LAKE WENATCHEE – When the Wenatchee Valley YMCA abruptly announced the closure of Lake Wenatchee YMCA Camp last week, it wasn’t just the end of a program. It was the silencing of a legacy—and the betrayal of a community that had trusted the organization with its children, its memories, and its future.
I worked at that camp for over a decade. I’ve witnessed its power to transform lives—not just in the Wenatchee Valley, but across the state. I’ve seen staff, volunteers, and alumni pour themselves into preserving something sacred. So when I speak now, I don’t speak only for myself. I speak for the hundreds who’ve taken to social media, picked up the phone, and stepped into public forums to say, with heartbreak and frustration: This is not okay.
Let me be clear: I have deep respect for the Wenatchee Valley YMCA and many of the people who serve its mission. I recognize I wasn’t in the boardroom. I can’t see every budget, projection, or private conversation. But that’s exactly the point: no one in the broader community did. And while I can respect individuals and their intentions, I cannot respect a decision made in silence, explained through spin, and justified by vague claims of inevitability.
I don’t want the YMCA to fail. But Camp should not be the price of its perceived success. No spreadsheet can quantify the generational impact of Lake Wenatchee YMCA Camp. You don’t trade away legacy to chase metrics.
Yet the official response, from Mr. Rufus Woods and the YMCA Board, seems less interested in hearing us than in defending a foregone conclusion. Mr. Woods’ recent op-ed didn’t invite dialogue. It attempted to control the narrative—casting our grief as sentimental, our concerns as unrealistic, and the decision as—twice stated—inevitable.
Let’s talk about that word “inevitable”—because it’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.
Mr. Woods cites financial pressures and feedback from civic leaders and YMCA insiders—but in doing so, he openly admits the omission of the most important voices: families, alumni, rental groups, summer staff. The very people whose lives and values were shaped by that space. That’s not comprehensive due diligence. It’s internal decision-making masquerading as leadership.
To call this inevitable is to erase the power of community will. It dismisses offers of help, voices of support, and creative problem-solving that continue to emerge—even now. Let’s be honest: due diligence without public involvement isn’t diligence. It’s a closed-door meeting. And inevitable is what you say when you’ve already stopped listening.
Even the justifications seem suspect.
Mr. Woods says “a portion of the funds from the sale of the property” will go toward an outdoor education endowment. But that fund is already being backed by a silent donor—reportedly tied closely to Camp—who pledged $3 million on the condition that it be sold.
How does that make sense? How does selling the one property already fulfilling the mission of outdoor education advance that mission? And why would someone so connected to Camp believe that eliminating it is the best way to support it?
And even the use of the word “portion” raises questions. How much is actually going to the endowment? Where’s the rest going? Toward the new Wenatchee Y facility? Because if that project were already fully funded, would this sale even be necessary?
If not, this starts to feel less like strategic reinvestment—and more like a convenient offload to balance the books on another project. That’s hard to swallow—and even harder to justify. You don’t gut the heart of outdoor education to prove your dedication to it.
Then there’s the claim that only 125 “local” kids attended last year—a carefully framed number that ignores the hundreds of non-local campers, year-round users, and rental groups who rely on the site. Yes, enrollment dipped after COVID—but before the pandemic, it was growing. A new cabin had even been built to meet the demand. I was there. I saw it. Camp didn’t fail. A clear strategic plan did.
And that $2 million investment? It wasn’t revitalization—it was a Band-Aid. Camp didn’t lack potential—it lacked vision, staffing, and long-term planning.
Even the insurance issue—that fire coverage can’t be secured—feels suspect. Plenty of programs operate under risk. That’s what it means to do something meaningful. As one social-media commenter asked, “Would you sell your car just because there’s a chance it might get totaled?” Risk is part of life. You manage it. You prepare. You fight to protect what matters.
But none of these so-called inevitabilities sting more than this: the community was never invited to try.
Had YMCA leadership come forward early—publicly, transparently—and invited real partnership, we might be in a different place. Or maybe we wouldn’t—and Camp would still need to be sold. But at least there would’ve been mutual respect and understanding. Instead, the decision was announced quietly on a Friday—a classic PR move. And just days later, the Y broke ground on its new facility while, many of us were still grieving. The cameras rolled. The smiles were wide.
That’s not transparency. That’s spin. And it’s not over.
The camp hasn’t been sold yet. The property won’t even hit the market until fall. And despite being told “the vote has been taken,” many of us believe this story isn’t finished. In fact, it’s reached beyond YMCA circles. Lifelong supporters and former staff are contacting state representatives, calling for an independent review of the process.
Let’s be clear: transparency after the fact isn’t transparency—it’s damage control. And that alone fractured trust. This isn’t just about land. It’s about precedent. About a community’s right to be heard when legacy is on the line.
And this legacy isn’t just something we care about—it’s something our state has already chosen to protect.
Washington state law—RCW 28A.300.795—codifies the value of outdoor education. It recognizes its role in student development, equity, and well-being. Despite funding challenges, our legislators made it clear: outdoor experiences matter. They deserve protection and investment.
So if our government understands that, why doesn’t the YMCA Board? Why sacrifice a site already delivering what the state is trying to build? Why walk away from a place with nearly a century of impact—just to try recreating it elsewhere?
This isn’t just short-sighted. It undermines a statewide movement—and contradicts the very values they claim to uphold.
And when community members spoke up—respectfully, with real solutions—Mr. Woods replied on social media with closed indifference: “The vote has been taken.” “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
Translation: We’re done listening.
But here’s the truth: You don’t get to decide when the conversation ends. The ripple effects are still being felt—because the wound is still open. Trust was broken publicly, and healing can’t begin while accountability is ignored.
This isn’t about logistics. It’s about values. It’s about legacy being overwritten by a spreadsheet.
And we shouldn’t let it be dismissed as anything less.
I can’t help but wonder if every board member truly believed this was the only option. I find it hard to believe the vote was unanimous. Someone must have had doubts. But instead of modeling vulnerability—secrecy. Instead of community—control.
So let me be blunt, as someone who’s spent his career in youth development:
You’re not just selling a property. You’re abandoning a legacy.
You’re not just ending a program. You’re shutting out a community.
And no amount of cheerful talk about endowments or rented outdoor spaces will recreate what’s being lost.
Because this isn’t just about land. It’s about what happens on that land—where character is forged, friendships are born, and lifelong values take root.
That kind of space is sacred. You don’t rent sacred. You protect it. You honor it.
And since I’ve been told this decision was made to better serve the YMCA’s mission, let me remind you of that mission:
“At the Y, strengthening community is our cause… Youth Development. Healthy Living. Social Responsibility… Equity. Inclusion. Access… Creating equitable and sustainable environments where social justice is woven into our programs.”
I believe in that mission. But I struggle to see how this process—or this decision—honors it. Because Camp already lives it.
And real community-building means asking hard questions before the vote.
Real inclusion means sharing decisions—not just outcomes.
Real responsibility means honoring generational commitments, even when they’re inconvenient.
I’m not writing because I expect the decision to be reversed. I’m writing for those who, like me, feel disappointed and betrayed. Because silence would make me complicit—and I refuse to be complicit.
I will always respect the Y and the people who care deeply about its mission. But respect doesn’t require silence. And it certainly doesn’t require agreement.
In fact, it’s because I care about youth, community, and truth that I ask you to join me—not just in mourning what may be lost, but in demanding better from the leaders of institutions that claim to serve us all.
Because the truth of our convictions doesn’t vanish just because it’s inconvenient for someone else’s narrative.
People matter.
Process matters.
Camp still matters.
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