Porter’s Island was a sandy haven in the Arkansas River. It has long been overgrown with Russian Olive and Cottonwood trees. But I remember the long open beaches, perfect for making driftwood fires and skipping stones into the rushing river. Before the Pueblo Reservoir was built, tons of sand flooded downstream every spring.

My dad was dedicated to getting the children out of the house and into nature. So, just about every weekend, we would jump into our blue Studebaker station wagon with the neighborhood kids and head for the park, prairie, or river. Porter’s Island was our preferred destination. My sister Ruth, the youngest of seven children, had her own special place called Ruthie’s Island, which we reached by fording a stream. I was always impressed that she had even such a tiny island named after her, a big mound of pure white sand, just big enough for our tent. Years later, I realized that my Dad had named the island himself; it wasn’t a public designation after all.

Recently, during the CMC’s Sense of Place discussion group, we were asked to think of one place where we feel a special connection. I’ve spent time in many spectacular places throughout the world, yet Porter’s Island first came to mind. There, laying a foundation for all of the other places to come, I had the freedom to explore, to observe, to feel, to wonder, and to share with others—the great blue herons, river rocks, mounds of sand, my friends and family, and so much more.

I am privileged. I had so much time in nature when I was a young child, continuing throughout my life. I feel equally blessed to be able to work for the CMC, helping to open a door to the mountains and the natural world to children who otherwise might only know the city streets of Denver.