Raising Free-Range Campers: A Journey Back to Adventure

home insemination Kit

“In the depths of winter, I finally discovered that within me lay an invincible summer.” –Albert Camus

As a kid, my parents granted me the freedom to dream, create, and explore on my own. Whether they understood the significance of unstructured outdoor play or simply needed a break, I truly cherished that space.

One of my favorite spots was a playground near my dad’s childhood home in Georgia. I vividly remember a metal merry-go-round we transformed into a wild game called “flying monkeys,” where we’d see who could jump the farthest off it while it spun.

Here’s how we played flying monkeys:

1. Squat in the middle of a vintage merry-go-round, about the size of one of those Jazzercise trampolines.
2. Get your friends to spin it as fast as possible.
3. When they shout “GO!” try to stand up, battling the centripetal force pulling you back.
4. As you near the edge, the centrifugal force sends you flying off.
5. Try to dodge the metal animals meant for sitting and leap off as far as you can.

If I’ve explained it right, it sounds as wild as it was. Most times, we either fell off immediately or jumped awkwardly and needed the spinners to perform an emergency stop. Regardless of how it turned out, we always ended up in a heap of laughter.

After our flying monkey antics, we’d explore the wild surroundings. A thick maze of kudzu and poison ivy grew right up to where the mower would trim, but luckily the creek remained untouched. We’d march down happily to the water, where our real adventures began. Sometimes we’d scoop up the red clay from the shore and mold it into shapes, which would eventually dry into something resembling either sandy red pebbles or dried-up dog droppings. We’d leap from bank to bank, wade in the cool water, and when we got tired of chasing after water spiders, we’d brave the culvert that led us to the mysterious side of the creek.

I’ll never forget the thrill of stepping into that slimy tunnel. I’d relive that fear and anticipation in a heartbeat. The contrast of the hot Georgia sun with the cold, damp tunnel was striking. My toes gripped the metal rungs as I cautiously made my way through; it felt like an eternity before we emerged on the other side. Once we did, the excitement of having navigated the gauntlet fueled our exploration of the stream further. I can’t recall what lay beyond the culvert; the adventure itself was the only prize I needed.

Looking back, I don’t remember my dad ever checking up on us. I admire his ability to let us roam freely. I suppose he figured we couldn’t get into too much trouble in our own neighborhood. It wasn’t like we were trekking deep into the woods, but it felt pretty daring to me at the age of 10.

Going back a generation, my parents had even more freedom. My dad fondly recalls riding his bike to school in first grade, even crossing a busy intersection—something I can’t imagine doing today. My grandmother has stories of building a hut with her siblings in a vacant lot in Miami during the 1930s. Her parents allowed her to spend the night in it, without worrying about scorpions, fire ants, or any lurking strangers.

When I consider the limited freedom I’ve granted my own children, I can hardly believe we ever let kids roam so freely. Despite the tightening restrictions, I strive to raise free-range kids who will experience something akin to the space and trust I had.

Recently, I registered my kids for my childhood summer camp. For the past two summers, I’ve returned as a counselor. As I look forward to those hot days, it’s my optimistic way of getting through the endless New England winter. Sadly, over the years, the camp environment has shifted towards a more helicopter parenting style. Now, kids are expected to report their exact locations during “free” time, which strips away that wonderful sense of freedom. I can only imagine how many parent complaints the staff has dealt with; today’s parents seem to want to track their kids every moment, even at camp.

But not me. I relish the idea of kids getting “lost” in a mud pit or wandering along the creek. As a counselor, I push the boundaries as much as I can. Even with the need to get permission from multiple people, gather a cell phone, and pack an emergency kit, I still take groups of kids on wild creek adventures.

For them, it’s just as thrilling as it was for me over 20 years ago. Maybe what they don’t know won’t burden them. After all, what happens at camp stays at camp. If you’re curious about home insemination, check out this interesting post for more info!

In summary, raising kids in a world that often limits their freedom can be a challenge, but I believe in fostering their adventurous spirit. I want them to experience the same joys of exploration and independence that I did.