The ‘fort’ wasn’t far from the houses that surrounded the little patch of woods in which it had been built. A large number of branches had been arranged into a teepee and then covered with more branches of pine and spruce that still held their needles. The construction had been well done and the pine/spruce roofing actually shed the rain keeping the inside dry…amazing.
I found it on a rainy day as I was walking the woods looking for our dog that had run off. The opening, which was large enough for me to enter without having to crawl, offered an invitation that I couldn’t resist; I had been the builder of many such ‘forts’ and, suddenly, I once again felt the call to sit in the ‘safety’ of such a stronghold; so I went in.
Forts that I built were not furnished; we sat on the ground. This one, however, had three benches arranged in a circle around an oft used fire pit. The builder(s) of this ‘fort’ had taken the art to a level I had not. I wondered who they were and what had motivated them to do such a thorough job.
The ‘forts’ of my childhood had been sanctuaries, into which only the cognoscenti of childhood had been permitted. The price of admission was a frame of mind; if you had it you could enter, if you did not, you didn’t want to! What was that frame of mind—it was an imagination capable of seeing the ‘safety’ that the fort provided. If, instead, you saw the smallness of the woods, or the crowd of houses that surrounded it, or the fragility of the ‘fort’, you didn’t belong. Imagination was the requisite for admission.
As I sat in this ‘fort’, which had been built by a new generation of those in whom imagination still lived, I, for just a while, discovered that I still qualified for admission. The woods could still become the great northern forest, the houses could be made to disappear and the ‘fort’ really was everlasting.
When the vision faded and I left, I hoped the children who had built this ‘fort’ still knew how to use it. The need for those who know how to build and use fortresses is always great.
As I walked away I said aloud, “Thanks…you built a good one,” and wondered why, on a beautiful rainy day like this, they weren’t there; sitting on the benches, tending a smoky fire, thinking great thoughts, fighting great battles, and winning the hands of fair maidens, all the while insulated by the great forest and protected by the everlasting ‘fort’ they had built—all by themselves.
As I walked on, I saw a SUV, filled with uniformed children, speeding away. My God, the builders of the ‘fort’ had been conscripted. I wondered if the new ‘fort’ to which they were being assigned was as noble as theirs.
There have long been other kinds of noble ‘forts’ in the woods. And, today, as the children who really do venture into the north woods discover, Camp is an actual safe and noble ‘fort’ in the woods, and, yes, beneath its roof of pine and spruce, imagination still lives and children still make and do all kinds of things—(almost) all by themselves!
The BeVier Family
The builders of the ‘forts’ known as Camps Eagle Feather and Eagle Wing, located in the woods of Rocky Hill, CT and Marion Twp., Maine.