Upper Council Fire Stories
Some time ago, at a summer camp somewhere in the United States, a peculiar man visited. He arrived in a fancy car, wore fine clothes, and kept a somber silence. He was polite and acknowledged those around him, but respectfully kept his quiet as he began walking straight to where this camp’s spirit stones were kept. The camp staff worried for the man. Especially his silences, which carried an air of nostalgic melancholy. They came to the camp director, asking what they should do.
“He just needs a moment,” the camp director said. The man sat by the spirit stones in silence for hours. When the sun began to set, the man got up, dusted himself off, then drove away in his fancy car with his fine clothes. “He was a former camper,” the director said. “He just needed some camp.”
I love this story. And though this is but a smaller, diluted version of it, it’s the version that I remember most. It is the version I remember hearing as a Camper, and now as a Counselor, around the crackling flames of the Upper Council Fire. Why do I love this story? Is it the stranger’s silence and reflection? Do I love the absence of names and the mystery that brings? Or the many questions asked and unanswered in the story and in us, the audience? Well, of course. But also because of when and where we tell this story.
I still remember the first time I heard it. Over ten years ago, at the same places where we light our campfires today, Sandy Schenck told this story to a rapt audience. Today, Sandy reads his letter at every Upper Council Fire, where he mentions that everything in the Green River Valley tells a story. It is around this campfire, and any campfire at Green River Preserve, that stories are told which capture our imagination.
We learn the creation myths of the many great civilizations and nations before us and still with us, like the Cherokee. We learn about how the Black Bear lost their colors, the Hummingbird’s tenacity in making the stars and the moon. The immense weight of these peoples’ tremendous histories and cultures inspire us. These tales give us curiosity, a core component of Truth.
We regale each other with stories of the wonders around us. Of waterfalls glistening gold in dusk or dawn, of mountains climbed and valleys explored. We journey into the domain of caves and breathe in the sweet air of the forest. Each blade of grass carries a song, each tree carrying a dream. History as old as our planet rests within the bedrock. We marvel at the Beauty overflowing the Green River Preserve.
We learn how mentors battled monsters and deities, defy prophecy and impossible odds. Senior mentors have battled titans off the coast of Italy, challenged magic royalty in underground worlds, braved abandoned complexes to ward off ghosts. Their great feats encourage us, make us brave, imbuing us with Fortitude.
Most of all, like the mystery man of that mysterious story, we admire the spirit stones we find and we paint and we leave for everyone to cherish. Our comedies and tragedies, our desires to leave and our wants to stay, our promises to return and our vows to never leave – all our memories, kept in stone, are around the campfire where stories are told. They are our Love, our ever-present promises to seek the joy of being alive.
Perhaps that was what the man in the story was seeking. His memory of a life he had once forgotten and needed to remember.
Story by Noah Gerhardt with photos by Brandon S. Marshall