The tires of our Suburban crunched on the ice and snow as we headed down the trail in northern Michigan on a cold winter day in 1987. Lined with snow-laden trees; the pines, oaks, birch and aspen seem to envelop us as we rounded a bend past an old corral.

My husband could barely contain his excitement in anticipation of my reaction as we parked in front of an old massive wood sided lodge with huge white windows. There were steps past an old fieldstone drinking fountain nestled amongst the pines and as I stepped inside, two screened doors on the front porch slammed behind me.

Once home to the Bay City Girls YWCA, Camp Maqua still had the original refectory tables covered in linoleum with four old wooden benches around each table. An old green slat swing hung on old chains from the rafters in front of a set of three tall white paned windows.
The curtains were parted slightly at the window to the left of the front door, revealing a huge kitchen with another large table and benches. A raccoon with his legs pointing upward lay frozen on the old pine floors and greeted our family of four children as we slipped inside a cavernous room.

Eight canoe paddles hung on chains suspended from an open-beamed two and half story cedar ceiling. Each paddle had girls’ names scrawled on them with the year of their camping experience.

An immense pine bookcase with paned-glass doors caught my eye in the great room. I slowly opened the brass lock and a wafting musty smell escaped. I leafed through old yellow pages and was thrilled to find some early editions of my childhood favorites. Campfire songs, crafts, nature and play books lined the five-shelf case.

Two cedar-slatted log settees upholstered in “campy” material sat beside more handmade cedar log side tables. The artist had fashioned the letter “Y’ with twigs at the base.

The five thousand square foot building shook under the feet of four excited running children. My husband was busy watching my face as I opened my eyes wider in awe. We headed down the hallway to find two huge bathrooms, both with windows so tall that when I opened them I felt like I had been transported into the piney woods that lay outside.

One bedroom had two beds beautifully made up in antique floral spreads, matching curtains on the two sets of windows beside an antique dresser. The master bedroom, paneled in barn wood, was so long that it had separate sitting and sleeping areas. Three sets of double windows opened up to the pine forest overlooking Loon Lake at the bottom of the hill.

I could hear the children in the loft upstairs and followed their voices. Someone had fashioned an old tin washtub with a large bulb inside, hung it from a chain, and painted Indian symbols around it for a light fixture. I passed under it as I climbed up to the loft where old green metal bunk beds with Indian motif spreads were lined up in rows.

We could see the back porch from the loft, and I ran downstairs to open two heavy paned window doors that led to a ping-pong table, more benches, and an old rustic sideboard with birch handles and a seven-foot sports closet filled with tennis and badminton racquets, ping-pong paddles, shuffleboard sticks, horseshoes and old toys.

The lodge had been remodeled in the seventies into a duplex and as we stepped through the west door, we could see another gigantic kitchen complete with the old iron camp stove that had been left. I opened the door that led to a smaller porch that overlooked what was once the camp store.

The great room had a two and half story field stone fireplace, complete with mantle, the original camp piano, and a giant muslin map suspended from the rafters. Riding instructors had illustrated the entire camp in 1961, including all the bunkhouses, counselor’s quarters, the infirmary, boathouse, nature and craft huts, archery site, Chapel hill, foot and horse trails and tennis courts.

The west side also housed al loft, two bedrooms and baths, and chairs and tables from cedar and birch. More refectory tables, benches, and a ping- pong table graced the back porch, which was twice the size of the east side.

I could not believe this place was for sale. “I have to have this place,” I thought. I turned to my husband with a smile on my face and knew that he knew it was meant to be ours.

I stood in the middle of the lodge and I could almost hear the camper’s voices from 1924. I pictured girls sleeping in the bunkhouse that still stood intact beside the lodge and the smell of hot cocoa as they sat in front of the fireplace and sang at the campfire pit.

I could hear the splash of canoe paddles, their voices screaming as they swam in cold Loon Lake. I could feel their homesickness and the sand in their socks. I could hear the leaves under their feet as they hiked the trails and the haunting sound of the Loon on the lake.

Almost forty years later, our children are grown and the grandchildren are arriving into our growing family. The floors have been sanded, porches have been enlarged and rebuilt, siding and walls have been painted and a cedar ceiling has been installed, which covered the open spaces the bats used to squeeze through.

I have dreams of this grand old building, with walls that talk, lasting for generations. And so no one forgets, I have hung old photos of the camp and its happy campers throughout the lodge. Every once in a while a car will pull up front and little old ladies get out and stare with wistful longing. Some take pictures, some hug, some cry, but best of all, they bring me stories of their happy years at Camp Maqua.