The River Calls
A Story of Purpose and Providence
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On the morning of July 4th, my family was at our ranch near Hico in north central Texas, watching it pour buckets outside. About 8:00 a.m., text messages hit my phone from friends about the devastating floods in Kerrville and Hunt, Texas.
On social media, my feeds were filled with photos and videos of utter destruction along the Guadalupe River as the disaster was unfolding in real time. Hundreds were feared missing or dead, including thirty girls and counselors at Camp Mystic. The waters rose nearly thirty feet during the early morning hours while many were sleeping. There was little time to escape; many didn't make it.
I hadn't thought about the folks at Camp La Junta in many years, but as I saw the images of the flood destroying everything in its path, I was suddenly six years old again.
I went to Camp La Junta for the first time in 1980. A couple of weeks prior to camp, I had been at a friend's house shooting a bow and arrows. Unfortunately, he shot me in the back of my right leg while I was adjusting the target. The arrow broke off in my leg, and I had two emergency room visits because of it.
I still had stitches in my leg on my first day at camp. My first stop before going to my cabin was the camp infirmary. I remember the gravel in the parking area crunching as I walked, the covered porch and rock walls surrounding the outside waiting area, and the steps leading up to the screen door. Inside, to the left, was the main examination room. I can smell the aroma of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant to this day. I was asked to take a seat on a table. Behind me was a big window looking out at the back lane and cabins.
This was the first time I met Larry Graham. He and his wife were running the infirmary. Larry was the owner of the camp and had served in the Navy on the UDT (Underwater Demolition Team), the precursor to the Navy SEALs. I remembered him as quiet, kind, but intimidating.
For the first week of camp, Larry and his wife tended my leg and replaced the bandages. I wasn't allowed to swim in the river for the first week, so I had to sit on the bank and watch the others. But when I was cleared to swim, I jumped into that big Guadalupe River with gusto. That first plunge was all the sweeter because I had to wait.
The hot days were refreshed by the cold and clear Guadalupe River. La Junta is a world built for boys. We did boy stuff that fed our sense of adventure and shaped character. The cabins had no air-conditioning; we had fans to cool us off. The cabin walls were covered with the names of previous inhabitants from decades gone by—a rugged museum of boyhood. We had contests to see who could find the oldest name and year on the walls and rafters. It smelled like camp—old wood mixed with the river and surrounding cedar trees.
That first night, announcements rang out over the P.A. system, followed by taps, and finally, the Navy Hymn "Eternal Father - Strong to Save." As boys do, we laughed, made jokes, and told stories after lights out, until our counselors ordered us to knock it off or else. In the still of the night, all one could hear was the buzz of electric fans, the occasional squeak of a boy's bunk as he turned in his sleep, and the sounds of the Texas Hill Country by the Guadalupe River. With thoughts of this enchanted place, I would drift off to sleep.
In the morning, the sound of reveille would echo through the camp's valley along the river into the quiet cabins full of boys. Despite the lazy groans of campers and shouts of counselors to wake up and get ready for breakfast, we all knew a new day full of adventures lay ahead.
A day of challenges, victories, defeat, conflicts, joys, conquering fears, learning skills, laughter, sometimes tears, teamwork, forging friendships, war songs, competitions, and life lessons—all aimed toward transforming boys into men.
I have vivid memories of the smell of gunpowder at the range, the sound of horses in the corral, the anticipation of cheeseburgers on Saturday, the distinct aroma of diesel exhaust from the trucks and tractors, commissary at the end of rest period, and a breeze from the river that flowed through it all.
The campfire is surrounded by folklore and stories of rugged cowboys, fugitives, and Indian warriors who once roamed this land, and as legend has it, still do. This shaped the imaginations and dreams of young boys. Whether it was tales of the four Indian chiefs buried at the camp or the Wampus Cat or H-Man, campers dared not sneak out of their cabins at night.
That river—ancient, yet new every moment—was filled with memories as she flows: swimming, fishing, skiing, scuba diving, canoeing, sailing, exploring. She is deep and clear, cold and calm. Her memories flow from past to present and into the future.
My boyhood life centered on this place. A boy needs a sense of place, a place of permanence, a time of wonder, a tribe of his own. As the chapters of life turned with each summer, my camp experience guided me through my struggles in school and at home.
Down by that big river lay my refuge—a place and a people, a story I was a part of, where I would learn something about myself and my place in the world. The entire year was oriented around my first leap into that river at camp; the cold water would awaken me to a fresh start every summer.
As my camping years progressed, it was at La Junta where I learned to make a fire and shoot straight. I learned character and perseverance. I learned to pour concrete, fly a plane, use dynamite, sail, scuba dive, save a drowning swimmer, waterski, rappel down a cliff, build an engine, weld, ride a motorcycle, drive a bulldozer, fall off a horse and get back in the saddle, be on a team, lead others, tell a story, swim faster and farther, and conquer my fears. I learned to respect authority, make friends, and deal with conflict with other boys.
Every summer the river beckoned me. What adventures, mysteries, and new friends lay ahead?
My camp experience shaped my childhood. It helped me face my fears, push through adversity, fight selfishness, cultivate grit, follow leaders, lead others, and take responsibility. While the school year was filled with struggle, chaos, and failure, camp was the place I excelled.
At camp, I was more myself than anywhere else. I was surrounded by counselors and the owners who encouraged me, taught me, and called out of me the man I would become. Embedded within the fun activities and camp life is a vision of building men of character and grit. Every summer presented a new opportunity to grow, a passage to a new chapter.
Rites of passage are important for boys. When I was about eleven, I would experience such a passage. The Black Eagles are the servant-leaders among the campers. They are revered by younger campers and trusted helpers to counselors. To be chosen is an honor and challenge. To be inducted is the gateway to becoming a young man of integrity and trusted leadership.
I can still hear the war drum of the Black Eagles on the night of tap-out echoing through my head. I can still see three torches illuminating their faces covered in war paint and feathered war bonnets. The chief rides on horseback as the clop of horse hooves on the path echoes between the cabins. To be chosen is the highest honor. It's not a measure of popularity; it's a measure of character. It is a rite of passage. In neighboring cabins, doors are swung open by warriors and sub-chiefs in war paint and feathers, wearing loincloths. I hear the names of boys being shouted out by the Eagles. As the chief's horse stops at our cabin, surrounded by torch-men, I see the shadows of the Black Eagle warriors in the firelight advancing toward us. The boys in our cabin are fearful and filled with anticipation. Not all are chosen—just a handful.
With a loud bang against the wall, our cabin door opens in the darkness. A warrior enters and calls my name. From my bunk, I respond, "Yes, sir!" Then he gives the command: "You have five minutes to get dressed, bring your flashlight and your sleeping bag. Meet at the rifle range. Do you understand?" I replied, "Yes, sir." He said, "Do not speak to anyone. Be silent." With that, I hurried and packed my gear, and quietly made my way in the darkness to the meeting place. It was the first time in my life I remember being chosen for anything significant.
Rites of passage changed the direction of this boy's life. At La Junta, my life took on meaning, and my character was forged. I excelled in leadership opportunities and activities, gaining award patches for qualifications in swimming, riding, archery, riflery, scuba, camp crafts, canoeing, advanced camping, among others. God in His goodness gave me a place where I could succeed and learn how to lead.
As I reflect, memories flood through my mind. I can still hear Jimmy Buffett's "Cheeseburger in Paradise" playing over the P.A. and smell the burgers cooking at the dining hall. I remember riding the trails with Wrangler Dave and Luther Graham (Larry's dad), before helmets were required. I remember the thrill of bravery hikes at night and campouts along the river and at Honey Creek Ranch. I recall the first time going off the big rope swing and conquering my fear of heights, which led to possessing the courage to rappel down a 100-foot cliff years later. Each successive year built upon the previous.
To this day, I can see the old faces of campers and counselors from over 40 years ago. These memories are treasures.
Through my years at camp, Larry Graham was guiding and shaping the lives of the boys and counselors quietly in the background. He always imparted wisdom with every skill he taught us, particularly as Advanced Campers. I can still hear Camp Director Blake "Buckwheat" Smith making announcements over the P.A. and his reading of Kipling's "If" at the closing of each term. I can hear Wrangler Dave's distinctive "whoop" calling campers to the horse stables. I remember his wife Autumn teaching me to be a better swimmer. I later swam competitively in high school and college. They were all my family away from home, though I didn't realize it at the time. Life is like that river; the years flow by almost unnoticed. It's only in looking back that we can see the providence of God and the impact of people upon our lives.
Over time, I lost touch, but the memories and lessons remained. We never managed to send my son to La Junta, but I tried to instill the values and skills I learned at camp. How I wished to see Larry and the La Junta family to thank them for what they did for a boy from a broken family and struggling in school and life.
Then, on July 4th, 2025, the Guadalupe River drew me back to the people and place that impacted my life so richly over forty years ago.
As the reports about the flooding flowed into my phone, my heart broke. I had a sick feeling in my gut. I began to pray.
Mid-summer, there are thousands of kids attending the various camps along the Guadalupe. Around July 4th, first term had ended, and second term was beginning as parents dropped off and picked up kids. Many families have their sons at the boys' camps while their sisters attend the girls' camps. Add to that the influx of visitors in the area camping along the river to celebrate Independence Day Weekend. It was the worst possible time for a flood of this magnitude.
With my experience in disaster relief, I knew in the back of my mind I'd be in Kerrville and Hunt soon. There wasn't a question; I had to go. People needed help and hope.
On July 8th, a friend from our church (in Fort Worth) and I entered the flood zone along the Guadalupe River on the now infamous Highway 39 leading to the small town of Hunt and several summer camps, including Camp Mystic and La Junta. As we cleared the temporary checkpoint run by the Texas Department of Public Safety, the destruction unfolded as we slowly made our way into the disaster zone.
Many of the once ancient giants—those beautiful cypress trees—had been felled by the onslaught of the flood. Homes had been swept off their foundations. Vehicles, campers, and houses lay in the riverbed and along the banks. Canoes, mattresses, parts of roofs, and other debris rested in tangled masses twenty-five feet above the river. Search and rescue boats journeyed on the waters as teams with search dogs investigated debris piles over twenty feet high. Blackhawk and Chinook helicopters ran up and down the river valley with their distinct and rhythmic "womp, womp, womp" sound. The place was swarming with activity, like a beehive.
The scene was familiar yet alien. It was all very saddening and disorienting. Along the road, people had hung Texas flags from broken trees and destroyed buildings. My friend and I had been asked to bring a generator and supplies to a girls' camp called Heart O' The Hills, across the road from Camp Mystic. The director of Heart O' The Hills had died in the flood. I knew we would pass Camp La Junta along our route, so I tried to prepare myself. But nothing can prepare you for the sheer devastation from an event like this.
As we drove into Camp La Junta, I fought back tears. The flood waters had washed-out the saddles from the horse stables, and someone had placed them on top of the fence along the camp road. "What happened to all those beautiful animals?" I thought. Debris littered the pasture as we passed crews on heavy machinery. The expanse of destruction reached deep into the camp, and far across the river where homes were destroyed. This was hardly the haven I remembered and loved.
On the porch of the partially destroyed home where Larry used to live when I was a camper, my old friends—Wrangler Dave, his wife Autumn, Blake Smith and his wife, Cheryl—were clearing debris. I hadn't seen them since I was a sixteen-year-old counselor. They were the same good folks who were working at the camp from my first year to my last.
What do you say at such a reunion under these circumstances? I was without words. So, I embraced my old friends and the words slowly came to me. We visited for a while, sitting on that porch by the river. The old memories and stories flowed like the waters a few yards away, now calm and peaceful.
As a pastor, I learned that sometimes the most powerful ministry is a ministry of presence. Just being present can speak louder than words. Sometimes, it's just listening. Other times, it's a word of encouragement. I was deeply thankful for my time with them. We prayed together and we parted ways, yet reconnected.
The following week, I re-deployed to the area to serve with a fellow pastor from our church. Tired and hungry, we stopped at what was left of the Hunt Store. An organization had set up a roadside kitchen and was feeding volunteers. As we sat and ate, Larry Graham entered my mind. For years, I wanted to say "thank you" for the camp experience he provided me since that first day 45 years prior in the camp infirmary. He would be in his eighties now. I looked at my watch and realized it was time to get moving again. We had a couple more supply runs to make before the day was done.
After finishing our meal, we slowly walked along Highway 39 to my truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of an older gentleman sitting with his wife on the wall of a partially destroyed building facing the river. His back was toward me, but my intuition told me, "That's Larry Graham." So, I crossed the street and made my way over to the man. Did I have the right guy? Would he remember me? Things like this are always awkward.
I walked up and asked, "Excuse me, sir, are you Larry Graham?" He replied, "Yes I am." I introduced myself, "I'm Lance Cashion." I shared the stories about the impact he and the camp had on my life. My heart and motivation for serving in disaster relief was shaped by my experience at that camp by the river. We visited for a few minutes and took a photo together. Most importantly, I had the opportunity to express my deep gratitude. God granted my request that lingered in my heart for a long time. We said our farewells and parted ways.
It's important for men to seek out and thank people who helped them along in life. Sometimes those mentors, guides, and helpers aren't even aware of their positive impact. That's all the more reason to find them and thank them if you have the chance. God winked at me that day and reminded me of his goodness and all the blessings of this life.
And so, decades after La Junta, by God's providence, I was called back to that river, that place, and those people. The men of La Junta will hear that drum echoing in their hearts and remember. With God's help and grace, we will help families heal and rebuild, not only at La Junta but the surrounding community. Because that is what Camp La Junta instills in young men.
As a Christian, I have learned that God speaks to us in many ways—through His magnificent creation, His Word in the scriptures, and through His providential circumstances that, like a river, flow through our lives.
Prayer of Comfort from Scripture for those impacted by the floods:
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too." (2 Corinthians 1:3-5)
"For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need." (Hebrews 4:15-16)
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Listen to my podcast “Serving in the Texas Flood Zone”
Websites: Camp La Junta Camp La Junta Fund (Rebuilding) Video (New 4 San Antonio): Hill Country Flood Disaster: An up-close look at the damage and cleanup efforts - interview w/ Larry Graham Article: From strangers to friends: Hunt community rallies around victims of flood disaster
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So good Lance! Such a powerful testimony of God’s goodness and provision in your life as a result of attending this camp and being impacted by so many people AND His goodness and provision in allowing you to return and bless and minister to so many who are hurting after this tragedy. Thank you for sharing your experience both then and now and what La Junta means to you 💚
Thanks for sharing a bit of your youth and how it has been transformative of your present. You had great mentors my brother.