As far back as I can remember I dreamed of traveling. There were so many places I wished to see. The term “bucket list” had not yet even been thought of but had it been, I would have needed a “bucket wheelbarrow”. Over the years I have been blessed to have traveled to many places around the world. Some trips involved auto racing, some competing in The Olympics, some fishing or hunting while others were for pleasure or business, all of which remain as cherished memories. But recently my girlfriend joined me on what was a very meaningful journey of sorts.

It’s amazing to me that this journey began over 50 years ago. When I was 14 years old my father and I drove from Oregon to Yellowstone Park which in those days was on everyone’s bucket list. After spending a week there we drove on down to Colorado to visit my favorite aunt and uncle. I have such fond memories of my aunt and uncle and the time we spent with them and all the moments we shared. When my uncle realized my exuberant passion for fishing he invited me into his den. I recall how my heart felt as if it stopped and standing there with my mouth wide open in awe. His den was filled with fishing rods, photos, fish nets and lots of other fishing paraphernalia including a large table in the center of the large room covered with fly-tying selections of lots of beautifully colored flies. Later that evening my uncle brought me a small paper box with about 20 beautiful hand tied flies inside. He said, “Gary, here’s a little something for you. If you ever come back to Colorado be sure to bring these. I guarantee these will catch the big ones.” I thought I had died and gone to Heaven and that I had just been given the most wonderful gift in my life.

On the long drive back to Oregon, every time my father drove along a river or stream I couldn’t help but sit up and look for a good spot to try my new flies that my uncle had gifted me. For years all I could dream about was returning to Colorado some day to try out these flies and hopefully land a big trout.  For 50 years I managed to keep that small box of flies in a safe place and from time to time found myself opening it and remembering how much they meant to me, as well as the rush I got when my uncle handed them to me and most important of all, reliving that dream of someday returning to fish with them in a Colorado stream.

Having been personally involved with auto racing and an Olympic sport, I had been to Colorado multiple times over the years but somehow finding time to fish there kept eluding me until recently. A couple of months ago my girlfriend and I made arrangements to fish in the beautiful world-class Conejos River in the south of Colorado and it was while getting our fishing gear together that once again I stumbled over the box of flies. It was then that I realized I was very close to crossing something very meaningful off my bucket list. I sat the box of flies aside making sure I wouldn’t forget them. Over the next few days I began reminiscing my uncle and how long I had dreamed of using the flies. I found myself wishing he was still alive so I could ask him which streams he enjoyed fishing at in Colorado so many years ago. It was then that I decided to call my aunt to find out if she knew where that might have been.

One evening while dialing my aunt’s phone number I was startled to find her number had been disconnected. It was then that I began to worry about all of the what ifs. Unfortunately after a few investigative phone calls my worst fears were realized as I learned my favorite aunt had just recently passed away. While expressing my sympathies to a close family member I mentioned why I had been attempting to reach her. With his help and knowing she had remarried many years after my uncle had passed away I was able to get her widowed husband’s phone number and called him. He was a retired doctor and a fine gentleman and we had a wonderful heart-felt conversation. When I mentioned the story of the flies and my hope of speaking to my aunt to find out where my uncle used to fish I was surprised to learn that not only did this gentleman know where my uncle used to fish, but in fact used to go fishing with my uncle. You can only imagine my surprise when he began telling me how he was best friends with my uncle long before he passed away and the many times they went fishing together. He said, “Not only do I know what rivers he liked fishing, but I can tell you exactly where we used to camp and what sections of the rivers he fished.” Then he said, “There were three favorite rivers we fished, one of which was the favorite stream of none other than John Denver, The Conejos River.”  I couldn’t believe my ears!

Call it fate or call it destiny but there seems to be times when our travels take us places that were just meant to be and somehow the plans for these journeys began falling into place even decades ago. As fate would have it, my uncle was absolutely right, the flies he tied 50 years ago caught big trout and while we were there, my girlfriend tied a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers which we floated gently down the stream as what seemed like a fitting tribute to both my aunt and uncle. It seemed that somehow everything had come full circle.

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John Steinbeck once wrote, “A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”   All travels are special and some more meaningful than others but once in awhile there are journeys like this one that seems to stand out and become more like a moment that should be placed upon a pedestal and cherished for eternity.

Summer camp was a major part of my childhood experience. Not only the eight weeks I spent there each summer, but the letters back and forth to camp friends for the other ten months of the year. We poured out our hearts to each other in ways that we would never do with friends at home. I wish I had those letters now.

The first camp I attended was Camp Wasigan, in Blairstown, New Jersey. I went there in 1959 and 1960, when I was almost-8 and almost-9. (My birthday is at the end of August, which was so unfair, because I never got to celebrate at camp OR at school. But that’s another story.) It was a fairly small camp, eight cabins for girls and eight for boys, although at the time it seemed huge to me. This camp was what was known in my family as an “acka-wacka-bicka-wacka” camp. Not sure where the term came from, but it refers to camps where there are Native American (or as we said then, Indian) names for everything, and a “color war” for most of the summer, where the entire camp is divided up into two teams (“tribes”) that compete with each other in all aspects of camp life. At Wasigan each tribe had its own songs and cheers, some that were used every summer and some that were made up for the particular year. There were kids from both tribes in each cabin though, so you couldn’t be too competitive, because you had to get along with your cabinmates. Both summers that I went there, my tribe, Minnetonka, aka the Blue Team, was victorious over the other tribe, Mahowee, aka the Red Team, which felt very good to me. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to spend the whole summer competing and then lose the war. Two summers at that camp were enough for me, because by then I was old enough to go to . . . .

National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan, my second camp. My sisters and cousins had been going there for years, and I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to go. I went in 1961, 62, and 63, which I think was before John Z or Betsy got there. This camp was about as different from Wasigan as it could possibly be. It was enormous. I went there by plane instead of by bus. And it had uniforms and schedules and very strict rules. The uniform for the girls was a blue shirt (white shirt on Sundays), blue corduroy knickers, and high socks whose color denoted which division you were in — navy blue for Juniors, red for Intermediates, and light blue for High School.

Junior Girls Division 1962
I am in 3rd row, 7th from the left.

Schedules were decided in the spring, when we sent in our applications. As I recall, in the morning were the substantive classes, which were in the area of music, drama, dance, or art. In the afternoon were physical activities like archery and boating. Then in the evening there were always concerts or plays to attend, which you went to with your cabin. I know in various summers I took courses in drama, modern dance, choir, and orchestra. My first summer I took a fabulous course called Music Talent Exploration in which, over the course of the summer you got to try playing every single instrument in the orchestra for at least one day, even including the harp, and then pick the one you wanted to concentrate on. That was how I decided to play the oboe (which I still play!), and for the next two summers I played oboe in the orchestra, having taken lessons at home during the year. After three years there, it was time to move on, because my parents had gotten into a big argument with the administration, and we were persona non grata.

The last summer camp I went to was dramatically different from both of the previous camps. It was called Lincoln Farm Work Camp and was in Roscoe, New York, in the Catskill Mountains. This camp was just for teenagers, and was promoted as an alternative to conventional camps. It was founded by lefty New York schoolteachers who were friends of my aunt (also a lefty New York schoolteacher), and was made up almost entirely of affluent Jewish kids and African-American kids on scholarship. However, there was no sense of economic or racial differences among us campers. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s sons went to this camp, although they had a different last name by then, and we weren’t supposed to know that that was who they were. Leftist views and solidarity with workers permeated everything we did. Each week we chose different activities. In the mornings the choices were construction, farming, or forestry projects. (My first summer I worked on the construction of a new dormitory, and my second summer I lived in it. How cool is that?) In the afternoon we had typical camp activities like ceramics and painting and swimming, but also auto mechanics, woodworking, metal shop, and other skills that would help us be productive workers. We learned a lot about social justice, and sang protest songs from the civil rights and labor movements. We performed an original oratorio about Martin Luther King and his I Have A Dream speech. Every weekend we took overnight trips to interesting places like the Pennsylvania Dutch country and Montreal, and we rode there in the back of big open trucks that had bales of hay to sit on. There was always at least one guitar in the truck, and we sang for hours.

All three camps I went to gave me valuable experiences, but Lincoln Farm had the most profound influence on me. It shaped the political beliefs which I still hold to this day, about freedom and justice and equality. It opened my eyes to so many things. And after working on many construction projects, I’m pretty darn good with a hammer and nails!

My most important summer experience was at Camp Rising Sun--a program devoted to scholarship, leadership, and international cross-cultural exchange. It was a life changing experience for me, and I am doing my part to keep the program going for future young people.
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