The rocky incline is slippery, so I shimmy over to the mossy sides and climb up there. I have to look down, as the setting sun is shinning right into my eyes as it peeks over the top of the gigantic rock formation. This place holds a decade full of memories; a dozen summers of climbing this exact trail. Pants and running shoes protect my legs and feet from the bugs. An oversized sweater stolen from a cabin mate dangles from my young, gangly frame. The warm summer breeze kisses my cheeks as it dances through the trees. Everyone is silent, save for the pants and grunts with effort of getting up the rock. Below us, the docks bang against each other, jostled by the waves of a passing motorboat. A loon can be heard far off to the north. With one last push, I'm on top, looking at those who have already arrived and found a perch on the multitude of rock. I walk over to a small nook, my favorite place, and sit. The adrenaline of game time has worn off, leaving everyone covered in a blanket of calm. The rock sighed; it seemed to be happy we came and took away the loneliness it endures during the day. My best friend plops down beside me, smiles, and links her arm through mine. We squint into the sunset. We smile as the sun warms our faces. There is nowhere we'd rather be.

            We, as a crowd, lean forward to hear Flipper speak. I rest my chin in my hands as she commanded our complete attention. Everyone is silent as we listen to her speak about her life.

            My stomach rumbles. Our supper of home-style mac 'n cheese was over three hours ago. As much as I was enjoying Flipper's story, I couldn't wait for "mug-up"- our bedtime snack.

            I gloss over my life. I thought back to the past spring, when my supposed best friend and I had had a huge fight. It seems like the end of the world. I dread going back to school in only a couple short weeks. If only my future self could tell me things will work themselves out.

            I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The smell of pine trees and lake water is all too familiar. The smell brings comfort. It brings the knowledge I am home.

            Blue picks up his guitar. We sing a soft song, our voices carrying out across the lake. The Bell rings below. The time here is done for today.

            Most rush off to play games in the field below. But I stay seated. This is my favorite time. The time when the rock is still and quiet with those who really, truly want to be there. The fakers are gone. All that is left is purely real.

            Now that most of the campers have left, the sounds of the surroundings are even more obvious. Down by the swamp, a bullfrog announces his presence. Some woodland animal walks through the bush, cracking sticks underfoot. The loon calls out again.

            The sun has been reduced to a small sliver bobbing at the other side of the lake. It is cold, so I pull the sweater tighter around me. Year after year, this rock stays the same. When I feel like I cannot count on anything, this place stays consistent. I smile. It is comforting enough for me, a usual social butterfly, to sit happily by myself. The only thing that ever changes is the sunset. I have been here a hundred times and never has it been the same. Each night, I swear, is more beautiful than the last.

            My counselor taps me on the shoulder. "Time to go, hun," she says kindly. I take one last look across the lake. I'm okay with leaving. It will still be here when I return tomorrow. I stand up carefully and stretch; I didn't realize how stuff my body had become. I begin the treacherous climb down, holding Nemo's hand, already anticipating tomorrow.