You don’t need me to tell you the world’s wobbly. The weather app promises “Sunny skies!” while you’re bundled against the cold. Streaming services charge you a premium and still make you sit through ads. And then there’s Elon Musk (of all people) heading something called the Department of Government Efficiency.
AI writes your Secret Santa poem while morphing your best friend into a turn-of-the-century painter haunted by their muse, and you just shrug. But hey, Starbucks finally stopped charging extra for oat milk. Small wins, right?
It’s the kind of world where you can’t help but feel a little frayed around the edges. Roadkill on the freeway is just part of the commute, and even your trip to CVS seems to be gunning for your soul with its sticky floors and sticky people.
And yet, every now and then, something comes along that feels untouchable. Pure. Right. Like it doesn’t belong in this mess of a timeline.
That’s Creekside, Sunday mornings at the Lair, where songs and stories cut through the noise like sunlight through the pines, meeting you like an old friend who has a couple of beers and no agenda. It’s rare, this kind of thing, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll lean in close.
The setting neighbors the creek, of course, where the trees gather like they’re in on a secret, and the light filters through the branches in such a way that it feels like the world itself is giving you a wink. The creek rumbles, a constant companion, while the sounds of voices and melodies rise and fall like the loop of a lanyard.
Maybe that’s the essential oil of the program, the creek itself. Maybe that’s how it makes time stand still for a moment, or maybe even stretch down into something deeper.
Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the feeling of sitting next to someone who just gets it. Someone who knows that life can feel vast like the sky over Pinecrest Lake and cramped like the closet behind the Kitchen, all at once. Someone who understands that, in the end, it’s not about filling the space, no, it’s about knowing where to focus. It’s about pushing away the distractions, the things that don’t matter, and giving yourself to the things that do.
At the Lair, Creekside is where we share the songs that matter, tell the stories we carry, and hold onto the memories that stay with us. It’s where we sing what we’ve written or read what we’ve read. There’s no pressure, no expectation. Just people, being together, surrounded by the quiet hum of nature, the strumming of guitars, and the kind of honest feeling you only get when you’re in the business of being real—no frills, no pretense.
I could write pages about Creekside, but I wanted to hear from those who make it happen. So, I asked Audrey Baker, the Music Director at Camp Blue in 2013, and Nate Pola, Gold’s MD from 2022–2023, to share their thoughts.
The first thing Audrey said was that she’d loved Creekside ever since 2011, back when she was a rookie working in the store. Every summer since, except for the one where things went sideways (thanks, pandemic), she’s made her way back to that spot by the creek. The latest chapter in the story? Her brother, Eli, leading the program.
“Creekside has always been a special place,” Audrey told me. When she was on staff, it gave her a moment to ground herself before diving back into the whirlwind of Lair life.
“It’s on Sunday mornings, right after the new group of campers has arrived the night before,” she explained. “As a staffer, you’re really like a big, animated customer service machine—bubbly, chatty, always on. But Creekside was my way of tapping into something quieter, something more peaceful. It’s that moment to check in with yourself.”
Nate echoed this sentiment, describing Creekside as a pause button for the week. “You get to reflect on what the Lair is all about and how you’re feeling,” he said.
Both Audrey and Nate agreed that each Creekside session has its own rhythm, shaped by whoever shows up. “Some weeks it’s a sing-along, a big celebration, where people share poems or sing songs they love,” Audrey said. “Other weeks, it’s heavier. People grieving, remembering losses, reflecting on tough times.”
“There’s no one real blanket statement for how it could go,” Nate added. “I could never predict what it would look like.”
Audrey opened each Creekside with “Angel from Montgomery” by John Prine. She recalled how certain poems, like Mary Oliver’s works or “Wear Sunscreen” by Mary Schmich, became staples.
Each Sunday, the pursuit remained clear: to find one thing to hold onto in your meandering experience, the purpose for your wild and precious life, and the doorway into thanks. It’s the spirit of letting the soft animal of your body love what it loves, while the years, like a broken-down dam, flow by.
But what she cherished most was hearing what everyone else brought to share. “Campers practice their Creekside song all year,” she said. “It’s so special. Creekside is as close as we get to a spiritual moment in nature, the chance to honor and reset.”
For Nate, the vulnerability is what makes Creekside so extraordinary. “People share things you’d never expect to hear from them,” he said. “They’re really open. And as a staffer, just being part of that hour at Creekside connected me to campers in a way nothing else could.”
“Creekside makes the Lair, this perfect place, feel more grounded,” Audrey said. “Somewhere you know you want to be, because these are real people coming together to create this magic together.”
