"Who once were strangers."

I had never met a Swedish person before coming to camp HWH. To me they were all blonde and terrifying; destined to arrive upon our English soil in Dragon boats, bristling with axes and spears and ready to loot and pillage. I believed that each Swede (or Dane or Norse man) would look a little bit like Kirk Douglas in 'The Vikings'. How wrong I turned out to be.
This last weekend, my family and I were visited by our friend, Michael Soderlund. We first met in the summer of 1997. I had arrived from teaching school in the UK to work second session at HWH, and I soon learned about the hard-working and likeable Swede who ran the waterfront. Mike was everything that is best about a waterfront director; fun, vigilant, VERY qualified and knowledgeable and mostly VERY safe. No child would ever come near harms way under Mikey's watch. He joined in the fun as well. Mike exemplified another group of people to which I belong in the many guises my time at HWH produced: namely the 'Year round staff' or 18 monthers. In addition to the marvelous staff at both camps during the summer, these staff took school groups during the fall/winter/spring programs. Each of us learned every job at camp; we all cooked, cleaned, sang, snowshoed and a million other things. We loved it, but most of all we loved and still love camp.

Mike and I (and my wife Jane) hadn't seen each other in over eight years, but the time fell away and friendships were renewed without question. Every camper, staff member and alumnus that has ever been part of this magical place will know what I mean. The buildings echo with every name, and the memories we carry with us to every part of the planet are a coat of many hues and shades; we are each 'Ghosts' of HWH. Mike loved meeting my family, and was thrilled to learn that our sons Samuel and Elijah had already visited camp in the summer of 2007. I told Mike about camping at the point on a beautiful night with my eldest son Sam and one of my oldest friends Dave Brott. Mike was a bit emotional as we talked about our times, people we had known, some still with us some (sadly) not. He asked "Will you ever go back to HWH, Rob?".

I smiled, remembered the feeling of the trails beneath my feet and the smell of wood smoke accompanying the strains of "This little light of mine", and answered, "I have never left."

Rob Wilkinson November 2008