There is magic in kids' camps

This time of year - the mid-way point of the two-month summer school break - I almost always find myself reminiscing about summers past, and in particular, going to camp as a kid.

You may be wondering, well, fine - but what does that have to do with travel?

In my case, plenty. 

In fact, it would not be too big a stretch to say going to camp as a kid is one of the key factors that propelled me into a career of travel writing.

Bear in mind, much of the travel I write about involves getting out-of-doors, into nature, seeking adventure - and often doing so by canoe or kayak or occasionally, whitewater raft. There is also often a conservation angle or aspect to it. There is good reason for that...

It really all does go back to that first summer at Camp Richildaca in southern Ontario, where I learned to paddle a canoe on a small pond on the day camp's property.

Richildaca Canoe Pond (Photo by Alexandra Heilbron)

Of such things, careers are made...

I also learned the sport of archery, rode my first horse, went on my first nature hike, cooked my first meal over an open fire and slept in a tent for the first time at Richildaca.

Oh, yeah - I learned to swim there, too - kind of an important skill to develop if you plan on spending a lot of time paddling on lakes, rivers and oceans around the world.

Yes, it would be not to big a stretch to say the two-week periods I spent there over three successive summers made a big impact on who and what I became as an adult. Ditto, the successive two camp periods I spent at the Haliburton Scout Reserve.

Without the love of the outdoors, that desire to hike and paddle and seek adventure in the wilderness, I just might be another old sports writer (I did it for 15 years before turning to travel writing), or, worse still - (shudder!) a history teacher.

Chow time! at Haliburton Scout Reserve

Nothing wrong with history teachers, by the way - I'd probably make a good one - but my interest in elementary school North American colonial history (and its associated adventure) combined with my love of the outdoors really did send me down a path that involved a fairly l-o-n-g detour into the University of New Brunswick's Bachelor of Science Forestry program, the eventual earning of a business degree - and a career in radio and print sports journalism for 15 years. 

My move into journalism really is the result of some encouragement from a first-year friend at UNB, Dan Arsenault, someone I'm still friends with today. He coaxed me into joining CHSR, the campus radio station. I did; eventually I also began writing for the Brunswickan, UNB's student newspaper.

Even going to UNB, the launching pad for my journalism career, was actually another case of Richildaca synchronicity: when I worked as a junior forest ranger in Gogama, Ontario during the summer of 1973, the head foreman recommended UNB as a good place to go for forestry if I didn't want to stay in Ontario.

Paddling on Azure Lake, as a junior forest ranger

The entire time I worked as a sports journalist, I still loved camping, canoeing, getting out-of-doors. Eventually, my sense of adventure took me paddling in Belize (where I encountered my first wild parrots!), and it was not long after that I started down the path of becoming a travel writer.

I don't know that any of that would have gone quite that way if I hadn't gone to Camp Richildaca when I was eight years old, and picked up a canoe paddle for the very first time.

I had no clue then that I was essentially beginning to paddle down a path that would make me one of those fortunate souls who gets to "work" by wandering the world in search of stories to write and photos to take. My inclinations and career have taken me to Africa, South America, the Caribbean, Malaysia, Thailand, Hawaii, the Canary Islands...

Zipping down Thailand's River Kwai in a canoe

Richildaca is gone now, the original owners passed away. New ownership and management have developed a new camp on the same site, the Kettleby Valley Camp, and it continues to offer outdoor experiences for children and young teens, helping them develop new skills and interests, helping them make new memories.

So if you're thinking about sending your kids to camp, and you're not quite sure whether to do it or not, why not just let the kids decide? Let them try it, at least for one summer. If they don't like it, they won't want a repeat.

Even if it does not lead to a career, chances are, they'll build some pretty good memories.

And, really there's no telling where that experience may lead them in life...

Early travels full of fond memories

June is always a very difficult month for me. My father's birthday was today, June 4. Father's Day is also in June.

It just so happened, by father passed away on the eve of Father's Day, 1992.

So you can probably understand why June is not really one of my favorite months.

For that matter, the whole April-May-June quarter kind of sucks, from where I sit.

Mother's Day is in May. My mother's birthday was April 3. I put her to rest on April 5, 2007.

Suffice to say, I'm always glad when we roll into July.

So what's this doing in a travel blog, you may ask?

Well, like many people, my first memories of travel involve traveling with my family. As an only child, that meant jumping in the car and driving somewhere with my mom and dad, or sometimes, just with my dad.

Dad and I did a bit of travelling together, just the two of us, as I was growing up. Just us guys, hangin' out. It was pretty cool, actually.

My very first "road trip" took place when I was seven years old: my dad and I drove from Newmarket, Ontario to Niagara Falls. I remember anticipating the trip for weeks before school ended. Then, the second week of July, we were off.

I distinctly remember looking forward to not just seeing the falls, but also looking forward to eating a hot dog by the falls - which I did. I've eaten many, many gourmet meals over the years, but none more memorable than that one. Eating a hot dog (with mustard and relish), standing by the railing looking at the falls with my dad, the memory will never fade.

To quote that old beer commercial, "It doesn't get much better than this."

Our road trip took us across the border into New York state and into Grand Island. Why there? Because my dad was taking me to Fantasy Island.

I'm not talking about the one populated by Mr. Roarke and his sidekick Tatoo, but rather an amusement park with a decidedly western theme, rides, the whole deal.

In the early 1960s, a Saturday morning TV show on the Buffalo NBC affiliate featured hosts and a studio located at Fantasy Island. The hosts were dressed as cowboys, and they always plugged Fantasy Island in between the cartoons they showed. 

Three-year-old Cowboy John, ready for action.

Like most six- and seven-year-old boys, I loved the idea of being a cowboy. My dad decided that summer was a good time for a father-son bonding experience (although no one labeled it like that back then) and we made our plans.

I loved it.

I got to spend time with my dad, went for a Mississippi paddle wheeler ride, visited an old "saloon," went for a stage coach ride with real horses (I kept hoping bandits would try to rob us like the brochures said they sometimes did - so I could save the day like Ralphie in A Christmas Story - but they never showed). The day was capped off with a live shootout in the western town streets.

I remember much more about the trip: about teasing my dad when he had more spaghetti spots on his shirt than I did, following dinner in an Italian restaurant...drawing superhero pictures on paper in our motel room...just hanging out with my dad. It was just so cool.

Over the next several summers, our family travels took us to places like Expo '67 in Montreal, Old Fort Henry in Kingston, Ontario, Upper Canada Village near Morrisburg, Ontario, a cool cottage trip to Lake Huron and visits to relatives in Detroit.

However, we didn't do another multi-day father-son trip for another five years, when my involvement in the Boy Scouts of Canada, coupled with three summers attending Camp Richildaca, motivated me to convince my dad to go camping with me.

He eventually acquiesced, and camping then formed the basis for many of our family holiday travels for years to come, at least until I became a teen-ager and just didn't hang around with adults any more.

Dad adjusts the tent flaps,
first camping trip, June 1968.

My most memorable camping trip with him took place the first summer we camped, in the summer of 1968, when we spent a week in Algonquin Provincial Park. I camped, hiked and paddled there many more times throughout the years, but that first trip was special.

During that trip, he taught me how to play poker, at our campsite picnic table, using match sticks as chips.

We hiked, we played catch, we went swimming in the lake, roasted marshmallows over a campfire at night ... if it sounds like pretty idyllic stuff, that's because it was.

What I really remember is my dad being sick the second half of the week, but he wanted to stick it out for me as much as he could, so I'd have a good trip, a good memory.

I think it meant a lot to him, because he never got to spend much time alone, doing things with his dad. He was trying to give me what he had missed growing up. So despite his cold, he sucked it up and slept in a tent for the entire week.

After I went off to college, my parents divorced, my dad eventually remarried. However, they both began to travel internationally much more as I finished university and became more of an independent adult, with my own life and my own travels to plan.

My dad visited places like Florida, Greece, Turkey; my mom journeyed to Florida, Hawaii, the Caribbean, Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil.

So you can see I came by my love of travel, my wanderlust, quite naturally.



Sitting at the top of Victoria Falls,
Zambia, Africa, 1993.



I never did get to travel internationally with either parent, which in some ways, is very sad. They were both still alive when I began to travel outside North America. My dad lived to see me take only one international trip, though. A year after I adventured in Belize for two weeks, he passed away.

His legacy for me became part of an amazing trip I took in Africa a year after his passing, as I used most of my inheritance to pay for a six-week odyssey through six African countries.

So even in his passing, even though he was gone, in a sense, he was still travelling with me.

And he still is.

Happy Travels, Dad.