January 3, 2000

Perhaps it was the name Shirley that has caused me to write.  Shirley of the treasure hunt followed by the brown soap bath, and my friend, Bobby, Shirley's son.

Eleven years old at the head table, the eggs were runny, I gagged, and Mac, (who remembers Mac with the sharp ax?), demonstrated, for my benefit, how eggs can be eaten raw (without Worcestershire).  Exit stage right, down the stairs and to the bathroom below the kitchen.

I was part of the Chappaqua, NY, contingent:  Don Buebendorf, Andy Lauber and Bruce and Kent, Eric Lynds and I -- Yankee fans in Red Sox territory.

Summers were good as an aide, JC, and then, Counselor.  I swam well, was a senior lifesaver and water safety aide, spent my days on the waterfront, had a cabin in the trail section and had a good number of evenings off.

But what I remember and treasure the most about my time at North Woods, as I enter my sixtieth year, is the job I didn't want.

Upon my arrival in the summer of '59, I was told I was assigned to the Wilderness Patrol.  My summer was to be spent climbing mountains and canoeing rivers, life in a tent, little time off, missing the women in Wolfeboro.

Today, I treasure my memories of the woods.

So, Sibelius, "I lift my heart to North Woods glorious beauty."

Rob Powell

(It was Robby, for a while, back then.)