GONE WERE THE CAMPERS and the counselors. Gone were the Civilian Conservation Corps cabins. Gone were the horses and the corral, the mess hall and the bathhouse. Tall grass and brambles grew in the field between the mountain and the river. Only the meeting house remained. I stepped inside.
Someone had spray-painted a lopsided pentagram on the wall. Above the stage, the green velvet curtain still hung, rung up to the rafters after a last jamboree. On the floor, the remains of a campfire, and the reminder, inked in Sharpie, god is good. In an
