Three generations

My mother came here in 1976. I came in 2001. This summer I dropped off my own daughter at the very same gate, and she ran in without looking back — exactly like I did, exactly like Mom did. Happy 50th, Hidden Hollow.

A note from Miss Sally

When we opened these gates fifty summers ago, all I wanted was a place where a kid could be a kid a little longer. I never imagined I'd watch the children of my first campers come up that same gravel road, and then their children after them. Thank you for every memory you've shared here. This hollow has always belonged to all of you.

A whole week in pictures

A few favorites from one unforgettable week — the field, the water, the friends, and of course the fire. Swipe through!

Crawdad hunting in the creek

Nobody told us the creek was the best part of camp — we just figured it out. Roll up your jeans, flip over a flat rock, and there'd be a crawdad waving its claws at you. We'd race them in the shallows and let them all go before dinner. I taught my own grandkids the same trick last month. Some things don't change in fifty years.

Best friends, summer '24

Down the trail

Marshmallows by the fire

Every summer ended the same way — the whole camp circled around the fire ring as the sun dropped behind the ridge. Miss Sally would lead us in songs while we toasted marshmallows on sticks we'd whittled that afternoon. My brother always burned his on purpose. Fifty years later I can still smell the woodsmoke and hear those voices echoing down the hollow.

First time in a canoe

Lucy was terrified of the water her first year. By the last day of camp she was the one paddling us in a straight line while I just held on. That's what this place does — it gives kids a little more room to become brave.

Learning to ride

I was scared of the horses but my counselor held my hand and now I can trot! Her name is Cinnamon and she likes apples.

Harper & Jelly Bean

Morning chapel under the oaks

We'd walk up the gravel path each morning, dew still on the grass, and gather at the little outdoor chapel. The light came through the oak leaves in pieces. It was the quietest, most peaceful part of every day — and the place I learned to be still.

Archery range, golden hour