This is the time of year when thousands of New Hampshire people, particularly southern New Hampshire people, are heading northward to varying degrees — to the Monadnock region, the Lakes Region, the Conways, the Littleton-Landaff region, the Berlin-Magalloway region, the North Country — to open up seasonal homes and camps.

They and their vehicles are easy to spot. The people have that relieved, get-away-from-it-all look, as if the world is lifting off their shoulders. Their vehicles are festooned with bikes, canoes, coolers and camping gear; some, or all, of it more or less lashed in but in danger of falling off. If you could stop them and ask where they were heading, the collective answer would be, “Anywhere but work and home.”

But they are headed to a wholly different home, which is camp, and camps have a certain mystique. Camp people are a whole tribe and nation unto their own.

This is a thing hard to describe, but a longtime reader who wishes to be identified only as “Tarryall from Bow — all my western friends will know the old boot heel you're referring to” did about as well as I've ever done in an email he sent winging my way last week:

“Every time you start talking about camp again (he wrote, referring to me), I start daydreaming. What is that magical pull all about?

“I think it began with my first tree fort — a mysterious sort of place that let one escape to a world slightly apart from the real one. Perhaps camp is the tree fort for adults — and probably a whole lot more. So, I'd humbly request to be counted among the camp people, should my little essay reflect proper understanding of the magic.

“My first true camp experience was in a '71 Ford truck with an old “bob-a-long” eight-foot slide-in camper, gingerly teased up an old mining road in the Colorado Rockies. Nothing has quite touched that experience, perhaps because there's nothing quite like drinking instant coffee while reading Louis L'Amour within 25 miles of the story's actual setting.

“More than 15 years later, camp today is an old, handcrafted summer cottage across the street from a lake. What it lacks in the wonder of isolation it gains in the imaginations of my children, who cannot remember a time when we did not have it as our primary retreat. I recently began talking about a little renovation. My oldest daughter protested — she did not want a single board or nail to be violated. Bless her heart …

“So, it does seem that everything is different when we're at camp. Computers are handily (and gratefully) exchanged for fishing poles. Cell phones only work if you stand on your head 10 feet due north of the well pump, which tends to limit their use. Large concerns of the day include whether or not the '73 Johnson 6-hp motor has any chance of starting this year, and where on earth DID we leave the plug for the 12-foot boat? With any luck, we can let the screen door go another year and spend a little more time talking to the old-timer with the green wool pants and suspenders a couple docks down. He'll wave you over, and can tell you more about the fish, the lake and the history of the town (before the turn of the last century) than anyone I know.

“I guess it comes with having property in the family for over 70 years. I guess camp, in a general sense, boils down to quality of life. What is it that makes us human beings, and how is it that we best engage this natural world and our neighbors as well? The most complete answer is undoubtedly found in religion, but camp seems to go a great distance in the practice of that faith.

“So, when you're staring at a pile of coals (known as “fire crumbs” to the 5-year-old) in the bed of your campfire this summer, know that there are many others staring into the same window, and seeing the same wonderful, timeless image — the one Louis L'Amour wrote of so often.”

Nothing from me can add to this, Taryall from Bow, except, you nailed it, and maybe see you in camp sometime and warm regards to you and all Camp People everywhere.

John Harrigan's column appears weekly inthe New Hampshire Sunday News. His address is Box 39, Colebrook 03576. Email him at hooligan@ncia.net.