Columns by local writers .......................................... 5

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SENIOR LIVING AT LEWISTON

Got carried away on a camping adventure to Wallowa Lake

Istored my personal belongings in the dorm’s washroom cubbies in June and headed home for summer. It would be good to fall back into my old routine: Picking berries, working in the pea plant and going to camp meeting. Four of us students from Warner Pacific College had returned to the Lewiston-Clarkston Valley.

We decided since we were the older, more mature college students, we’d take some kids from our church youth group to Wallowa Lake in Oregon for three days. It’s a three-hour drive from Clarkston.

In past summers when we worked nights at Seabook’s pea-processing plant, we sometimes got off early at the beginning or end of pea harvest. We’d hop in cars and go to the lake, rent horses, ride up to Ice Lake, fish, eat sack lunches and laze on the glacier in the summer sun. Then we’d make a mad dash back to get to work in time that night. Known as the little Swiss Alps of America, Wallowa is beauPUZZLE, Page 5

tiful and rustic.

We were certain the younger kids would love a camping trip. With three carloads of kids and a pickup truck filled with camping equipment, we slowly traversed the windy, graveled Rattlesnake Grade, stopped at Boggan’s Café to get a milkshake, then wound back up the Oregon side of the canyon. The camping was primitive. We pitched tents — two big tents and one small to sleep eight girls and five guys — at the base of the steep mountain. We rolled out beds and headed for the water. Well, everyone except me. I have a great fear of water. I made the excuse of organizing the food and starting lunch.

There were canoes and paddleboats on the lake, go-carts on an oval track, horses, gift and snack shops, a skating rink and an archery range. Plenty to do. We sat around the campfire after dinner and sang and sang. We shared stories, laughed and cried. We were worn out by the time the deep darkness of the mountain hit. We crawled into our beds, unmindful of the sharp rocks poking into our backs.

On the last night, a loud “kaboom” startled us awake. The thunder echoed off the mountain, across the lake and back to us two times before it stopped. Two girls in my tent began to cry. One screamed, but it was immediately drowned out by

a second “Ka-BOOM.” The heavens opened, and a torrent of water hit our tent like someone throwing out the wash water. “Don’t worry,” I tried to calm them. “This is a good tent. We’re okay.” I wasn’t sure I believed my own words. I prayed for the tent not to collapse. The third “KABOOM!” deafened all of us as we lay in the pitch black, afraid to move. Water poured away from our door. Thank goodness we pitched on a slope. The lightning and thunder moved away as quickly THINKING as it had arrived, but the deluge continued. I could OUT LOUD hear rocks rolling down the hill. Not one hit our Sharon tent. One by one the girls went back to sleep and I Chase finally drifted off too. We slept late. When I Hoseley opened the tent flap, I was greeted by the side of a car. “What in the world?” I questioned. I looked at the girls. Sleep was still heavy on their faces. “What’s wrong?” one asked as she stretched. I opened the flap further. “We seem to have made a float trip in the night. Look.” Our tent was intact. We were snug and dry in our sleeping bags, but our tent had floated 15 feet down the hillside — stopped only by one of our cars at the road. We could have floated right on out to the lake.

Chase Hoseley is a freelance writer and retired kindergarten teacher who lives in Clarkston. She looks forward to sharing her out-of-the-box, out-loud thoughts with you each month. She can be reached at shoseley8@gmail.com.