The inevitable has arrived. This is the first time in a half century my parents won’t open their beloved Camp Fond du lac on Sixth Lake for the summer season.

Both are charter members of Tom Brokaw’s “Greatest Generation,” aka, the WWII generation. My father, 88-years-young, graduated from the Syracuse Forestry College in the same class as late great local icon, Hank Kashiwa, Sr. He also completed advanced studies in Ornithology at Cornell University. He served in the Army Air Corps as a machine gunner in North American B-25 Mitchell bombers, essentially the same aircraft which Jimmy Doolittle’s raiders flew from the deck of the USS Hornet to attack Tokyo. His tour of duty was the Southwest Pacific Theater where his group conducted treetop level strafing and dumped parachute retarded fragmentation bombs on Japanese shipping and airfields in and around New Guinea and the Philippines.

My mom, 90-years-young, graduated from the school of hard work. She grew up in Mattydale, the daughter of first generation Ukrainian immigrants. Her parents escaped just prior to the Russian communist takeover. She and her siblings worked all of their lives, in the private sector and as “professional” homemakers. Mom worked for many years at Syracuse China and at one time, the Baldwinsville High School cafeteria.  Back in their day, married women were expected and proud to be full time mothers and homemakers. Dad brought home the bread, and mom baked it. It must’ve been a good thing. Look how well I turned out.   

After the war, my parents moved to Baldwinsville, where dad worked for the NYS Department of Conservation as Manager of the Three Rivers Game Management Area. During the summers of 1957-59, he was Director of the Boys Conservation Camp on Tioga Point, Raquette Lake. What a great life that was for a teenager like myself and my brother, who had unlimited access to the trap shooting range, 22-cal target range, free trapping lessons from State trappers, fly-tying lessons from the likes of Jack McDermott, fishing around Tioga Point from sunup to sundown, camping and brook trout fishing at the Sargent Ponds, and getting to hang out with local legends, like caretaker Ernie Blanchard and entrepreneur extraordinaire, Denny Dillon. My mom also worked at the camp as assistant cook to legendary, Mrs. Lurch. I assure you, nobody ever came outta’ that dinning hall hungry.  

Man, life was good in the Big Woods back in the 50s for us boys. It was another story for my teenybopper sister, three miles up Raquette Lake and two hundred miles from her nearest B’ville boyfriend. Come to think of it, she did hit on some of those college-age camp councilors. But, my father was always around looking over their shoulders, if you know what I mean.  

My family moved to Maryland in 1960, after dad took a job as one of America’s first Interpretive Park Naturalists at the Maryland National Capital Park and Planning Commission. The initiative was aimed at informing local citizens, school kids and their teachers about the wildlife they coexist with every day, using a combination of science and lore to make their initiation interesting and informative. Dad was recently presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award from the worldwide Professional Interpreters’ Association for being one of six pioneers of the nature interpretation profession. Later, he served 20 years as the Director of Parks, retiring in 1985. MNCPPC remains one of the finest urban park systems in the country, which is a testament to my father’s groundbreaking leadership. Meanwhile, it was up to mom to make sure my brother, sister and I made it through high school and college. She gave us the strong moral foundation for any success we might claim.

Why am I spinning this down home family yarn? This isn’t an obituary.  Thankfully, both parents are still alive and kicking as I write this column.  However, Dad is in the hospital battling pneumonia, atrial fibrillation and Parkinson’s disease, while Mom is struggling with chronic heart problems and macular degeneration. They represent the changing guard of their generation of fervent seasonal Adirondack residents.  Inside the Blue Line, seasonal residents outnumber locals by more than two to one.  And, both populations are aging relentlessly. As seasonal residents age, there comes a time when it’s impractical to leave their medical support systems back home, including their health care specialists, physicians and treatment facilities. My parent’s quality of life is now dependent on their physicians and medication regimens. It’s impossible to duplicate their specialized healthcare support system in the Adirondacks.  

If I have a point, it’s this: My parent’s story is just one of many. We’re losing an entire generation of Adirondackers who have contributed their fair share to make it what it is today. Locals and seasonals are in this thing together whether they like it or not. One can’t survive without the other.  To some short-sighted folks the Adirondacks are simply a park, and to others it’s not a park, it’s a place to work and raise a family. The fact is, it’s both, at least until somebody changes the New York State Constitution.  Sadly, the WWII generation is an Adirondack endangered species. My parents love the Adirondacks as much as anyone, seasonal or local, and I’m betting no one out there in Expressland can find a mortal soul who will say they’ve done anything but make Inlet and the Central Adirondacks a better place to live and play for decades.

I trust that I’m in no way minimizing the fact that we’re losing our WWII generation locals as well. As a life-long cyclical, I’ve admired and been privileged to know a great many of these outstanding local citizens, families and, okay, downright characters. I’ve gotta tell ya, I’m sad that they’re leaving us, but I’m sure glad and honored to have shared their time and space. And don’t forget that my generation is the next one to go extinct from the Adirondacks. Make sure you buy me a beer while you still have the chance.