The grounds of High Hope Camp, set somewhere between Indiana lakefront retirement perfection and Amish country, are now owned by a former professional sports player. During my three summers at camp as a kid, they would teach us basic skills, like stuffing our lean-tos with leaves to keep warm and how to identify animal tracks on the ground. The kids and our leaders, who I realize now were probably local teenagers and not the wilderness experts I’d believed them to be, would go on late-night walks long after the last bit of orange sun disappeared like the embers in our hot-dog campfires.
The leader in front played recordings of owl calls, the volume turned up as loud as it could go. The rest of us followed single file, trying not to make any sounds while we strained our ears for a response. The leader would pause every once in a while to turn off the recording while we stood silent and cold, waiting. I’d imagine my ears opening up like a cave and swallowing up all of the sounds. In that moment, I wanted to hear an owl call back more than anything.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard owls before. There were plenty around where I lived, and to hear one calling from some distant telephone pole wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. But at that camp, there was something strange about knowing us kids could make it happen. Somehow, we could make a flying nocturnal creature stop what it was doing to have a chat. I still remember hearing the first call back. A barn owl somewhere in the dark answering loud above the crickets and the leaves and the chill. I can’t say for sure, but it felt like all of us were holding our breaths. I froze my eyes to the ground, afraid to move. Afraid to break the magic.