Twin Lake Camp

As a spindly asthmatic eight-year-old Canadian boy, I was not familiar with the Fourth of July, 1956, as a national holiday. Four days earlier, I had boarded a train in Montreal with my two brothers Richard and Gerry and my sister Joyce. It was the first time in my life I would be away from Mom and Dad, and I was not happy about it. I was homesick before the train pulled to a stop by the small station at Whitehall in New York state. We boarded buses – one for Joyce who would attend nearby Camp Awanee, and another for the rest of us. Richard was looking forward to his elite experience on Senior Hill; Gerry was wondering about life in Freshman House, and I was headed for Bunk B on Junior Row. With these thoughts in our minds, our buses crossed the border into Vermont, near the historic Fort Ticonderoga where American soldiers fought the British during their war of independence. We reached Vermont Route 30 and headed south through beautiful undulating mountain scenery. Finally we passed a restaurant on the right called The White House, descended a hill, slowed down, then turned left. We had reached Twin Lake.