In the mid-noughties, back when the summers in a National Hunt yard were much quieter, I went to teach horse riding at an all-girls American camp for four months. I started off as a riding counsellor before, for the last two summers, being promoted to running the main barn. The camp lasted for twelve weeks; two weeks of specialty camps bookended the crazy general camp that lasted eight weeks. The campers came for at least a fortnight, with many staying for longer. For three summers, I had the time of my life with some amazing people and if I could, I’d relive it.
After replying to a tiny advert in the Horse and Hound classified, a Bunac interview and hours at the American embassy in London, I was off to Heathrow with blue Bunac luggage tags to meet the other camp counsellors – all riding instructors – flying out early to prepare the ponies. A couple of them wore hoodies from previous years with slogans, and a list of names (was someone really called Badger?) and cabin number on the back. Their experience and knowledge highlighted our greenness – who knew that in America anti-clockwise was counter-clockwise and candy floss was called cotton candy? And knickers were called underwear and thongs were completely different! We were suddenly plunged into a whole new language.
Leaving Dulles airport, the warmth wrapped around me like a silk scarf. We were picked up by two burly, bearded maintenance men in Camp Rim Rock t-shirts. The vehicles seemed huge, like tanks, much bigger than the ones at home. Heat rose off their engines, mingling with that hot tarmac smell. Someone passed around Reese's Butter Cups - an overload of claggy, sugary sweetness. Questions, hints and advice were tossed around the truck’s aircon, and the experienced staff cheered as we passed the West Virginian state sign.
Turning off the main road, alongside the silver ribbon of the Cacapon River, the mountain rose above the treetops as we passed fields of grazing horses. There were six outdoor arenas, one filled with painted wings and striped poles. A turning to the left at the Camp Rim Rock sign took us between the empty, shadowy barns. We tumbled out, surrounded by woodland scents to a ‘unit’ of oversized Wendy houses called Sioux. The barns were only just through the trees and the air pulsated with possibilities.
For the next month, we bathed and brushed away shaggy winter coats, and rode and led a myriad of shades, sizes and shapes of pony through woodland trails, following coloured markers that wound around tree trunks: pink, yellow or orange. I loved many of the eighty ponies, but a handful were my favourites: a ‘buckskin paint’ called FB, Moonie’s naughty character and a beautifully patched skewbald called Tonka. I was fond of a liver chestnut called Blessing, Frippon was a gentleman and Jeffrey, as long necked as a giraffe, who possibly had a lip tattoo, hinting that maybe he had once been a racehorse. In those early days, I rode Sparky, his coat sprinkled with grey, a veteran of many summers, and led old Rachel and every day, she stepped the wrong side of a tree, snagging my rope; mischief in their eyes like a couple of elderly care home residents.
Eventually other counsellors arrived. More riding staff, aquatics, arts and crafts, sports, chorus, dance, performing arts and the unsung heroes, the general counsellors who looked after the campers all day and night. A hundred women with the aim of looking after two hundred and fifty campers – teaching, working and having fun together.
Judging skits at Pre-Camp
Pre-camp was a week of studying a three-inch thick manual, learning songs, first aid, an amusing slide show from an insurance man and meeting the camp founders. By following a timetable, we were given a taste of being campers. For half the day, everyone got a snippet of all the different activities before riding counsellors went to the barn to ride the ponies. Everyone came together at mealtimes; aquatic staff arriving as newly qualified as lifeguards, with curly hair, a linger of chlorine and the best tans. In contrast, we smelt of horses and fresh air, and rolled up our sleeves to minimalise our tan lines.
Everyone was separated into the units where we were to be based for the rest of the summer. The units, broken down into school year groups, were named after Indigenous American tribes and the eldest age group, Choctaw, was at the highest point, not far from the rimrocks that gave the camp its name. I’ll always cherish the youngest units of Catawba, Chippewa and Hopi Shawnee, because I worked there the longest and the kids were the cutest. Each unit’s heart was a little fire circle, surrounded by low, inviting benches, and was where we gathered to dissect the day, flicking hopelessly at insatiable mosquitoes.
One of my Catawba rings
We ate on tables vibrantly painted in the yellow and blue of the state basketball team. The menu of stodgy comfort food was designed to stave off camper homesickness: Taco Tuesdays, muffin Mondays, apple crisp, grilled cheese sandwiches (toasties to the British) and chocolate chip pancakes. There were side tables of salad, fruit and many condiments. Oreos and marshmallow crispy bars were a substitute for the sweets that were banned. Counsellors had their fair share of contraband candy and, once, in the child-free Little Green Cabin, we had red, white and blue sweets for the 4th of July in an airtight container but ants got in and right into the cellophane wrappers – not that many but enough to put us off.
The inhabitants of the LGC
Breakfasts were accompanied by singsongs, pop songs and the clatter of cutlery, ending with daily announcements and birthday bumps to the dinging of a small bell. Then, a song about a cow, strains of which, as well as a dining hall full of girls hollering moo, could be heard by the early morning riding sessions or the first trail rides that crossed the fields towards the river.
Songs were a big part of camp life. Ones about a moose, a Princess called Pat and ‘Baby Shark’ well before it reached the charts; the tunes and words ingrained within the trees, the soil, the fire circles, even in the flames that warmed the hearts of everyone seated closely together. Unit songs were a battle cry at sing downs. During the evening twilight, hands that had earlier tried to cup the beautiful glow of a firefly were clasped, arms crossed as the whole camp circled, singing the beautiful lyrics of ‘Friendship True’.
Barn time was split into ring lessons, trails, swimming horses in the river and barn management lessons. Ring lessons ranged from jumping to beginners bumping their way towards ‘posting’ trot. Often, by the end of a fortnight’s session, the same little girls trotted in a big figure of eight, with every semblance of control and balance. Their sense of achievement mirrored mine, shimmering brighter than the lunchtime sun. A game changer were the little reins covered in different coloured pimpled rubber – ‘shorten your reins’ became the clearer ‘shorten your reins to the red’. ‘Heels down’, ‘sit up tall’, ‘thumbs on top’ chorused from my mouth, sometimes on repeat, always cajoling and encouraging, other times disguising my exasperation. Yet, I loved it when they got it, their smiles huge, pride mingling with the scent of sweat, suncream and citronella fly spray.
On the way to swim in the Cacapon River
Trail rides were most fun with the experienced riders and I was able to lead them on the furthest trails at a brisk trot for much of the way. I once spied a darting striped skunk and, another time, a beaver by the river. Around the barn, scarlet cardinal birds perched on the fencing and nearer the units, the flit of a brown chipmunk often caught my eye. The long, dark sinuous snakes moved on when camp burst into noisy
life with arrival of the campers. Once a day, clad in swimwear and life jackets, we walked a pony to the riverbank and laughed as he rolled beneath us, a solid wave in the cool, green water.
Camp wasn't all ponies: campers also honed their skills in swimming, the arts, sports and general life experience. When we slept out on the tennis courts under the stars, the diehards refused to bring their mattresses from their cabin bunkbeds. Every day was a carnival of colour. At the cookouts, a rainbow of paisley bandanas, denim and checked shirts added to songs about sexy tractors and hoedown showdowns as rambling lines of small cowgirls stomped, kicked and do-si-doed to country tunes. The same campers, their hair back combed, wore neon for the dance parties, or matching for big sister-little sister nights.
This colourfulness even seeped into the barn. To spice up hectic general camp days, we organised Superhero Saturdays, where the riding counsellors wore capes and eye masks, and Flower Power Fridays, where we stuck up sugar paper flowers around the stalls and we all, included the ponies, donned glitzy leis. Early morning on the 4th of July, riding staff wore red and blue tie dye and cantered round camp in a reenactment of the invasion, chanting and singing national anthems, before we had a late breakfast of blueberry muffins and cake.
For a noncompetitive camp, Rim Rock was hugely competitive. Colour war was fierce between the yellows and blues. Once, a brownie eating competition filled the camp with clapping and cheering, and the staff talent show rivalled Broadway. Campers who couldn't hit a tennis ball or baseball or fire a bow straight, suddenly had accurate aim at the counsellor in the dunk tank, their gleeful squeals accompanying the big splash. Smaller battles raged in the units at Cabin Go Get It or who created the most perfect s’more or the most golden doughboy.
The biggest competition was reserved for the sing downs, which reverberated with costumes, wild entrances and altered song lyrics. It was a massive honour for a unit to win a sing down and there was such an uproar when the chance of choosing a victor was removed; it was reinstated instantly. Despite always being a rush to change from stinking riding clothes into fancy dress, the sing downs were my favourite. Once, we were Santa’s reindeer and spent days soaping off the brown paint.
The dark mountain nestled us close and held us safe, and camp friends became friends for life. Companionship was fortified by the days of having been pushed to tears or uncontrollable laughter, or just sitting and watching a night sky clear of urban glow, with the blink of a shooting star and the milky way resembling silver sparkly eye shadow. Strong bonds were discovered in the most usual of daily tasks; even when walking to and from the dining hall, our footsteps crunching on the gravel paths in unison. I was especially closeknit with the other barn heads I lived with in the Little Green Cabin. Friendship was there within the tiny knots of colourful friendship bracelets and behind secret sister gifts, and was through the vibe of a whole camp hike to Bucks Knoll, hundreds of feet splashing through the river and tramping onwards like a huge female-only rambling club. At the top, we took photos of us with our arms thrown tightly round our new best friends.
I loved camp but I also loved the one day off we had each week, which were childfree and we got to explore the surrounding area. The quiet ones were spent walking round the new town of Winchester, Virginia. There was always shopping in the Apple Blossom Mall – I can still smell it today, as well as the aroma from the darkly lit Hollister and fruity wafts from Bath and Body Works. Back then the currency exchange was kind and we halved prices to see their equivalent in pounds, justifying many purchases. We often walked to the out-of-town shops like Books-a-Million, Hobby Lobby and T.J. Maxx. Days off usually ended with a trip to the wonders of Walmart, which sold everything, and I mean, everything.
Other days, a carful went further afield to the historical sites of Harpers Ferry and Gettysburg. I went on day trips to Baltimore and Washington DC to see the sights or visit beautiful Georgetown for cupcakes. One day each summer, we were taken to Six Flags and Hershey Park – sprawling theme parks so vivid, we were left exhausted.
In my final year, I visited Middleburg, a gorgeous town renowned for horseracing and hunting, and we were measured for custom-made half chaps in the softest leather.
There were always those special days off, listening to tinkling bluegrass at the Hampshire County Fair where we also rode the big wheel, to watching a full-blown country artist at the bigger Shenandoah County Fair after feasting on funnel cakes. An outdoor concert at Wolf Trap once followed a stop at the British Pantry, a tearoom which had a red telephone box outside and sold real Dairy Milk instead of waxy Hershey. Another time, the inhabitants of the Little Green Cabin shopped at Gander Mountain and saw every type of camo, ate in I.J. Cannes and spent the evening at Charles Town Races. I’ve still got a threadbare Life Is Good t-shirt I purchased that day that I cannot part with. Once, I loved driving part of the Skyline Drive, the only public road through the Shenandoah National Park, witnessing firsthand the bluest hues of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
On the final evening of each general session, camp held a candle float ceremony. Our names were read out like a memorial as a candle for each of us floated down the river, flickering like the memories of our time together. After whispering farewells, we stood up shakily and swaying, almost needing to hold hands, singing John Denver’s ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’. Afterwards, we were noiseless, the pine needles rasping beneath the steps homewards that we didn’t want to take. I was torn between wanting to go back to the racehorses and longing for the start of the next summer.
The end of summer. The herd turned out on Bucks Knoll
There’s a lot I’ve missed out about my three summers at Camp Rim Rock. I suspect there’s been changes; apparently the coronavirus pandemic hit camps hard, but I hope that the magic remains. Even now, a song takes me back to camp parties, a burnt sugar scent reminds me of 4th of July candy floss and orange bonfire flames transport me back to toasting marshmallows above a campfire to create s’mores. I'll never forget the people; the friends I met there and still see reguarly and the ones with whom regular contact has lasped but who will always remain dear. There will be a permanent bond between the women who wore outrageous tie dye, fancy dress and Crocs for a day's work, and willingly returned summer after summer.
A big part of my heart will always remain in that beautiful part of West Virginia.
Chippewa Staff on the 4th of July '08