This summer marks 65 years since I waved goodbye to my parents (as they leaped in the air and high-fived each other) after I was dropped off at Perris Hill Park in San Bernardino for a six-week-long summer camp adventure at Mill Creek Boys Ranch, high in the hills above Big Bear Lake. They finally wouldn’t have little Douglas to kick around for the next six weeks; after all, I was born into the weeds section of the family tree.
However, getting to Mill Creek Boys Ranch, up a long, winding and bumpy dirt road in the back of a flat stake-bed truck, with 20 or so other 10- to 12-year-old boys, was a major adventure in itself, one that no child would be allowed to endure in these days of strict seatbelt requirements.
Nevertheless, those six weeks at Mill Creek Boys Ranch was a major highlight of my childhood. It was a Spin and Marty-type adventure every kid should be able to experience and write home about. I’m reminded of a song that was popular that summer:
Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, here I am at Camp Granada. Camp is very entertaining, and they say we’ll have some fun, if it stops raining. (“Camp Grenada” – Alan Sherman – 1959).
In the meantime, once we arrived in Big Bear, we then turned left, onto Mill Creek Road, and proceeded up the bumpy dirt road to this quaint summer camp, with its dining hall, bunkhouses and stable, nestled amongst the pines. Earlier this year, after most of the snow had melted, in an attempt to rekindle childhood memories, I drove back up that same bumpy, dirt road to take a look at the pine-shrouded camp, with its fishpond and a creek that flowed through a verdant meadow…I can still see it when I close my eyes. The fishpond is still there, only now it’s called Cedar Lake, which about 50 or 60 years ago was the filming location of numerous Hollywood productions, including the original Parent Trap, starring Haley Mills, and the cult horror classic, Friday the 13th.
In addition to the fishpond, the dining hall and bunkhouses are still there, although I didn’t see the stable, where we used to help groom the horses for a ride along one of the many trails in the vicinity. Six weeks seemed like a long time to be away from home and your parents when you’re only 12, but I didn’t miss them that much, and I suspect they didn’t miss me all that much either, for I was having too much fun riding horses, hiking, fishing, woodcarving, target practice with BB rifles and bows and arrows and roasting marshmallows while sitting around the campfire and singing popular, traditional songs like “On Top of Old Smokey.” We were having so much fun that the six weeks went by too fast, and then it was time to go home.
Take me home, oh Muddah, Faddah, take me home. I hate Camp Grenada, don’t leave me out in the forest where I might get eaten by a bear.
Keep it flyin’,
Uncle Mott
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