Yeah, we're going out west, where I belong. Where the girls are pretty and the nights are long ... " Ahh yes, summer camp. Forestry summer camp 1993, the camp to end all camps. Seven credits of lip smacking, hoe down, intellectual fun. It was the summer of the great flood, the big brown one, el agua mucho grande, the rains. It was the summer where Dubuque's dike building would payoff and more southerly cities would suffer for their pettiness. It was the summer that I would spend in Cloquet, Minnesota, getting to know a herd of funky foresters. It was a summer I would not soon forget.
"A TRADITION ENDS: A STUDENTS STORY,"
Ames Forester: Vol. 81
, Article 2.
Available at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/amesforester/vol81/iss1/2