There is no one that personifies the Spirit of Chanco to me more than Boomer. I met him there countless summers ago and he has been prominently at my side, in one form or another, since. I have known him longer than I have not. We have been through more adventures than I can recount, as Captain Butterbottom will certainly attest, some now important history in annuals of Chanco lore, and some that hopefully will never be fully recounted in the light of day. Our friendship has lived through tough times where we did not speak to each other, and even more difficult times where no one spoke to us. We are godfathers of each others children. He was best man in my wedding. We are the best of friends.

Chanco is so much larger than a conference center and a summer camp. It is far more than real estate. There is a tangible quality to both the old and the new camp that draws me relentlessly in. I heard described to me that there are “thin spots” in this world where you can touch God. Chanco is most certainly my place to hear, smell, see and quite literally feel God’s presence. It is truly where I became a Christian on my own terms. Boomer has helped to make this possible for me. I read somewhere that an institution is nothing more than the shadows of the people who were there before you. Boomer’s shadow will be cast in perpetuity upon those who follow us. Boomer is certainly the Spirit of Chanco incarnate, for me and for many others, and I will charge him to take this with him wherever he chooses to go.

In my youth, I had aspirations of becoming a prolific and important writer. I worked hard at this and considered myself to be on my way. All those hopes were dashed when Boomer handed me the following story about the summer in Surry. It perfectly encapsulates a moment by the mighty James; and I think, and hope, that those of us fortunate enough to have been able to spend a hot July by the river have experienced a moment like the one related in Boomer’s prose, in some shape or form. I realized I could never write something so incredibly masterful, and decided to write no more.

So read the following with great care. Find a quiet spot. Pour a glass of wine. Light a candle and turn out the lights. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Fall back in time and think purposefully about why we all care so much about these “sticks in the woods. “ And pray with me that someone yet unknown, perhaps or own children or far better, our grandchildren, will have moments like these among those magical trees and blue skies. Follow the wind, Boomer. Follow the wind.

THE LAST HILL FOR HOME by Robert “Boomer” Somers

Smoke from my cigarette played hide-and-go-seek in the beams of sunlight that made it through the trees above. I watched the effect for some time before realizing that I was driving, then pulled the truck back to the narrow road of Surry County. The steering was stiff in the old Ford pickup, but the heap had character. The window on the driver's side wouldn't completely retreat into the door and you had to give it a good shoulder to get out of the passenger side. The truck seemed to know it's way on the country road, picking up speed on the straight a ways.

There was no one on the road, it was too hot. The lack of a radio hypnotized me to the constant sputter of the engine, forcing my eyes, unmoving, on the next stretch ahead. The smoke that passed between me and the unknown break of the lonely road caught my attention again, and I transiently continued the afternoon trip. With one hand I opened a Mountain Dew and washed the dust down. It was good in the August heat of Virginia. Rows and rows of corn flew by in a blur of green and gold, only momentarily falling back for a grazing field or a driveway. I could smell the sweet nectar of Indian corn mingling with the stench of cow manure for several miles.

I had taken the long way back to work and picked up a six pack of caffeine to keep me company. There was no hurry, wasn't much to go back to it seemed at the time. I loved my job, but today I felt drawn away from the normal pace of things. I drove on absently humming a Cat Stevens tune over and over, trying to figure out if I was the father or the son in the song. Slamming the bottom of my bottle on the horn, I barreled past an old farmhouse. A huge dog charged my front tire as if to stop me by pure intent, and raced me to his property line. This was a ritual, a tradition he and I shared. He would wait on his porch all day, all week, for me to cross the border only he knew existed. I'm gonna miss that old toothless bastard, I thought to my self, and he'll miss me. My summer was quickly passing away, leaving a helpless feeling in my stomach.

Lighting another cigarette, I idled the truck on a wooden bridge to check the tide of the James. Decaying poles, which mark the water's depth, stood silently proclaiming the life history of the river's tides. I tried to take it all in. Trying to remember the childhood sensations of cool mud in between my toes and jumping off the bow of a canoe. I searched for the memory of standing on the cypress tree's roots, watching the sun blend the sky into incredible colors of purple and orange and red. Why had I stayed for so many years? Had my childhood memories tricked me into another summer by the river? I felt a bond with the river. It taught me like a patient, gray-haired man, schooling me right from wrong, without words, simply and naturally. Turning my head up the creek on the other side of the bridge, I could smell the marina of Crouch's Creek. Maybe I'd get a bag of soft-backed crabs. It would give me something to do alone on my porch when it rained that night.

Images of a stormy night rolled in on a wave that I watched come from far out in the deeps, and broke on one of the pilings of the bridge. Smoke from my cigarette started a captivating dance of perfect white swirls and curves in constant motion that drew me out of the truck to the bridge's railing. Exhaling to the sky I witnessed an awesome scene that I would not soon forget. The sun was breaking through the clouds in many rays of light, shooting down to the river in majestic ease. The wind seemed to pick up in obedience to the powers at work, and moved across the river turning it black. It was a dramatic event, one of color and motion and sheer size, unfolding only to me, and only for me. I watched for what seemed a lifetime, not believing how much emotion and spirit the sky could posses in such abundance. The great fingers of light that stroked the waves of water seemed to be searching for something. They floated across trees and the creek like fingers of a blind man carefully and softly strumming a great instrument that was hidden from me. Somehow I was a part of the symphony of the sky. My contribution felt infinitely small and impure, but a contribution nonetheless. As if in a movie theater, the lights came up and I was standing alone on the bridge again.

It was over, and I envied the sky and river. They lived with no self-doubt, or guilt, or worry. They never contradicted themselves, or each other for that matter, only complemented the other's talent. Shamelessly coexisting in quiet confidence, I envied them, because the sky and river knew their purpose.

My day of reflection was over, and I realized how content I was that I hadn't accomplished a damn thing. For the first day all summer, I was not anticipating. I didn't want to hurry to the next chapter of my life. In my head I heard the echo of a book marker falling, in slow motion to the floor, losing my place in time. I wanted to linger forever, if possible, on this page in my life and slip into the crease of the day. The heartfelt words of the drive weighed heavy in my mind. I felt at peace with my world, or at least with myself. I felt quiet, confident, and even welcome. The drone of the truck woke me from my trance. Jerking the old Ford into first gear I started up the last hill for home.