Bear Creek Camp Descriptive Writing

The campsite that I visit yearly always seems to surprise me. Last year, I visited Bear Creek Camp for the fourth time. When one goes to a camp, they can expect to get soaked in mud from head to toe, leaving them to scratch off the crusty residue until they are graced with a shower. They can definitely count on the infinite drone of insects, keeping them up until the crack of dawn. Above all, they can count on something to go wrong. Last year, I was greeted at camp with a torrent of rain that lasted hours. The rain mixing with the dirt set the whole camp ready to become one gigantic slip ‘n slide. The humidity clung to the air and stuck to my skin, making my hair frizz like I was having a panic attack. The smell after the rain was earthy and fresh, like I was sniffing a soft scoop of dirt from a garden. I wished that it had never stopped raining, because soon the sun burst through the clouds, showering us in
the first year, mosquitoes swarmed the camp, inflicting us with itchy, oozing bites. I returned home with no less than twenty. The second year, an army of daddy long-legs had taken over. I woke up to spindly legs darting across my sleeping bag, like they were trying to scope out the best way to kill me. One of them crawled up my back so quickly, it was as if there were needles in my skin. The third year, huge cicadas buzzed throughout the air. Their beady red eyes, large black body, and fire-colored wings provoked girlish screams from every camper. When they were ready to die, they writhed and buzzed on the ground as if they were being subjected to electrical shocks. Last year, and I shudder to think about them, roaches silently took our cabins. Drawn by the want of food, the mud-colored beasts scurried across the dilapidated wooden floors ceaselessly. Only when we gassed them with industrial strength roach repellent did they retreat. It wasn’t camp; it was