Dear Diary:

While the feeling ebbs away more and more each year, this time of year (this week specifically) always reminds me of PACO (Palo Alto Chamber Orchestra) Camp. It's hard not to to be nostalgic of the place where I attribute the majority of my musical growth. For four summers, I traveled to Monte Toyon in Aptos, CA as a member of PACO. Secluded from civilization and outside distractions for a week, it was a time of music making, inspiration, and bonding amongst peers and friends.

Throughout the past few years, there have always been small things, whether it be sounds or smells, that opens long dormant doorways to memories stored in the recesses of my mind. For example, I remember sitting in my dorm my sophomore year of college, performing some preliminary research for an engineering project. Stuffy and warm, I opened the window right next to me. A wave of cold, moist air came through the window, which sent me back in time.

It's my first camp, back in 2001. I woke up at 7AM. My cabin mates, fearing mosquitoes or the night's chill, has hermetically sealed the room. With eight warm bodies contributing their fair share of carbon dioxide, the room became incredibly warm and muggy. I got out of bed, threw on a jacket and went outside, where I was somewhat rudely welcomed by the chilly fog nesting above the decades old redwood trees that guarded the campsite. Breathing in the cold, moist air, my nose quickly became numb trying to acclimate to the two drastically different environments. I start to walk, down the small hill, eventually sticking right onto the gravelly path instead of the paved one; for some reason, I've always preferred the gravel path. Even the crunch, crunch-ing beneath my feet sounds musical in this place. Under the overhang of branches, I continue until I approached the end of this path. It was at this time, every morning without fail, I would hear the tink tinkerings of the piano in Helgesson Hall. Paul Hersh (does he ever sleep?) is up already, practicing music to be featured later on in that day's masterclass or music he is performing at a music festival the week after. I would take a seat right next to the entrance to the hall, close my eyes, and surreptitiously listen in on his playing. It's my little secret my first few years of camp. I had the pleasure of waking up every morning listening to Paul Hersh play piano.

***

There are times when, if my mood is right, listening to pieces I've listened to dozens of times would remind me of PACO Camp. The first movement of the Brahms G Major Sextet, with its beautiful and ethereal quality, still reminds me of looking up at the darkened sky amongst the towering redwoods, constantly hiding being fogged behind my cold breath. The first movement of Schubert's Eb Quartet reminds me of the sunny times at camp, when everyone is smiling and it was a pleasure just to be in the presence of friends. The slow movement to Beethoven's Op.18 No.1 reminds me of my pubescent brooding that sometimes comes due to one drama or another. But, no matter what, the piece that I remember the most vividly, is the performance of the Mendelssohn Octet.

It was the Friday of camp in 2001, right after lunch time. It had not been a full two days since news spread that the founder, Bill Whitson, has passed away. Emotions were still running raw. However, instead of letting the campers grieve, the counselors wisely opted to break the somber atmosphere by celebrating the essence of PACO Camp. As cheesy at it sounds, the power of chamber music and friends will heal all. Eight of the counselors rounded up eight student volunteers, and together, they sightread the Mendelssohn Octet in front of the whole camp. The opening, so ebullient, so joyous, broke everyone out of their reverie and its conclusion drew the loudest cheers and applause I remember hearing at camp. Ever since then, that piece has remained dear to my heart.

***

Someone once aptly described PACO Camp as my Neverland. Indeed, I feel cheated that I was only able to attend four camps as a camper where my friends have attended upwards to ten. Fortunately unfortunately, Neverland doesn't exist and we all have to grow up sometime.

It's been three years since my last visit. The dynamics of camp has undoubtedly changed. Even the people I used to know there have graduated or transferred to another orchestra. Will I go back to visit this year? I still haven't decided. This will be the last year to do so though; after this year, the last of the remaining members of camp will be gone. Who knows? It would be nice to be amongst the redwoods again, sightreading the night away.