A recent trip to my woodlot in Heath reminded me how much has changed over the years.
I arrived Friday evening. I drove past the old homestead, where my dad, Mike “Chipper” Rainville grew up. The current owners tore down the house within the last year, and the shell of a new one stands in its place. I drove on with a sigh.
I made my way up the rutted right-of-way to my property. The dry weather meant I didn’t have to use four-wheel drive, and I rode up with relative ease. In my 20s, we could drive small cars all the way up.
I made a mental note to come by at some point with some clippers, and beat back the branches that encroached on the driveway. As far as fixing the ruts, that’s going to take a bit more work.
About halfway up, there’s an old one-room schoolhouse. Classes were never held on the property — my dad had the building brought up on a flatbed in the 1970s. Since then, it’s served as storage, shelter from the rain and, often, my sleeping quarters. Somehow, it has remained perched atop the blocks and beams on which it was set.
I drove on and reached the clearing at the top of the hill. Looking east, I remembered when I could see all the way to the next ridge. Now, our field is bordered by a wall of pines that have grown in my lifetime, blocking the view entirely.
During recent overnights, I’ve opted to sleep in an old school bus parked at the camp on top of the hill. The bus was moved there when I was young, by a keep-the-kids-off-the-streets group from New York City, The Miracle Cadet Corps. They used to spend entire summers on our family’s land, and some still return for a couple weeks.
I drove my Jeep up to the rear of the bus and parked, unpacked my cooler and bedding, then did a quick walk around the campsite. It looked like it hadn’t been used all year. The little cabins the cadets built were still boarded up, and the fire pit was covered in pine needles. Twigs and small branches abounded — perfect for kindling, yet nobody had snatched them up. Leftover logs from last summer still sat under their tarp.
Quiet but for the birds, the camp was once full of the sounds of kids and combat boots, whether stomping through the field while practicing to march in the Heath Fair parade, or creeping through the woods during war games, with the heel-to-toe roll I still use when I’m trying to be quiet.
I walked a couple hundred feet to the north, and encountered enough dry dead-fall to last for a month of weekend camp-outs. Several medium pines were propped up by their broken branches at a comfortable height for cutting. A short walk south of camp revealed plenty of smaller downed trees, just the right width for building a fire.
Not long ago, gathering firewood was a major undertaking. I walked back to camp and set to work sharpening my chainsaw, while I waited for my cousins to arrive. They showed up shortly afterward. During breaks from dragging wood, we sat and listened a classic rock station on the radio. “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” came on — not the Bob Dylan or Eric Clapton versions, but the Guns ’N’ Roses cover. I remember telling my dad that in 20 years, they’d be playing my music on his oldies station. Now, the joke’s on me — it just means I’m getting older.
Another sure sign of that is the guest list. This weekend, it was just my cousins, Rob and Dee Ryan and myself. Last time, there were about seven of us. Fifteen years ago, there might have been as many as 20 people. Now, many of us have kids or jobs or a million other responsibilities, and it’s a bit harder to get that kind of turnout.
Even so, having just the three of us there brought back memories. My father would take us, along with my sister, to the camp for weekends when we were young.
We sat and reminisced about him a bit this time — he died 12 years ago. Our camp was his favorite spot to visit, and he was always planning trips with us, or his friends, or both.
It’s a tradition I like to carry on. My son, River, will be 3 years old next year, and I’m looking forward to bringing him on his first camp-out, so he can start making memories there. I wonder what our camp will look like when he’s my age.
David Rainville is a former reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at daverain82@gmail.com.