Smiles crept across the faces of all
whose eyes fell upon the sign – “There will be no orchestra or
choir today. That means no volleyball, no hanging out in the halls,
everyone to the dorms. It's time to pack.” What seemed to be edging
up ever so slowly was now only one sleep away: Junior-senior campout.
Packing was lighter this time; there
were no tents, no air mattresses, and there wasn't an extra bag
needed to be packed for the food each of us were usually required to
bring – lest we starve. How was this a campout, you ask? It wasn't.
This was our retreat. You see, normally Junior-senior campout is a
legitimate campout that consists of hard dirt floors, tents, fires
for warmth, and a lake for a shower at Seton. This campout was
different. Because of an unexpected dilemma with camping at Seton, it
wasn't available for us eager campers this year. The breaking of
tradition was about to take place because we were on our way to Camp
Hope. That's right. Cabins, beds WITH MATRESSES, a lodge, and best of
all...showers with HOT WATER.
Load luggage, get on bus, sleep on
bus, arrive at Hope, unload bus, scramble to best cabin room, RELAX.
Volleyball and soccer were the first of many activities that
unfolded, followed by telephone charades, skits and various
activities planned by the mighty fantastic Senior Class Officers. You
see, the class officers – Mr. Chris Donatelli as President, Ms.
Sierra Buhler as Vice President, Pastor Diane Carvalho, Treasurer
Michael Jensen, and Secretary Eileen Corrigan – planned the entire
trip for the luxury of the juniors. We were never required to help
cook food in the kitchen, which by the way was the best food ever
thanks to Beth and Agnes, nor were we required to help clean up or
wash dishes. Even seniors's only requirements were to help make
breakfast and clean up once the entire weekend.
The weekend reached its climax
Saturday night. All of us campers were in the lodge singing hymns
after the close of Sabbath when shrieks of terror erupted from the
room. Bandits burst into the room terrorizing different victims. A
bag was thrown over there heads and the poor souls were dragged from
their seats and out the various exits. Some tried to kick their way
free while others gave up the fight – all, however, were gone.
Noises of confusion murmured from the lips of us who witnessed this
terrible scene. It was now our job to go rescue one of the captives.
Given a map and a glow-stick for light, we were sent on the hunt.
Into bushes, through dimly lit trails, under rocks, over hills, and
climbing walls, we were required to find the next clue. Not only
that, but we had to beware of the bombs that were thrown at us along
the way: water bombs (or balloons for those of you that are less
imaginative). Time after time we were assaulted with balloons. Many
moments were spent lost and in confusion of where to go next. Where
was our captive!? What were they doing to them? Finally the last clue
was found: “I am fed, but don't touch me or your hand will turn
red”. That could only mean one place, the fire pits. When we
arrived, we found all the captives warm and laughing by the fire. We
joined the happy throng as we all reflected on the amazing hunt. Some
never made it entirely through but were brought to the fire for
delicious smores, hot chocolate, and lemonade. That night, or should
I say morning as the clock read 12:30 a.m., was the most memorable
night of the year.
