The other day, something very important happened.

I was invited to go ice fishing with my father-in-law and grandfather-in-law.

To understand why this is such a big deal, you need to know two things.

First, Erv (grandfather-in-law) guards his fishing spots like national security secrets.

Months ago, while admiring a 56-pound (yes, 56-pound) muskie mounted in his home, I asked Erv where he caught the monster. “Secret Lake,” he replied, with that constant twinkle of humor in his eye.

I should have seen that coming.

As an angler, I had to ask what he caught the muskie on. “Secret bait,” laughed Erv.

Fair enough.

Going fishing with Erv means I have been promoted to a high level of clearance.

Second, Erv is the Michael Jordan of Minnesota fishing. If you think MJ’s six rings are impressive, taking one look at Erv’s barely-held-together “Fish Book” introduces a whole new level of greatness. The dusty, homemade tome has photos and accounts of a lifetime of unbelievable angling exploits. Spearing three 30-pound pike in a day. Barely squeezing a 60-pound muskie up and out of a hole in the ice. He’s done it all.

So I was hardly able to contain my excitement as I put on my muck boots and hopped into the pickup.

Out on the ice (you’ll have to understand that because I was fishing with Erv, I cannot disclose the name or location of the lake we fished) we got right down to business.

I caught a nice sunfish right off the bat. Being the new guy, I was feeling pretty proud. With a family fish fry on the calendar for the next weekend, catching our limit was important.

I pictured myself, the proud purveyor of our family feast, with all of my in-laws celebrating my heroic fishing.

And that’s when my success ended.

Over the next hours, Erv caught fish at a startling rate, while my ego slowly retreated to its proper place.

Fishing just six feet from Erv, I would watch him pull a sunfish out of the hole, drop it onto his growing pile on the ice, lower his bait back down, and hook another fish. All the while I sat, mimicking his every twitch of the rod, to no avail.

My single sunfish sat on the ice. Erv’s pile grew and grew.

Finally, as my disbelief grew, I had a bite.

A big one!

I could feel Erv’s eyes on me as I hauled the fish up.

It was a bass—and by far the biggest of the day! This was my golden moment of redemption!

Then, right at the surface, my line snapped.

I threw down the pole, launching myself toward the ice in a desperate attempt to grab the bass, one that I knew would be futile.

But as I plunged my arms into the freezing water, I somehow grabbed hold of the fish, flinging it into the air.

It landed on the ice, flopping.

It was a beauty of a bass, and I held it aloft for Erv to see. At the family fish fry, these fillets would be unmistakable! Sam’s monster bass!

“Can’t keep bass,” said Erv, as he returned to his fishing, that twinkle of humor dancing in his eyes again. “They’re catch-and-release only this time of year.”

Every summer, dozens of boys arrive at Camp Chippewa for the first time. Wide-eyed, they step off the bus, taking in their new home.

Every experience is about to be a brand new one.

Having now been at Camp Chippewa for 23 summers myself, I found that ice fishing with my in-laws was a good reminder.

Being new is daunting.

It’s full of wanting to prove yourself. Hoping you don’t screw up. Craving acceptance. Not wanting to ask where the washhouse is because you don’t want to seem so new.

It is good to be reminded about newness.

It is a reminder to keep spending precious staff training time going over our “camper scouting reports” (summer is our Super Bowl, so of course we prepare for the specific boys who are going to be at camp!)

It is a good reminder that our “First 24 hours” sessions are irreplaceable.

Walking out of the bus, new guys are unknowingly walking onto a path built for them to succeed in their newness. Counselors who know their names and stories. Staff with time-tested skills in coaching boys when they’re missing home. A program that gives them the right amount of challenge.

But being new is also wonderful. New adventures are the richest and most memorable way to learn. We don’t want to take that wide-eyed curiosity away.

When our Badger campers toast their s’mores around the glow of their first campfire at Star Island, they are basking in the joys of friendship and adventure, dreaming of adventures to come.

When a staff member cheers them on after jumping off the diving tower for the first time, they are filled with empowerment that comes from support. Resilience and confidence come from doing new things!

When they listen to the trip report of the high-schoolers from Athabasca Cabin, they are set on a course of emulating the resilience and camaraderie of those older boys. Everyone chooses role models, and it’s our job to ensure the options are positive ones.

And when they stand up in front of camp to receive their awards at the end of the summer, they are inspired by being part of something bigger than themselves. They’re part of the tradition. Part of the family

Mastery or magic—whatever it was while fishing on “Secret Lake,” Erv had it and I did not.

And that felt right.

I didn’t catch many fish, but I learned a couple of things. Got to be clued in on some traditions. Had a secret fishing spot shared with me.

I feel a little less new now.

Definitely feel like I’m a step further in with the in-laws’ family.

And it was just a great day with Erv.

The guy can flat-out fish.

Onward,

Sam
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