same feelings I experienced through childhood, even as I aged. While I was ever-changing

as the fast-paced outside world, camp was always the same. As soon as the first day of the

session began, I tossed away my phone, kissed my parents goodbye, and inhaled a gulp of the

fresh air, sticky from the summer heat and slightly smoky from the last campfire of the summer

before. It was as if nothing had changed, all the cabins painted the same shade as the leaves of

the rhododendron plants populating the grounds. As the days passed by, I felt more and more like

my true self, youthful and jubilant amongst the pillowy grass that reached the edges of the lake.

The perpetual breeze across the jade-colored body of water made the girls canoes’ wobble and

rock, their laughter echoing up into the pine trees, heard by passers-by on the other side of the

gates to our paradise. Each Sunday we all dressed in white and began our walk to the wooded

Chapel at noon. The crunch of the rocks beneath the well-worn soles of our shoes mixed with

sounds of the mossy, babbling brook that ran all around the Chapel sang our praises to our

Creator.

 

A fond memory of one of my first summers was gathering around the stump of a giant,

old oak, painting fairy houses made out of clay with the pure hearts of eight-year-old girls. We

carefully placed our dainty houses all across camp, knowing that every night a fairy would return

to each one. Even as I turned sixteen for my final summer, something about being back in the

woods made me feel as if a tiny fairy spending the night in a home that I made wasn’t so

impossible. The woods in the mountains made me never want to grow up, just like Peter Pan. In

the film, Peter cried to Wendy, “Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where

you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.” For me, camp was my

Neverland. None of my worries from the world on the other side of the rusty, paint-peeling gates

could follow me in, and at last I could be a child once more.

 

As much serenity as the days brought me, the nights were when I found the most time to

appreciate my surroundings and contemplate my values. After an evening filled with games of

tag and relay races, the setting sun brought fireflies to the pasture where we played. Their natural

night-lights made me unafraid of the impending darkness, as I knew they would be there to keep

me company. I’ve watched them flit across the sky summer after summer, higher than a child’s

reach, as free as me. As girls of all ages joined hands to sing “Taps,” and whisper goodnights to

each other, the star light reflected across our faces, giving us a youthful glow. I lay in my bed

listening to the sounds of the frogs croaking around the lake and the familiar buzz of crickets. I

know that here in this place, I will awake not a day older.

 

Not only in my home within the natural world did I find my youth and peace, but I also

found who I am, deep down in my soul, away from the pressures and trends of the outside world.

Emerson writes again, “… sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In their eternal calm,

he finds himself (Nature, 505).” During the first year at camp, girls are sorted into different

tribes, Navajo, Mohawk, and Cherokee. Like the three generations before me, I was initiated into

the Cherokee tribe when I am seven years old. To me, being a Cherokee means family, tradition,

and competition. For years, I watched an older girl become elected the new Chief each summer.

They were my role models, and I was always proud of how they lead our tribe in victory or loss.

In my second-to-last summer, I did what I never thought I would and stepped out of my comfort

zone. I ran for Chief and won. This experience was a defining moment in my life. With the eyes

of fifty younger girls on me, I had to find my leadership skills and inner confidence. With each

decision I made, I found that winning was not the most important factor but including each girl

in the activity at hand while making her feel special was above everything else. Through our

tribal, child-like competitions under the infinite blue sky, I was able to find my leadership skills,

self-confidence, and core values.

 

Now, if I feel a burst of apricity, I might be inspired to take a walk through my

neighborhood or dip my toes in the pond behind my house, in an attempt to capture the same

feeling I had in camp each summer. It arouses thoughts of tremendous melancholy to think about

the fact I am no longer returning to my mountain home, but I am delighted to express that

Emerson couldn’t be closer to the truth. The woods sincerely do bring out the best in me.

 

 

Works Consulted

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. The Norton Anthology of American Literature: Volume 1, edited

by Robert S. Levine, Shorter 10th ed. W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2023, pp.503-32.

Peter Pan. Directed by Hamilton Luske, Clyde Geronimi, and Wilfred Jackson, Walt Disney

Productions, 1953.