Back Pocket

Callie Richards & Cooper Anderson
November 10, 2023

Living in one location, one specific location, you are bound to learn and grow. Between the area around you, the animals, wind, weather, and the people, you can take something away. What you forget is that at some point you will have to leave. You’ll have to pick and choose what you keep in your back pocket, in your heart. You’ll walk around trying to hold every moment closer, engraving each scene and angle into your memory. The little things that we once disregarded now hold the deepest meanings. Arcadia, it’s time to say goodbye.

Three months ago, twelve strangers arrived at St. Lawrence University’s Canaras great camp. Bringing stories from the summer and excitement for our journey ahead, we were all oblivious to the reality that the semester would fly by. A WFA class, a 7-day canoe trip, our first classes, our first steps in Gannett, whitewater rafting, singing “Dead Creek Blues” for Dan Berggren, seeing old friends rock climbing and Nate’s cottage in the woods, a backpacking trip that tested our stamina, reminders of home, time alone. Erecting illegal boardwalks, inviting DEC officers to our bachelorette party, and a wedding to end all weddings. Time in our yurt village is winding down. Now we winterize our home, board up yurts, and clean our space. Now we pack our bags.

The yurt looks like an absolute mess as your yurt mates attempt the same feat as you, shoving a semester’s worth of items into the two bags you brought. On the way into the yurt, you trip, almost falling into the explosion of gear and clothes. You look back and see that your Crocs were the culprits. Grabbing the shoes, you try to imagine what they looked like at the beginning of the semester before you pushed their boundaries. Once pristine, they are now showing a lifetime of muck and adventure. They braved territory they had never seen before, going with you on your canoe trip, rock-climbing, whitewater rafting, and backpacking, all for the first time. They were there when you were going outside of your comfort zone, learning and taking to new skills and experiences quickly. The Crocs taught you that firsts are not to be embarrassed about or to worry over, but they are to be celebrated. They showed that learning can get you farther than you ever imagined, taking you places you’d only dreamed of going.

As the Crocs are strapped to the outside of a duffle, a gold tint catches your eye, a crochet needle and a ball of speckled yarn hides tucked behind an old wooden shelf. The hours spent with that needle, the care, the attention, the simple comfort given by a hut emanate from that needle. Not only does it represent a tangible piece of art, but an act that is slowly getting lost, an act of gift giving, made from your time. It’s not an act that benefits you but one that is done solely for others, your friends, and your family. It’s a reminder to sacrifice your time for your peers, momentarily forget about your wants, and show the ones around you how much they mean by simply giving time.

You turn away from your bag, moving on to the stack of clothes on the shelf behind you. As you compile the outfits you wore over the past few months, you think of your favorite Arcadian staple: the green, flowery dress worn on occasion, which flowed above colorful rain boots. On days when it was needed the most, the dress provided a reminder of little beauties throughout the day. It uplifted spirits when it graced the paths of Arcadia, and no outfit could complete a collective sense of self quite like the dress. This small gesture of fashion, even more essential in a lessened village wardrobe, reminded you to have intention with how you interacted with the world. The dress taught you to look out for and appreciate others and your surroundings in a way that many forget, and it inspired your optimistic outlook.

As the adrenaline of packing begins to subside, tiredness sets in. An almost instinctual hand reaches out to a once-filled cup of maté, a testament to the beginnings. Maté, a shared tea, never held a single purpose. It provided energy and alertness, but as its strongest asset, it provided family. No goal to accomplish, no task to complete, just a place for you to sit, look at each other, and smile. As you arrived at Canaras, maté instilled a culture of giving. You sat in circles, this culture teaching you to give to the people on your right and receive from the ones on your left. Give when you can, receive when you can. The people surrounding you love you. The people surrounding you are family.

Moving on from the empty cup of maté, you look around your yurt surprised to find only a few items left, scattering the floor. Among them lie a few stray blue pieces left out from a favorite boardgame, Catan. A slight smile reaches your face as you are reminded of your time spent playing the game, often setting it up in a corner of the kitchen table. Those playing would cram together around the board, cozied up with a cup of tea or hot chocolate. The game often prompted good-natured chaos, and bickering was frequently heard over the sound of clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. Although it tended to erupt with sibling-like arguments, it taught you the importance of quality time and the action of gathering. While the game was entertaining, the real enjoyment was the simple act of being with one another. Through strategy and trades, Catan showed you the importance of family and friends and served as a uniting force of the community.

What was once a crowded yurt is empty. Bags are packed, carpet is left stained, a Paco pad left faintly indented, a yurt left a little less familiar. The door shuts one last time and you slowly make your way to the barge.

Carrying heavy bags through muddy trails, remnants of stories scatter through the village. A cleaned-out maroon yurt, occupying a corner of this home, looks out: the curt. This is a space we have used over and over. From read-alouds to singalongs, boardgames to community meetings, it resembles a curiosity for life. This place, this world, is much more than one can know. Striving for curiosity can spark reality, transform it even. Be open with yourself, talk to the beings around you. If you listen closely enough, the trees will respond.

Your hands ache from lugging your duffel from your yurt, and you pass the tool shed, rounding the corner to face the porch of the kitchen. You think back to your frequent time in the cabin and are reminded of your cook shift. The room was set up for high amounts of use, and it forced you to acknowledge the power of intention and organization. The arrangement made it easier to cook, and you recall some of your baking club specialties. The kitchen helped to create baguettes, bagels, fresh chocolate chip cookies, and more. It helped you understand that acts of care are just that: actions. Through creating, cooking, and baking, the kitchen showed you how kindness does not require words and can be given in ways that many tend to overlook.

One step at a time, each foot plants on a wooden lily pad, leading to a boardwalk. The first and last glimpse of the front dock appears. It housed the arrival, the stars, the trail to Gannett, the first snowfall, the distant sounds of a banjo. This place, it ignited reflection. It cultivated, contributed, and shaped the growth that you had on this semester. Giving purpose to your thoughts, it showed you glimpses of the world. It reminded you to be present, to be here. Question the bigger picture, question yourself, perceive yourself and what you are doing. Grow.

As you walk down the boardwalk, your eyes slide from the lake to the fire pit, a place that held many classes, entertainers, hammock sleeps, and other fireside activities. You’re pulled back to the instances when you were able to build a fire and sit with your thoughts, letting your mind wander where it may. The simple job did not require much thought, and it provided a space for reflection. It reminded you that growth is not easy nor linear and taught you that its limits in time and space are nonexistent. This time, this place revealed that much of growth results from hard internal work and effort and encouraged listening to not only all parts of yourself, but to others around you as well. The fire pit and its space showed you the building blocks of growth, setting you up to continue to grow far into your future.

You continue down the paths of Arcadia, past the clothes lines, diverging trails, old watchful trees, a yurt, a sauna. Thoughts of a barge drift through the brush ahead, but preference is given to a walk. As you move down this path scattered with roots and blanketed in moss, it gives reminders to the time spent following white blazes, trails to take you around Arcadia, trails to take you around Massawepie. Home to runs, to walks, smiles, heavy breathing, fits of joy, and fits of tears. These trails have seen many ups and downs but relentlessly prove beauty. They encourage you to keep searching. They encourage you to keep moving, experiencing the twists, the turns, the ups, and the downs. They teach you how to see the world, how to process your journeys. They teach you how to keep moving.

With a sigh, you pass the barge dock, turn the corner to enter the gravel parking lot, load up your bag just as others do the same, and hear the shutting of car trunks. You turn to look at one another once more and embrace each person before loading into your car. The driver door shuts, and you begin to slowly move forward, starting your next chapter. With one last glimpse through the rear-view mirror, you get a final look at what once was. Nothing remains. Regaining focus ahead, you see a line of cars moving in unison. You see each individual, traveling alone, yet traveling together. A new chapter is beginning, yet it is not your own. It is your family’s. Growing apart, growing together, we will see each other again.