On July 4, Kerr County experienced at least 10 inches of rainfall in the span of a few hours, causing flash flooding of the Guadalupe River.

Located in the low-lying areas near the river was Camp Mystic, an all-girls Christian summer camp. The girls’ cabins were hit disastrously by the flooding and at least 27 campers and counselors lost their lives.

During this time, I was on a session break at the summer camp in northern Iowa, which I have worked at for three years and attended as a camper before that. 

When we got back a few days later, everyone felt something shift. Our worst-case scenario had played out on national news, and now it was our job to joyfully welcome new girls to our camp with the weight of knowing just how important this job can be.

University of Minnesota first-year student and former summer camp counselor, Lola Jagoditsh, said hearing about Camp Mystic was difficult, and she empathized with the counselors in their position.

“When I first heard about what happened in Texas, I guess I understood,” Jagoditsh said. “I kind of put myself in the counselors’ shoes there and imagine what it would have been like.”

Both Jagoditsh and I worked at sleepaway camps, like Camp Mystic. Our campers were entirely our responsibility for their stay. This pressure can be enormous, especially because for many kids, this is their first experience away from their parents.

Jagoditsh said working at an overnight camp can be difficult since you need to be ready to act at any given moment.

“When you’re a camp counselor, you live there, and you’re on the clock basically 24 hours out of the day,” Jagoditsh said. “So even if you’re sleeping, if there’s a drill or if there’s an emergency with campers, you need to get up and act immediately.”

These words echo the actions of Ainslie Bashara, a 19-year-old counselor at Camp Mystic who saved the lives of 16 girls the night of the floods. She noticed rising water outside the cabin she shared with two co-counselors and 16 campers, and decided to evacuate against the orders of a staffer. 

Only when she arrived at a safe building with all of her campers accounted for did Bashara allow herself to step out and cry.

“It’s your responsibility because the parents aren’t there to make sure that everybody is where they need to be,” Jagoditsh said. “And it’s really difficult because kids stress out, and they make decisions that aren’t best for the situation. So I just imagine it being really, really difficult, stressful and hard.”

About midway through the summer this year, tornado warnings went off at my camp just as we were about to sit down for dinner. Immediately, we rushed our kids and staff into the basement of our lodge. 

As soon as I got inside, I rushed to find one of my campers, who I knew had a fear of storms. I expected to find her crying out of fear, but instead, she sat there begging me to go back out so she could grab the teddy bear she had left outside the lodge. I sat with her for twenty minutes as she sobbed, repeating, “I just want my bear.”

Of course, any counselor could tell you it was never about the bear. 

For her, at that moment, the stress and the fear were too much for her to handle, so she bundled it all up into worrying about her teddy bear.

When I remember this, I think about the Camp Mystic girls and what they were worried about as they escaped with their counselors. I think about their teddy bears, or their blankets or the hairbrushes that they swore to their moms they wouldn’t lose. 

Then, I think about their counselors, and the responsibility they had to say, “No, it isn’t safe to go back right now. Your mom can get a new hairbrush, but she can’t get a new you.” 

Three years ago, when my mom drove me to my first week of staff training, she turned to me and said that my job was to protect people’s babies and that I always needed to remember that. 

It is a reality that you reckon with as a camp counselor. You try to focus on the fun parts of your job, on connecting with kids, on giving them memorable experiences.

But then something like this happens. 

It’s in the news and on the radio and parents are asking about it, and you remember what your mom said in the car three years ago. You remember that she was once that mom putting her trust in a group of young adults to keep her baby safe. Because the drills, training and in-services are all rooted in tragedies that have happened before and might happen again.

“You talk about what happens and you try your best to prepare, but when it’s the actual thing, it’s very nerve-wracking for the kids and the counselors,” Jagoditsh said.

While working on this piece, I reached out to several Midwest summer camps for interviews. Every camp or organization either declined to comment or did not respond at all. I cannot make assumptions about why these camps failed to respond to my inquiries, but to me, this speaks to the difficulty of this tragedy for the camp community. 

We’re still grieving these girls and processing how to move forward. I’m not sure I would know what to say to a reporter either.

But I do know these girls need to be remembered somehow.

When I was a camper, I remembered all my counselors and how much they cared about me. As a counselor, I remember every camper I’ve ever had. But with campers and counselors gone, we must remember them both. 

I remember the brave women who gave their lives to protect their campers. I remember the little girls who took a chance on summer camp, on being away from their guardians. I remember their mothers because they certainly will never forget their babies.

I remember Camp Mystic.