At seven, Kate Robertson and her bunkmate spent their first week at camp paddling canoes on the lake, forming a friendship that helped her forget her scraped face.
At seven, Kate Robertson and her bunkmate spent their first week at camp paddling canoes on the lake, forming a friendship that helped her forget her scraped face.
I was seven years old and bursting with excitement — my first time at overnight camp was just a day away. After stocking up on a week’s worth of candy at the corner store, I was racing home along the gravel road on my brother’s orange CCM bicycle when I hit a large stone and flew over the handlebars.
Camp Maple Leaf brings together kids who have family in the military, are grieving a loved one, live below the poverty line or have a disability.Â
I felt a familiar sting as the gravel tore into my palms and knees, but what scared me more was the pain in my face. My lip throbbed, and my chin felt raw. I scrambled to my feet, picked the gravel from my knees, and pedaled home, dreading what I’d see in the bathroom mirror.
My bottom lip was swollen and angry, and blood oozed from the scrapes on my chin. I stared at my reflection, horrified. How could I go to summer camp like this? No one would want to be my friend.
My sister, who was home from her week at the same camp, shared awesome stories of water sports and campfire singalongs, scary ghost stories, and so many new friends. I did my best to forget my torn-up face and lost myself in the excitement.
This would be my first week away from home without my parents, and I couldn’t wait. Growing up in the country, camping and lakes were familiar territory — but my sister said most of the campers came from the city, and I was curious to meet this cosmopolitan crowd.
It was an all-girls camp, and we were placed in cabins by age with a camp counsellor. My bunkmate and I arrived around the same time. I shyly said hello, so conscious of my scraped face, but she didn’t appear to notice or care. As we unpacked our bags, we got to know each other. It was her first time at sleepover camp, too. We bonded over our newbie status and our similar candy stashes. There was no tuck shop at camp — we had to bring our own treats.
Her own summers were filled with campfires and crafts. Now she’s making sure other kids get the same chance.
Friendship bracelets weren’t a thing yet, but we quickly became inseparable. We gathered birch bark, pinecones and moss for art projects, swam in the lake, paddled canoes, and belted out camp songs. One of my favourite things was running barefoot through the woods from our cabin to the dining hall to the long dock on the lake.
All the campers went shoeless — except my friend. Curious, I asked her why. She hesitated, then told me that when she was little, her foot had been run over by a city bus. She was missing the toes on one foot.
She took off her shoe and sock and showed me her foot. There was scarring where toes should have been. Suddenly, my scraped chin didn’t seem so serious.
I had a million questions. Did it still hurt? No. Could she feel where her toes used to be? No. Did she wear different-sized shoes? No — she stuffed tissues into the toebox for a better fit.
“Does that mean you can’t go barefoot?†I asked. She shook her head. She could — but she was concerned the other girls would tease her.
That same day, she left her shoes and socks in our cabin and joined the barefoot brigade.
Later in the week, while running through the woods, I heard a scream behind me and turned to find my friend on the ground, clutching her foot. She’d stubbed it on an exposed tree root. There was a bleeding gash where her toes should have been.
From forested ravines to reclaimed landfills, these trails offer scenery, history and beginner-friendly paths just beyond ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½â€™s city limits.
I ran for help, sure her pain must be worse than stubbing a big toe.
That was the end of her shoeless summer — but not the end of our camp adventures.
During the day we played camp games, did water sports, and pressed wildflowers between parchment paper. In the evenings we roasted marshmallows, sang songs including “There’s a boy and a girl in a little canoe,†and that summer’s chart-topper, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,†and huddled together listening to scary ghost stories around the fire.
On the final night of camp, we had a spaghetti potluck dinner with a twist. A counsellor handed out utensils from a giant metal pot. But instead of cutlery, we were given random kitchen utensils to eat with. I got salad tongs. My friend got a ladle. The dining hall erupted with laughter as we all tried to tackle plates of spaghetti and meat sauce using our mismatched tools.
That week, I learned that I could handle being away from my parents, that eating spaghetti with salad tongs is a messy endeavour, and that when it comes to making friends, what truly matters isn’t how someone looks but who they are inside. Experiences like these — full of discovery, connection and courage — are what the Fresh Air Fund helps make possible for thousands of kids every summer.
The ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ Star Fresh Air Fund
GOAL: $650,000
TO DATE: $534,766.01
How to donate:
Online:
To donate by Visa, Mastercard or Amex using our secure form.
By cheque:
Mail to the ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½ Star Fresh Air Fund, 8 Spadina Ave., ÎÚÑ»´«Ã½, ON M5V 0S8
By phone: Call 647-250-8282
Tax receipts will be issued.
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