They say summer camp is where you make lifelong friends and unforgettable memories.
For me, it’s where I discovered two immutable truths about the universe:
Never underestimate the power of a good snack, and never underestimate karma’s sense of humor.
That summer, I wasn’t just another camper—I was the proud steward of our cabin’s snack stash. I took my duties seriously because, at camp, snacks weren’t just food.
They were bonding moments, peace offerings, and a little slice of home in a world full of bug spray and bunk beds.
But then came the Great S’more Caper.
To this day, I can’t decide what was more satisfying: unmasking the thief or watching the universe serve up its marshmallow-coated justice.
The Great S’more Caper
It started as every campfire night did—wood crackling, stars blinking overhead, and the faint hum of off-key singing drifting through the trees.
For our cabin, it was prime s’more time, and I had spent the whole week rationing our supplies to ensure we’d have the perfect finale to the night.
But that morning, when I opened the snack bin to prep our supplies, my stomach sank.
The marshmallows were gone. Not just opened and nibbled—gone.
The chocolate stash, carefully counted the night before, was also suspiciously light.
My first instinct was to blame myself. Maybe I’d miscounted. Maybe I’d forgotten.
But as I lifted the graham crackers, I noticed something that made my blood boil: crumbs. A deliberate trail of crumbs, like something out of a poorly written mystery novel.
Riley, my co-captain in snack duty, leaned against the doorframe, half-asleep. “Probably raccoons,” they mumbled between bites of cereal.
“Raccoons don’t unwrap chocolate bars and leave the foil behind,” I snapped, holding up the evidence like I was presenting it to a jury.
But Riley wasn’t the type to get worked up about much, let alone snack theft. As they wandered off, muttering something about swim practice, I made a silent vow: this wouldn’t stand.
Snacks weren’t just snacks—they were the glue holding cabin morale together.
Whoever had done this wasn’t just stealing food; they were stealing tradition.
Crumbs and Consequences
I called a cabin meeting right after breakfast. The other campers thought I was joking at first.
“Seriously, Jamie?” Owen said, stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth. “You’re making this into a thing?”
“It’s already a thing,” I said, pointing dramatically at the snack bin. “The marshmallows are gone. The chocolate is down by half. And someone”—I paused for effect—“left a trail of crumbs. This isn’t just theft; this is a mockery of everything we stand for as a cabin.”
Okay, maybe I was laying it on a little thick, but it got their attention.
The suspects were obvious: anyone who knew about the stash was fair game.
Sara and Taylor had a history of sneaking snacks before lights out. Owen had been caught red-handed stealing granola bars last year.
And then there was Logan.
Logan, the so-called king of camp pranks, whose smug grin made me want to lock the snack bin with an industrial-grade padlock.
But something didn’t add up. If it had been a typical prank, there would’ve been glitter or fake bugs involved.
This felt calculated—like someone who didn’t just want the snacks but wanted to rub our faces in their cleverness.
And then I saw it: a smudge of chocolate on Logan’s sleeve. Subtle, almost unnoticeable, but enough to make me pause.
“Hey, Logan,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Any idea what happened to the snacks?”
Logan didn’t even flinch. “Not a clue,” he said, flashing that grin. “Probably raccoons. You know how they get.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Raccoons that neatly unwrap chocolate bars but leave the foil behind?”
Logan shrugged. “What can I say? Maybe they’ve evolved.”
The rest of the cabin laughed, and I felt my face flush. It wasn’t just about the snacks anymore—it was about proving I was right, proving that Logan wasn’t as clever as he thought.
But I didn’t have enough evidence, not yet.
As the cabin dispersed for the afternoon swim, I stayed behind, staring at the crumbs on the porch. Whoever had done this had underestimated me.
Big mistake.
Sticky Situations
By the time the stars were out, I was tired, frustrated, and more determined than ever to catch Logan.
But the problem was clear: I couldn’t just bait him into stealing snacks now and call it proof. I needed something concrete, something that showed everyone he was the one who had stolen the s’mores in the first place.
That night, as the campfire songs faded into quiet whispers and flashlights clicked off one by one, I lay in my bunk, thinking.
Then it hit me: if Logan had stolen the snacks, he had to have hidden the leftovers somewhere. No way he’d devour everything in one sitting—not without making himself sick.
So, I waited.
Sure enough, when the cabin was silent, I heard the faint creak of the door. I sat up, holding my breath, and saw Logan slipping out, his flashlight in hand.
This was my chance.
I followed him through the moonlit paths, careful to stay far enough back to avoid being seen.
He wasn’t heading for the mess hall or the campfire. Instead, he veered into the woods.
My heart raced. What was he doing out here?
Logan stopped near an old hollow log. I crouched behind a tree and watched as he lifted the loose bark and pulled out a plastic bag—my bag of stolen marshmallows and chocolate.
He grinned to himself, unwrapping a graham cracker as if he were about to enjoy the perfect solo s’more.
But before he could take a bite, nature intervened.
Two raccoons emerged from the shadows, drawn to the sugary scent.
Logan froze, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly as the raccoons advanced. One darted forward and swiped at the bag, scattering crumbs everywhere.
Logan yelped, swinging his arms to fend them off, but it was no use. Within seconds, he was covered in marshmallow goo and flailing as the raccoons made off with the prize.
I stepped out from my hiding spot, arms crossed. “Wow, Logan. Stealing snacks from the stash and trying to hide it in the woods? That’s low, even for you.”
He froze, his face a mix of guilt and sticky panic. “I—uh—it wasn’t—”
“Save it,” I said, picking up the plastic bag he’d dropped. “Looks like the raccoons aren’t the only ones who’ve been caught red-handed.”
The Sweet Taste of Justice
Word of Logan’s midnight raccoon fiasco spread through camp faster than mosquito spray on a humid day.
By breakfast, everyone knew the truth: Logan had been the Snack Bandit all along, and his attempts to hide the loot had literally blown up in his face.
The counselors gave him a stern talking-to and made him clean up the mess left by his furry accomplices. As for me, I got my marshmallows back, along with a healthy dose of vindication.
Logan tried to play it off, muttering excuses about “just borrowing” the snacks and “meaning to share,” but no one bought it. His days of being the self-proclaimed king of camp pranks were over, and he spent the rest of the week sheepishly avoiding the campfire.
That night, as the rest of the cabin roasted marshmallows and laughed about the raccoon attack, Riley nudged me.
“You have to admit,” they said, holding up a gooey, chocolate-dripping s’more, “this was worth it.”
I smiled, savoring the sweet victory. “It’s not just a s’more,” I said. “It’s justice, served sticky.”
The whole cabin groaned at my terrible pun, but I didn’t care. For the first time all week, everything felt right.
And now, years later, I can’t see a s’more without thinking of Logan and his karma of racoons.