There was no map, no sign, no trail—only a hushed memory passed from tree to tree. We called it the Druid Camp, a hidden pocket of pine and cedar where the air cooled, the light turned green, and time seemed to hold its breath. We built fences from fallen limbs, carved tools from stone and stick, and pretended we lived by sun and firelight instead of clocks and calendars.

It wasn’t make-believe—it was a quiet longing for something older, simpler, and true. And then life, as it always does, got louder. Decades have passed, but sometimes, on the right breeze, you can almost hear the camp calling you back.