9 February 2009
The road to Cazadero has a stench of nowhere, nothingness, and road kill. Its constant windy turns and un-maintained concrete echo a time in which the Pomo Tribe wandered south along Austin Creek to seek richer lands. I ventured down this road first when I was sixteen, and left with a memory that will last forever.
Camp Cazadero’s Music Camp is the highlight of Cazadero. I set off for work in the kitchen to feed young kids who aspire to play music. I was dropped off by my father who I solemnly said my goodbyes to, not knowing what was ahead. I carried my backpack and my sleeping bag across a long, wooden, creaky bridge. Every step I took felt as if I was leaving every bit of civilization behind me. It looked as if anyone who crossed it, the wood would snap and would fall into the full flowing creek below. I walked kicking wood chips with every step not knowing where I was going until I found the camp's cafeteria. The first person I saw was my boss, Anita, who immediately walked me back across the bridge to my tent in Boy's Camp. I set down my bags, and started to work in the kitchen, where I would spend the majority of my summer washing dishes.
The first day of work seemed like hell, because I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing. The eight hour shifts were either early in the morning ending around three pm, or starting at midday ending at nine pm. My co-workers were my best friends, Remi Dixon and Josh Curtiss, who made working in the hot, sweaty kitchen actually exciting and funny. Since my friends had a year of experience under their belt already, they showed me the basics of what to do. This work required responsibility, but I never lost the childish impression of where I was.
For free time, my friends and I would wander back to our tents where inside, we would usually play video games for an extreme amount of time. Curfew was midnight, and all...