‘I Swear, They're Flying in Nobu Sushi for Their Kids’

Elite sleepaway camps are overwhelmed by visiting-day excess.

- Emma Rosenblum

IF YOU HAPPENED to find yourself in Portland, Maine, on Friday, July 18, you might have noticed a curious influx of visitors: couples in their 40s—the men in slick athleisure, the women wearing designer sunglasses—passing through the lobby of the Press Hotel and eating meals at Scales, a select seafood restaurant on the waterfront. They traveled from places like the Upper East Side and Chappaqua. They all seemed to know one another. The dads congregated in hotel bars. The moms had flawless manicures.

On Saturday morning at 7 a.m., they piled into their cars— Escalades, Rivians, G-Wagons—to drive north on the highway, eventually turning onto dusty, bumpy wooded roads, passing signs with names like Camp Vega, Camp Takajo, Camp Mataponi, Camp Laurel, Camp Androscoggin, Camp Matoaka, and Tripp Lake Camp. Once there, they lined up behind the other cars and waited until 9 a.m., when the camp gates ceremoniously opened. The women got out of the cars first, their Chanel sneakers propelling them over the grass and into the arms of their children. The men captured the entire thing with their phones, sending all footage to their wives, who lovingly documented the experience on social media.

“In the past couple of years, visiting day has exploded,” says a mom with a son at Camp Takajo and a daughter at Camp Mataponi, both in Naples, Maine, and both with tuitions of around $17,000 for the summer (plus additional thousands for the requisite clothing, equipment, and overnight trips).