Ranger Alli Field Journal

Campgrounds are strange little worlds. They’re part neighborhood, part therapy session, part adult summer camp, and part “how did this become a three-hour conversation around a firepit?” Somehow, complete strangers show up with folding chairs and coolers and within a weekend start acting like cousins at a family reunion.

That’s the kind of place this journal comes from. Ranger Alli’s Field Journal is a weekly collection of stories, reflections, chaos, observations, mildly concerning leadership philosophies, campground culture, and whatever else falls out of my head while wandering around Oak Hill Hideaway typically with a radio clipped to my belt and approximately seventeen unfinished projects on my to-do list.

Some entries are funny. Some are thoughtful. Some are accidental therapy disguised as campground storytelling. And every now and then, one might turn into a gentle-but-firm “girl… we need to talk” conversation with the community. Because that’s part of camp too.

At its core, this series is about community. The weird, beautiful magic that happens when people gather in the woods and decide to build something together. It’s about chosen family, campfire conversations, traditions, personal growth, conflict, friendship, leadership, ridiculous adventures, and the occasional dog-related incident involving Calamity.

You’ll read stories about how a failed Appalachian Trail hike accidentally launched the Ranger Alli persona. You’ll hear thoughts on leadership, belonging, burnout, campground politics, dogs at camp, protecting the magic, and why every campground eventually turns into a tiny civilization with its own lore and mythology. You’ll also quickly realize two things: 1. Ranger Alli is partially a joke and 2. Ranger Alli is also completely real.

This journal isn’t polished corporate marketing copy written by someone in an office pretending to understand community. It’s written from inside the experience, by someone actively trying to build, protect, and participate in it at the same time. So whether you’re a camper, a seasonal, a former trail hiker, a chaotic nymph with a camping chair, or just someone trying to figure out where they belong in the world, welcome to my field journal.

Grab a drink. Pull up a chair. Please feed the raccoons. And if things get weird? Good. That usually means the story’s about to get interesting.

Yours in Community,
Ranger Alli

Boozin’, Burnin’, & Bein’ Loud

Episode Six
Written: 4/23/2026 & Posted: 5/28/2026

  • I don’t like rules. I don’t want rules. But these three? These are the ones where I will absolutely become the villain if I have to.

    Alcohol: My Birthright, My Burden

    WHO DOESN’T LOVE ALCOHOL?! Okay, plenty of people. And some of you love it, some of you love it a little too much. But for the sake of the narrative, let’s pretend everyone here is drinking like a charming, responsible icon. Because booze? Booze is my heritage.

    On my mom’s side, alcohol is basically a family trade. My grandmother was out here breaking barriers as a bartender back when that was unheard of. Every family gathering had a bar. Every cousin thought they were hot shit the first time they got to pour drinks.

    And me? I turned that into a paycheck. Into a career. Into the skill that got me behind the bar at my first gay campground. So trust me when I say that I love alcohol.

    But I respect it more than I love it.

    Because here’s the line in the sand: If you drink, you do not drive. Not to the general store.  Not to the office. Not because you’re mad. Not because you “feel fine.” Not because you’ve “done it before.” 

    You do it once and I find out? You’re done. Membership revoked. Not welcome back. And if you drove off this property drunk? I will call the police before you even sober up enough to regret it.

    I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how long you’ve been coming here. I don’t care how much money you spend. I care about one thing: Nobody dies because someone wanted to be stupid for ten minutes.

    And alcohol doesn’t just bring bad driving. It brings big feelings, dumb decisions, and main character syndrome in the worst way. And listen,  I have been the drunk girl at the party. Actually, I’ve been her several times. She’s fun. She’s chaotic. She’s occasionally a problem.

    But here’s the deal, we are a community, not a reality show.  So if someone’s spiraling give them water, change the vibe, separate people who are about to square up, and put the mess to bed. 

    If things start getting aggressive? You come get me. Immediately. Do not play hero.  Do not intervene alone. Do not think, “oh this will pass.” We keep each other safe here. That’s the culture.

    Going to my first season as a General Manager my mindset is simple. Be smart. Have fun.  No one dies. If we prioritize those three simple philosophies when drinking, everything is going to be alright. 

    Fire: The Thing I Love Most That Will Kill You Fastest

    This one’s gonna piss some people off. And that’s fine. 

    On my dad’s side? Firefighters. EMTs. First responders. My grandparents literally helped start one of the first public ambulance services in Pennsylvania. My childhood bedtime stories were basically emergency dispatch logs. And is customary for literally everyone in my family, I’ve been a volunteer firefighter.

    So when I see people being reckless with fire, I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s five minutes away from ruining someone’s life. So here it’s my hot take, we respect the fire, or the fire goes away.

    At Oak Hill fires stay in approved fire rings, those rings should be a maximum of 42 inches wide and a minimum of 9 inches high. Fire rings should be at least 10 feet away from vehicles (including RVs), structures, and propane. 

    My biggest pet peeve at the end of the weekend? When I do my Monday morning walk through and find a fire ring filled with trash. We do not burn trash. We do not leave anything, especially trash, in a fire ring, like ever. 

    And let me be crystal clear on something that is going to upset some people. We are not burning pallets. I don’t care how iconic it used to be.  I don’t care how cool it looked. I don’t care if you think you can “get away with it.” I will show up.  I will kill the fire. I will kill the vibe. And if I have to? I will kill campfires entirely.

    Because here’s the reality:
    Fire + RVs = bad
    Fire + tents = worse
    Fire + ego = absolute disaster

    And I love fire. My Appalachian Trail name was BIC, for god’s sake. But loving something means respecting it. We’re not running a survival experiment. We’re running a campground. And the goal is that everyone wakes up tomorrow.

    3. Noise: Shut the Hell Up (But Also Don’t)

    Oak Hill is a gay campground. It is not a monastery. It is not a nursing home. It’s not a frat house. It is not a hillbilly compound. Noise in the night time is to be expected. It should not be obnoxious. That’s the culture we are embedding for the 2026 season. 

    What does that mean? If you want total silence at 9pm on a Friday? I’m sorry, Oak Hill might not be the campground for you.  If you want to sleep until noon in peaceful stillness on a Saturday? I’m sorry, Oak Hill might not be the campground for you. 

    This is a community. That means some people stay up late, some people wake up early, and some people laugh, flirt, fight, and make poor choices at questionable times of the day. I absolutely refuse to patrol the campground like the Noise Police(™).

    If you come to get me because of a noise complaint and you have not yet talked to the loud person or group, be aware - I will be much more annoyed with you than I will be with the loud people. We are a community, these are your friends and neighbors. I will never understand why men feel comfortable to go with someone to the Shaft Shack, but feel uncomfortable asking them to turn the music volume down. 

    If they are not responsive to your request, are rude, or (and I know this happens) seem too drunk to understand what it is you are asking, yea, that’s when it’s time to come get me. For the love of God, do not bypass me, and go knock on the door of a seasonal camper who is also a member of the camp’s leadership team. I assure you, you will not like how that plays out.

    Because of a town ordinance, we do have quiet hours. 10pm–7am. I can not change these, I can not disregard them, I can not just say fuck it. Trust me, I want to because 10pm is inappropriately early. I am looking for solutions. But, the fact remains. Sound should not be echoing and radiating outside of your site after 10pm or before 7am. 

    And let’s be clear here, the town? They don’t care about your birthday weekend, your situationship, or your DJ dreams. They care about complaints. If you violate the sound ordinance the campground faces fines, pissed off neighbors, and negatively impacted relationship with the town. The town who controls our license to operate. Remember that when I come to your site and tell you to turn the volume down, okay?

    And if I’m being 100% honest, start to quiet your shit down at 10pm. I shouldn’t be able to hear you down at the office and by eleven, I shouldn’t be able to hear you unless I am intentionally joining the conversation and am standing in your site. That’s just how it goes, friends. You can still have fun, but starting at 10pm and definitely by 11pm it needs to be quiet fun. Think silent rave, not speaker war. 

    Do I think the rule is too early?
    Yes. My grandmother’s nursing home allowed visitors until 10pm. It’s ridiculous and I wish I knew what triggered the town to enact its noise ordinance in August of 2019. But, the perimeters exist to set standards for quality of life here in Washington and we will be good neighbors who abide by them. 

    Final Thoughts from Your Favorite Rule-Hating Ranger

    I don’t like being the rule guy. I like being the guy handing you a drink, hyping your outfit, and telling you to kiss him again but with more confidence. I like being the guy who screams things like, “Turn It Up!” and “Wanna see what happens when you put this on the fire?”.  But this Oak Hill Hideaway only works if we protect it.

    Unfortunately, capitalism has determined that sometimes I have to be the rule guy and I hate having to be the rule guy, but that’s just how the cookie is when it crumbles. So, drink, light your fires, and be loud.  Just don’t be stupid about it. Because I promise you, I’m fun - right up until the moment I’m not (and then I’m kind of scary).

Protect the Magic

Episode 5
Written: 4/21/2026 & Posted: 5/19/2026

  • I’m going to say something a little uncomfortable. I’ve lost the magic before. And I fear for the new owners here at Oak Hill Hideaway, because if I’ve learned anything in this industry, it’s that magic is the easiest thing to lose when you forget you’re a camper first.

    When I first got to Twin Ponds Lodge, I was… insufferably joyful. Like, aggressively joyful. People would ask how I was and I’d say, “Wonderful. Every day is a wonderful day at Twin Ponds Lodge.” And the worst part? I meant it. 

    It’s in the Google reviews. Receipts exist. 

    I was running around, hosting, laughing, making out with cute boys, jumping into pool volleyball, and still somehow showing up every day ready to do whatever the space needed to thrive. I wasn’t just working there. I was part of it.

    But something shifted. Slowly. Quietly. Then all at once. I stopped being a camper first. I stopped being a member second. And I became an employee.

    A tired one.
    A jaded one.
    An entitled one (if I’m being honest).

    My dreams for the space started getting smaller. My energy got tighter. I started rushing to leave at night instead of finding reasons to stay.  Even the after-parties changed. I wasn’t throwing them to connect anymore, I was throwing them for the lore, for the brand, for the business.

    And the wildest part? I kept saying,  “Every day is a wonderful day.” Just now it came with a tight smile and dead eyes. We’ve all been there.

    I’ve been back to Twin Ponds Lodge since my departure. And the magic that used to live in my chest when I walked those grounds? Still gone. Not gone from the place, it’s still there for the members, and I hope to God they never lose it, but gone for me. At least for now.

    And here’s the hard truth I had to sit with: I didn’t just lose the magic because of the work. I lost it because of the weight. The constant complaints. The drama. The opinions. The feeling that no matter how many 50 or 60 or 70 hour work weeks I gave it still wasn’t enough for some people.

    That shit eats at you. It chips away at the part of you that loves this world, this industry, this adventure. Until one day, you don’t.  

    And I know it has happened before me, too.Joe didn’t start this campground burnt out and yelling about there being too many people at one campsite. No one does. But over time, that burnout became his reputation. The yelling. The rigid rules. The unpredictability.

    Now, let’s be clear. That doesn’t mean the campground wasn’t successful. It doesn’t mean the community wasn’t (and isn’t) the most valuable thing about it.  And it definitely doesn’t mean he didn’t have his reasons. But it does mean something important: He lost his magic.

    So let’s talk about where we are now. Because here’s another hard truth: No one buys a small campground to make money. They just don’t. And these guys? The new owners? They didn’t exactly walk into a fully thriving, asset-rich, low-maintenance cash cow either. There’s work to do. Real work. Unsexy work. And they chose it anyway.

    Which means what they did buy…
    was a whole lot of potential.
    was a safeguard for their community.
    was a feeling.

    It was magic.

    And if we’re not careful we will take that from them. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But through a thousand small moments, bringing complaints to them when they’re just trying to exist and relax here, treating them like owners when they’re just trying to be seasonal campers, expecting access, answers, fixes, and decisions all the time. 

    Instead of letting them just be gays in the woods.

    So I’m going to ask something of you. Actually, no. I’m going to be a little more direct than that.

    When the owners are here on the weekends, they are seasonals. Period.  They, like you, paid for a seasonal site and experience this year. And they deserve to fucking get one.

    They are not your escalation point. They are not your suggestion box. They are not your complaint department. Not on the weekend. Not when they are here just trying to hold on to why they said yes to saving this place.

    That’s me. Bring it to me. Everything you got. Overwhelm me with your neediness, your pettiness, and your confusion. I can handle it, promise. This is not my first time at the rodeo. 

    Let them have their late night firepit conversations. Let them flirt badly in the Shaft Shack. Let them drink in excess (and then come get me so I can tell them to go to bed). Let them exist inside the thing they work, in addition to the jobs they had before buying this place, every other day of the week.

    On the weekends, let them feel the magic.

    Because if they lose it? They will burn out. And if they burn out?  I will leave. And if I leave? Well, if I were a business owner and I burnt out after hiring someone with at least a mediocre level of ability and experience in the industry, my next step would be to bring in a private consultant or management firm. I wouldn’t be a seasonal anymore, I would care significantly less about the “vibe” and Oak Hill would lose its authenticity.

    And if that happens? This place? This weird, beautiful, chaotic, chosen-family-in-the-woods place, it’s no longer a community. It becomes a machine that doesn’t care about anything other than how to squeeze more and more money out of each weekend. 

    The community you know doesn’t last. 

    I’m not saying this to cause worry. I’m saying it because I’ve lived it. So protect it. Protect the magic. Protect their magic. Not just for them. Not just for me. But for yourself. Because one day, if we do this right, one day you’ll look around, drink in hand, surrounded by your people, and realize, “This is it. This is the magic.” And I want that feeling to last as long as humanly possible.

    Welcome them home each weekend, not to work.

    Yours in Community,
    Ranger Alli

The Calamity Of It All

Episode Four
Written: 4/09/2026 & Posted: 5/19/2026

  • Calamity is ten months old, black as midnight with a cute little patch of white on his chest, and possesses the emotional stability of a frat boy who just discovered espresso martinis. He was adopted from the Augusta Humane Society and immediately promoted to Deputy Ranger, which is mostly a ceremonial role but comes with significant responsibilities like sniffing every tree on the property and judging campers who cook bad hot dogs.

    Now, Oak Hill Hideaway does allow dogs. Which is great news for me and Calamity, because frankly he would have followed me here anyway and just lived in the woods like a feral raccoon. But Oak Hill is also in the middle of a bit of a cultural shift around dogs at camp.

    Like you, Calamity and I are adjusting. 

    Dogs here are expected to be social, vaccinated, and generally under control at all times. When they leave their campsite they’re supposed to be on a leash. Owners are responsible for cleaning up after them and making sure their dogs aren’t becoming a nuisance to other campers. All of which is reasonable. 

    Annoyingly reasonable.

    But if I’m being honest, this is probably one of two rules I already know I’m going to struggle with a little.  Because here’s the thing about camp dogs: the good ones are part of the culture. They wander from fire pit to fire pit collecting snacks. They supervise construction projects. They attend every cocktail hour like tiny furry mayors. And yes, sometimes they roam.

    Now I understand exactly why rules like this exist. Anyone who has lived at a campground long enough has seen the other side of it: dogs chasing bikes, dogs starting fights, dogs barking all night, dogs whose owners mysteriously disappear the moment poop appears.

    Bad dog dads ruin it for everyone.

    But I will forever maintain that good dog dads shouldn’t have to suffer because some people can’t manage their fur-legged best friends. So if these are the rules moving forward (and they are) then I’m already campaigning for a very important addition to camp. 

    Oak Hill needs a dog park.

    Give the pups somewhere safe to run. Somewhere fenced. Somewhere they can burn off their chaotic woodland energy without terrifying the man trying to carry a tray of jello shots across the campground. Frankly it would also give the humans a place to stand around drinking beer and talking about their dogs like proud suburban parents.

    And if anyone out there has other ideas, creative solutions, dog infrastructure, ways to make camp better for both the dogs and the humans, send them my way. I will happily present them to the owners and champion them like the ranger of questionable authority that I am. Because if Oak Hill is going to be a community, then the pup citizens should get some say in how things work too. 

    In the meantime, Calamity and I will be doing our best to follow the rules. We will leash responsibly. We will clean up after ourselves. We will try not to bark during quiet hours. No promises about judging your campsite snacks though.

    And if you happen to see Deputy Ranger Calamity wandering around camp conducting an unofficial (unleashed) patrol… 

    Just remember that snitches get stitches. Kidding. Mostly.

    But if you do see him in violation of any campground policy, the appropriate response is to smile and say, “Wow. That dog looks extremely compliant.”

    Yours in Community,
    Ranger Alli 

The Ranger Code

Episode Three
Written: 4/05/2026 & Posted: 5/19/2026

  • Park rangers. Army Rangers. Search and rescue rangers. Forest rangers.

    Across the world, the job is different, but the reputation is the same: when a ranger shows up, people tend to breathe a little easier. Rangers guide people through wild places. They solve problems. They keep communities safe. They carry responsibility, while wearing high-fashion hats.

    The U.S. Army Rangers have something called the Ranger Creed, and many soldiers talk about the word RANGER as an acronym representing the mindset they’re expected to live by. Now let’s be very clear. I am not an Army Ranger. Not even close. Those folks are operating on a level of toughness and discipline that makes my greatest survival accomplishment look like amateur hour. 

    But I do like the idea of having a code.

    Something you try to live up to. So somewhere along the way I built my own. Not a military creed. Just a personal reminder of the kind of person I hope to be. The Ranger Alli version of R.A.N.G.E.R.

    Remember: Data backed facts are truth. Passion driven by facts is unstoppable.
    Facts matter. Evidence matters.  But sometimes the thing that actually moves the world forward is someone believing deeply enough in a better outcome that they refuse to give up on it. Both have their place.

    Adventure is an inherent part of the human experience.
    Humans were not designed to sit quietly forever. We’re explorers. Sometimes adventure looks like hiking a mountain. Sometimes it looks like moving to a new place, starting a new job, or trying something that scares you a little. Either way, the spirit is the same.

    Never blame a person for the failure of a plan. People don’t fail, plans do.
    Most failures aren’t about bad people. They’re about bad systems. If something isn’t working, fix the system. Blaming people is lazy leadership.

    Gratitude is a gift to give and a gift to receive. Find both in all you do.
    Gratitude changes the way you move through the world.  It softens the sharp edges. It reminds you that you didn’t build your life alone. And it’s contagious.

    Energetically approach all problems and barriers. Empathetically approach all conflict and debate.
    Every community has disagreements. Every project hits roadblocks. The trick isn’t avoiding conflict. The trick is approaching it with enough curiosity and calm that solutions can actually appear.

    Recognize that we may experience the same storm, but our boats and seas are all different.
    People carry different histories. Different struggles. Different advantages. Different wounds. Understanding that difference makes compassion a lot easier.

    Now here’s the most ridiculous part. Ranger Alli is not just a nickname. It’s a brand. At one point, a legal entity. But more importantly, it’s a version of myself that I try to live up to.  The ranger hat is partly a joke. But it’s also a reminder.

    When people hear “Ranger Alli,” I want them to expect someone who shows up for the community.  Someone who listens. Someone who solves problems. Someone who can keep a sense of humor when things get weird.

    Inevitably, things will get weird at any campground. Because campgrounds, if you haven’t noticed, are basically just small societies surrounded by trees. They’ve got traditions. Personalities. Inside jokes. Conflict. Friendship. Occasional chaos. And a lot of opportunities for people to build something meaningful together.

    My job in all of this isn’t to be the hero of the story. It’s to try to live up to the ranger code I’ve set for myself. To guide when needed. To support the community.  To keep learning.

    And to remember that real rangers, the ones out there protecting forests, rescuing hikers, and keeping wild places safe, are still way cooler than I’ll ever be. But if I can get a little closer to that standard every year, I’ll consider this experiment a success.

    Also, if we’re being honest, every campground could benefit from a few more rangers and a lot more dance parties.

    Yours in Community,
    Ranger Alli

The Lore of Ranger Alli

Episode Two
Written: 4/05/2026 & Posted: 5/19/2026

  • I was hiking the Appalachian Trail in Maine. Heading south. Minding my business. Doing my best impression of someone who knew what they were doing.

    Then a storm rolled in. Not a cute little drizzle. A biblical downpour. The kind of rain where rivers double in size and the trail turns into a mud slide with ambition. At one point the trail required crossing a river that had grown from “manageable” to “this feels like something I’ll regret later.”

    I crossed it anyway.

    Halfway through that adventure my very expensive, professional hiking boots ripped completely in half. Not a tear. Not a loose seam. They just separated from reality like they had collectively decided they were no longer part of this journey.

    So now I was standing in a Maine river holding two halves of what used to be a respectable pair of boots. The woods were unimpressed.

    Eventually I made my way off trail and managed to acquire the only replacement option available at the time: Women’s size 4 hiking boots from a box marked “FREE” at a hiker hostel. For context, I wear about a 10 or 10½ in men’s.

    Now this is where a sensible person would pause and reconsider their life choices. But my decision making at the time was, let’s just say, adventurous. So back onto the trail I went.

    Eventually gravity intervened, as it tends to do. I slipped, tumbled down the side of a mountain, and shortly after that broke out in a rash that covered a good portion of my body. 

    Naturally my first thought was, Great, I’m dying in the woods.

    So I hitchhiked to town for medical help. Turns out the rash was from a caterpillar. Which, if you didn’t know, is a real thing in Maine. Tiny little hairs, big dramatic rash, and an EMT explaining that nature is sometimes just rude like that.

    So now I had a new plan. Get to some family in New Hampshire, order proper boots, and return to the trail as quickly as possible. To accomplish this I did what any responsible traveler would do.

    I opened Grindr.

    Eventually that chain of questionable but effective transportation landed me in Waterville. That’s where a guy said something that would derail the entire plan. “Hey,” he said. “Come help me set up my campsite and survive a weekend at this campground. I’ll take you wherever you need to go on Sunday.”

    The campground was called Twin Ponds Lodge. The plan was simple. Help with campsite setup. Hang out for the weekend. Get to New Hampshire. Order boots. Return to the trail.

    The first few days I just started helping out around the place. Not because anyone asked. Mostly because I’m bad at sitting still. I cut firewood. Cleared brush. Helped guys who had never camped before figure out how tents work. Cleaned the kitchen. Did dishes. A truly impressive amount of dishes. Somehow ended up helping with paperwork for the social club. 

    It turns out when you drop a slightly chaotic person into a campground full of people who appreciate initiative, things escalate quickly. One Saturday night I was running around the lodge a little drunk, helping with this and that, still somehow managing to have a great time with the new friends I’d made. At one point an older camper had bought a bundle of firewood but needed help getting it back to his site. So I hoisted it onto a dolly and started my way across the property.

    Outside the lodge Roberto, one of the owners, was smoking.  As I walked past with the firewood I heard him yell behind me: “Thanks, Ranger Alli.”

    Now, in hindsight, there may have been some shade in that comment. But the shade went completely over my head. I heard a compliment. And I took that compliment and ran with it like it was a government-issued title.

    Ranger Alli was born.

    The Appalachian Trail hiker with the broken boots started helping around camp more and more. Then a little more. Then a lot more. Eventually the guy who had shown up for a weekend was basically living there. In September I officially went on staff as the manager of the brand new, onsite bar. 

    Now here’s the part that makes this whole thing feel slightly mystical. None of it was planned. The boots ripping in half. The caterpillar rash. The hitchhiking. The Grindr ride network across Maine. The weekend stop that became a multi-year adventure. The sarcastic nickname that turned into a persona. 

    Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos a weird Appalachian Trail hiker accidentally became Ranger Alli.

    And if there’s a lesson in that story, it’s probably this: Sometimes the trail the universe wants you to follow isn’t the one you start on. Sometimes it’s the one you find when your boots rip in half, a caterpillar ruins your day, and a campground full of strangers decides you might as well stay awhile.

    Which, when you think about it, is a pretty ridiculous way to end up in the campground business. But here we are and I couldn’t be happier. 

    Yours in Community,
    Ranger Alli

WELCOME HOME!

Episode One
Written: 4/03/2026 & Posted: 5/18/2026

  • Long before I arrived here, this campground already had a life of its own. For years it was known as Joe’s Hideaway, built and cared for by Joe, Rich, and the community that formed over the years. That history matters. The friendships built here matter. The traditions matter.

    What we’re doing now isn’t about starting over. It’s about continuing the story.

    Change is necessary for evolution. Evolution is necessary for survival.

    But the best change respects where something came from. So whether you’ve been coming here for years or you’ve just found Oak Hill for the first time, let me say something simple:

    Welcome Home.

    This blog is Ranger Alli’s Field Journal. This is my primary and guaranteed weekly sharing of notes from life at Oak Hill: stories from the woods, observations about campground culture, updates about what we’re working on, and the occasional reflection about what it actually takes to build and maintain a place where people feel like they belong.

    And every now and then, this space might double as a “come to Jesus” moment for the community, the kind where we need to talk openly and honestly about something difficult. Building community and maintaining a safe, fun culture isn’t always comfortable or easy. Sometimes it means pushing a little. Sometimes it means a gentle scolding. That’s part of my job. Trust me, you would much rather read those conversations here than have me standing at your campsite having them in person.

    Some entries will be thoughtful. Some will be chaotic. And sometimes it’ll just be a good story worth telling.

    I’ve been camping my entire life from family vacations to Boy Scout trips to weekends with friends who brought way too much beer, not to mention that for the last three years I lived and worked at Twin Ponds Lodge in Albion, Maine. When it comes to campground stories, I’ve got some doozies.

    Which means two things you should probably know up front.

    First: this journal isn’t going to read like a polished marketing copy. It’s going to sound like someone who spends a lot of time walking the property, talking with campers, fixing things that break, and occasionally sitting down to hear the kind of stories people only tell after the stars come out.

    Second: the language and content in these entries may not always be suitable for ladies, children, or anyone who prefers their campground managers quiet and well-behaved. My editor is a raccoon that I bribe with Red Bull and vodka to proofread these entries.

    Campgrounds attract a certain type of human, the curious ones, the slightly feral ones, the people who arrive expecting a quick overnight and somehow extend the trip to three nights and repeat that exact pattern every year.

    Those are my people.

    Over the past few years I’ve met some of you when you were visiting Twin Ponds Lodge. I might not remember your name, but I do remember your cocktail orders. Twin Ponds Lodge is a very different space and serves an important role as a safe place for gay men to gather and relax. It’s not a competing campground in my mind.

    It’s a neighbor.

    Also, Tommy, Roberto, and Evan are basically my adoptive parents, and I’d prefer not to get uninvited from Christmas dinner. I think the leadership over in Albion and the leadership here in Washington see each other as neighbors in the queer camping community. Different campgrounds, different cultures, but the same idea underneath it all - men gathering in the woods to relax, connect, and be themselves.

    And if you ever find yourself visiting Twin Ponds Lodge, feel free to ask Roberto about just how important a good campfire was to me when I first arrived in 2023. Be prepared for a version of the story where I appear significantly more chaotic (and drunk) than I remember being.

    At the heart of this journal isn’t chaos. It’s community. It’s about the strange magic that happens when people gather in the woods and decide, even temporarily, that they’re part of something together.

    The campfires. The quiet conversations. The traditions that form without anyone planning them.

    My job is to listen, learn what already makes this place special, and help the community grow in ways that feel authentic to the people who call it home. As I step into this new role, with this new community, I already know of Oak Hill’s magic, it’s a magic you only find at campgrounds with community at their heart. I firmly believe that magic is the greatest asset of Oak Hill Hideaway, and protecting, nurturing, and growing it is one of my greatest responsibilities.

    This field journal is simply a way to share that process.

    Next week, I’ll tell you how an Appalachian Trail hiker accidentally wandered into a campground in Maine, my introduction to gay camping - The Lore of Ranger Alli. It’s a wild and strange story..

    But the best campground stories usually are.

    Yours in Community,
    Ranger Alli


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Campfires & Cocktails