It was the end of a summer, and there were huge meals and laughter and quiet, chilly nights by a roaring fire. On Saturday their friends arrived, and Kimberly raced her bicycle through mud puddles while Kurt furiously pedaled his big-wheel tricycle after her, trying to keep up. “It isn’t camping without a bonfire,” Kurt said happily. It was their first trip with the recently acquired secondhand tent trailer, what Jill called “our luxury.” They gathered wood along an abandoned logging road nearly a mile from their campsite. Mountains loomed over the ponds, and when at night a loon wailed and the forest pressed close on all sides, you knew you were away. When a fisherman landed a salmon from the small wooden bridge below the thread of beach, he would yelp with pleasure and a crowd would gather. Campers fished from two ponds that were deep and cold. Natanis Point Campground was small and remote, its fifty-eight sites cut from a paper-company forest 1,300 feet above sea level in Chain of Ponds, a wilderness township six miles below the Canadian border at Coburn Gore. It had been a grand weekend, camping with their children, Kimberly, age six, and Kurt, age four, and three other families from their home in Manchester, Maine. The Day Kurt Newton Disappeared | Yankee Magazine, September, 1979Įxcerpt from “’The Day Kurt Newton Disappeared,” Yankee Magazine, September 1979.Įven now, four years later, Ron and Jill Newton will sometimes let their minds drift back and silently relive that Labor Day weekend, hour by hour, trying to snatch it all back and hold it still at 10:00 A.M.
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