Chapter 1 An adventure in family ties On the evening of July 2 my brother Steve, anxious to get started on this adventure--which is usually

the case with Steve, as my siblings will attest--, drove from his home in Hyde Park (near Logan), Utah, south, to the small orchard community of Genola, where I live. This three-hour trek was prompted, in part, by the anticipation of the reunion of our immediate family--who hadn't been together in eight years or more. But perhaps, also, to insure that "big brother" (me) made it to the airport on time, as I had been singularly responsible for missed reunions in the past. We had planned to fly from Salt Lake City to Colorado Springs, where we would meet Mom, Roger and Kathi who were flying from California, and rent a car to take us to Scott City, Kansas and the Hunt-Miller reunion at Camp Lakeside, nearby. As we flew, high over the Uintas--hundreds of tiny lakes peppering the rugged mountain terrain--on a picture perfect day, we collected memories of our last visit to Kansas thirty-five years earlier. These relatives were strangers to us. And what we remembered of Grandpa's house, the homestead and the Miller ranch was dimly recalled; moments retrieved from a black, dusty, cobweb-enshrined attic, where they had been filed away and forgotten. Our flights arrived without a hitch--minor delays, no lost baggage--and we embraced each other in the airport's main lobby. We were almost 'giddy' with the excitement of seeing one another again, and that spilled over into the van as we began to navigate out of the city. Roger and Steve, who was driving, volleyed 'one-liners' and had the rest of us, including Mom, in a perpetual fit of giggles. It seemed that a fresh, clean, shiny--I don't know...---newness had been breathed into us and we were rejuvenated. Here we are, middle aged, responsible, sophisticated (maybe) adults (in question) driving Mom to extreme embarrassment just like when we were kids. We quickly escaped the noon traffic in the city and found ourselves alone on a two-lane road running in a straight line to the horizon; the plains before us, like the ocean, waves of

wild wheat rolling and cresting in the light, summer breeze. Kathi immediately pulled out her camcorder and, Felinistyle, proceeded to record, for posterity, the eyes, noses, mouths (most notable, of course--Roger's) of those of us who couldn't duck fast enough. We had decided (well, maybe it 'was' me) not to stop in the city for lunch but to wait until we reached the first small town with a restaurant. Two hours and five growling stomachs later we arrived in Kit Carson; the town will never be the same. After the antics at the table, I expected Mom to pull Roger out on his ear ("it was Roger, Mom!"-fingers pointing). We rolled into Scott City late afternoon, picked up groceries and continued on to Lake Scott about 10 miles North of town. Having been raised in the West, in mountain country, I marvel at the difference in the geography east of the Great Divide. My senses are assaulted as the gorge appears, as if from nowhere, like a wide, deep scar on the flat expanse of the plains. And as we dropped into the park, traveling along the east edge of the lake, the landscape became a familiar blend of trees, hills and valleys. Camp Lakeside is an idyllic setting, several acres situated against the hills on the east side of the lake, with mature cottonwood and elm trees providing abundant shade. Our eyes were drawn to the chapel, the most prominent structure in the camp, built from sculptured limestone block. The backdrop to the pulpit is a large, steepled window that views a cross planted in the hills behind. The architecture of the other buildings is, predominately, Spanish, with white adobe and ridge-pole roof facade. The main lodge is positioned so that it commands a view of the whole valley. There is a swimming pool, riding stable, basket and volley-ball court located

within the camp, and the camp's canoes are located on the lake shore a short walking distance away--enough activities to keep even the most industrious of us occupied for the weekend. We had the camp to ourselves that night and set about staking our territory --Steve, Roger and I across the way in one of the bunk houses; Mom and Kathi in the lodge, which was air conditioned and had indoor plumbing (well, all the plumbing was 'indoor'--the boys just had to walk down the road 'a piece'). Karen, who had been up earlier that day, left us a welcome basket filled with fruit, nuts, home-made bread and jam. After we had sampled the fair, Steve, Kathi and I took a hike in the hills above the camp, where we had a birds-eye view of the surrounding country--a nice setting in which to end the day. When we returned, Roger busied us with preparing the lodge's main hall for the arrival of the rest of the family. We positioned tables and hung balloons and crepe paper on the walls (I felt like I was on the Prom committee!). Things got started pretty slowly the next morning. Karen, Liz, Meredith, and Lindsay came with bundles of more goodies; and then Joe and Helen Robison arrived (Joe was full of stories about Dad and life on the farm). Don and Jamie got there just as pandemonium struck; and Jamie struggled to get people registered as the hall filled with family intent on getting reacquainted. Lloyd Gowdy arrived and we renewed a twenty-year absence. He later got stuck with us in the "boys bunk", where the snoring only bothered those who didn't snore. I had lost track of 'who' and 'when' by then. There was no awkwardness in the meeting; people settled down quickly to being 'just family' and from that point forward I knew the weekend would be a great success. That afternoon Robert took us on a tour of a buffalo ranch. We piled on a flatbed truck (the matriarchs got the air conditioned Bronco) with hay bail seating and drove right

into the herd. What graceful animals! It was almost like going back in time, riding the plains as if on an ancient hunt. Next we visited the Miller ranch and homestead, recalling memories of picnics and swimming in the stream. Before heading back to camp we stopped at the pyramids, limestone pillars reaching about fifty feet into the air, in stark contrast to the surrounding flat lands. Some in the group had to conquer the hights which had mothers worried, especially when they stepped to the edges of the precarious peaks. Every one got back down safely, if not without incident. I'm not sure if Roger got stuck or just froze, but we finally got him down with words of encouragement (Don threw rocks--but that might have been just as helpful). The evening of the fourth I participated in one of the most wondrous (certainly for a private display) firework shows, ever! Thanks to Don, for the most part (certainly a closet pyromaniac), who had brought a two-hour assortment of rockets, spinners, poppers and other "stuff I don't know the name of but goes 'bang' in the night". Afterward, we retired for the night; some to the lodge, others to the covered patio across the road (you know where) for some late night 'conversation'. Some, the "Miller Bunch" every bit as treacherous as the "James Gang", terrorized one of our poor compatriots, Roger, with water guns. As I tried to coax them out of the lodge so Roger, who was standing around the corner ready to ambush, could get even, two of the most cunning members of the gang sneaked up from behind and got the best of Roger again. I can tell you that, from that point on, Roger's mission was to have retribution. I almost forgot to mention the food. As was dinner the night before, breakfast was delicious. The meal was expertly prepared and there was more than enough for forty plus ravenous (at least mine) appetites. After breakfast we rounded up

those who would be touring Squaws Den and the Quartelejo Indian ruins and set off on another expedition with Robert as guide. Robert made the tours come alive and truly memorable with his stories of family life and local history. I asked him to write down everything he knows, as I could never keep it all straight. I didn't, exactly, get a commitment--come to think of it, I don't think I got an answer. Being the consummate politician, he probably changed the subject. Let's don't let him forget. That afternoon we hit the pool and a game of water basketball. Gary (Gaston) and I 'whipped' (literary license) Steve and Kathi but they were good sports about it. Although the temperature was mild most of the weekend, the pool was still refreshing. Later that day, the clouds rolled in and we received a downpour which was welcome relief to the prior weeks of high temperatures and no precipitation. Just before dinner there was a tornado warning and we were urged to assemble in the dinning hall. There was so much storm activity that the thunder was a continuous roar, very ominous. The tornado missed us and we prepared ourselves for that evening's entertainment, the talent show. Roger and I had promised to sing a song and thought that maybe it was about time to rehearse. Every family reunion has one. Usually it's an event we endure because "it's family" and we have to. But not so with the Hunt Family Talent Show. It was a time for everyone to let their hair down, and let their hair down they did! Where else could you see Beth, Kathi and Gloria do a choreographed rendition of "Three Little Fishies". Or see Miriam lead the group in

an animated "Yum-yum Tree"(or something like that). Virginia kept our feet stompin' with "She'll Be Comin' 'Round The Mountain". Nancy entranced us with "Amazing Grace". There were skits performed by Meredith, Lindsay, Joel and Gary that had us rolling with laughter. We sang songs until well after ten and all hated to see it end. Early next morning we had a canoe race on the lake. Steve and I, Gary and Joel, Roger and Lindsay had each boasted that our team had the strength, fortitude and agility to beat the other in a race to the dam and back. The object of the contest should have been 'who can stay dry the longest'! Little did we know that Roger had chosen this moment for his retribution until Lindsay's and his canoe capsized. To this day we don't know how he managed to dump Joel and Gary into the murky water, being twenty yards or more away. This is certain, Roger had the last laugh. But Steve and I emerged victorious, as we knew we would from the onset. We managed to get dry (those of us who were wet) just before the breakfast bell. After breakfast we attended a church service presented by Liz, Meredith on piano, Lindsay on harmony, Nancy and Gary Gaston. It was a very moving, spiritually uplifting experience. This was the day I had been looking forward to. We planned to see the Hunt homestead, the icon of my Hunt experience, located southeast of Bazine. I had visited the place thirty-five years earlier with my family and the farm house had come alive with my Dad's memories. Since that time the picture of the limestone-block house, out buildings and red barn against a backdrop of

trees and blue sky has held a prominent position on the walls in the homes in which I've lived. When we arrived in Bazine, we had lunch then visited the High School, Grandpa's old house and the cemetery. The homestead was a lot closer to the highway than I had remembered. I was surprised when someone said, "there it is". At first glance I was afraid that the structure had been razed, because it was obscured by the wild flora that surrounded the place. Although in disrepair, the house was intact and much as I remembered it. We were able to examine the rooms inside but most of the plaster on the walls had fallen away and the stairs didn't look like they would make it another season. The barn was gone, blown over in a wind storm. The foundation was all that remained. We wandered around for a couple of hours, exploring the buildings, finding Dad's and Chet's initials carved in the stone. On our way out we followed Robert and Lloyd to the Gowdy homestead then headed to Lamar, Colorado where we spent the night. We would meet Lloyd and Robert the next morning and try to find the Miller homestead. Steve, Roger and I accompanied Robert and Lloyd to the end of the world. I don't know if the best map and directions could have delivered us to the old homestead, but between Robert and Lloyd's recollection from years earlier we found it. Not, however, without a couple hours of back-tracking and following hunches. The surrounding country was desolate with sparse vegetation. It was

easy to understand why so many homesteaders had abandoned their claims--we had seen numerous ruins. But there was also some kind of magic that hung in the valley. The house was gone, just a hole in the ground, with a tell-tale wrought-iron bed frame as a tombstone. Half the walls of the barn, the most substantial building, remained, built against a cliff-edge of a small rise at the north end of the valley. We milled around the ruins for a while then set off, in a south-west direction, to try and find the spring where Grandpa got his water. We were unsuccessful but did have a chance to explore more of the area. Steve and I had a plane to catch early that evening in Colorado Springs so were forced to cut our stay short and headed back to Lamar. This event, the 'Reunion', so filled my senses with the images of family roots, that I shall not soon forget. Perhaps I will never forget as I have been changed forever. (recollections from the 1977 Hunt Reunion near Scott City, Kansas)