I was listening to the local public radio station the other day during my lunch hour and became intrigued with a wonderful narrative about summer camp experiences. It was so entertaining I sat in my car an extra few minutes to listen to a number of colorful stories from former campers.

Then a press release came across my desk, noting that Walter Sayre of the Stumptown Historical Society is collecting camping stories for this week’s History of Whitefish program. People can gather at 12:30 p.m. Tuesday at the Whitefish Community Center to share their best and worst camping memories.

It got me thinking if I had any camping stories that were worth sharing. My parents shipped my brothers and I off to 4-H camp and Bible camp during our formative years, and I even got a stint at band camp. While those camps were a lot of fun, there aren’t many extraordinary memories seared into my subconscious.

I particularly remember 4-H camp, which was somewhere in the wilds of North Dakota, because I was about 10 and it was my first extended stay away from home. My cousin tried to stir things up by trying to sneak out an open window of our rustic cabin one night and got what she deserved — a huge sliver on her backside.

I made a pair of moccasins from scratch, and that was a big deal. I also remember the camp had a concrete swimming pool, probably because there are so few discernible lakes in North Dakota.

Camp Emmaus, where I attended several Bible camp sessions, is more like a summer camp should be. It surrounds beautiful Lake Morgan (one of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes) and is set on 340 wooded acres. We did a lot of canoeing and swimming, and a lot of singing. I always think of the popular 1970s song “Pass It On” when I think of Camp Emmaus.

My most memorable camping experience was during a Luther League trip to the Beartooth Mountains at Yellowstone National Park. A trio of girls, myself included, for some reason struck out on our own to get back to our campsite and we became completely disoriented in the woods. Then we heard animal noises of some kind, screamed and took off running.

Whatever it was we heard didn’t come after us, but by then we were even more lost. We decided to cross a fast-moving stream — an idiotic move since we hadn’t crossed any stream earlier in the day. I took off my shoes and socks because I didn’t want to slog around in wet shoes, and proceeded to gash my foot on a sharp rock.

We were fairly well freaked out when we finally, by the grace of God, came across Gordon, one of our adult supervisors, who was fishing at a nearby lake. He led us several miles back to camp and by that time my injured foot was really hurting. I was confined to camp for the remainder of the trip, but learned the hard way to stay with the group and not rely on a couple of clueless girls for guidance.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at [email protected]