Sometimes I go online and look at camp websites. Wow, some are flashy. Waterslides. Horseback riding. Zip-lines.

When I look at camps in Upstate New York and Maine, I wade through glitzy websites showing kids having lots of fun in extravagant ways.

The recipe initially makes some sense; better toys should equal more fun.

But, as we all know, the value of camp is far simpler than wake surfing behind a million-dollar boat. The other night, I was reminded about what’s most important at camp (and perhaps in life).

We had a picnic dinner, like we do every Saturday night. We all ate hamburgers on the deck. The sun was warm, and a breeze was coming off the lake.

After everyone finished eating, something very special but otherwise unremarkable happened.

The staff did nothing.

As I looked around the deck, none of the staff got up to leave. They just stayed in their seats, relaxing and talking. I stepped back from the deck and watched.

People smiled and chatted. The body language across the forty adults sitting on the deck was undeniably relaxed, obviously at peace.

Huseyin, here in the US for the first time, was learning about some camp inside jokes. Alex, back for their 18th summer, was giggling over a story with Avi. Katie, our head chef of ten years, was chit chatting with old friends. JP, my 98-year-old grandfather (and camp’s orator and spiritual icon) was telling stories. Alec was in a hilarious discussion about how chocolate desserts are always a superior choice to fruit desserts. Phil (self-deprecating as always) was critiquing his own sewing repairs on a sail cover.

No rush. No interruptions. Just human interactions. People at peace, feeling at home.

I was touched by how different this scene was from all the other interactions I see during the year. There wasn’t a single phone present. No music in the background. No TVs on the walls. None of the endless notifications and micro-distractions that overstimulate our brains, fracture our attention, and interrupt our presence.

Just laughter, smiles, voices (some loud and some quiet), waves lapping on the beach, wind rustling the leaves, and robins calling in the trees.

It was the picture of why I have chosen to spend my summers at Camp Chippewa for 23 consecutive years. And why so many staff and campers do the same.

Camp Chippewa’s essence is belonging. People come, and they immediately belong. They feel safe. They are home.

At summer camp, kids love the skills they learn. They get to have a ton of fun. They jump into a crystal-clear freshwater lake every day for a month. They live outside and screen-free.

There is nothing wrong with other camps’ waterslides, horseback riding, zip-lines, or million-dollar wake surfing boats.

But in the end, they are just ancillary.

One thing is more important than all those others, something more central to every camper’s experience, their growth, and their reason for returning to camp year after year.

At Chippewa, campers belong.

They get to be in a place where, as one 11-year-old sagely said, “no one is cool, and everyone is cool.” They are surrounded by a diverse and supportive group of adults. They are accepted. They feel safe.

At the Final Campfire, the most commonly told highlight is “seeing old friends and making new ones.”

Last night, as all of our campers and staff sat on the deck, I watched the scene full of gratitude. 100 people spending time together without screens. Laughter, smiles, conversations, stories. The environment was rich with support and connection.

For returning campers, camp is home. For new ones, it will be soon.

We may not have a million-dollar boat. But we have a million-dollar community. It is a community where, as I speak, campers are seeing old friends and making new ones.

At Chippewa, campers are reminded that the recipe to wholeness, happiness, and peace is actually quite simple.

Onward,

Sam