Tripped Up at Summer Camp: Lessons for Running Your Own Race

Pamela Savage
Aug 18
4 min read

There’s something about the summer of 1979 that still sticks with me. That was the year I boarded the church bus from First Baptist of Van Nuys in Southern California and headed north to Hume Lake—a camp tucked deep in the Sequoia National Forest. I’d heard about it for years, and now it was finally my turn. It was August, and I was in Junior High. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I knew it was going to be a week to remember.

The Ride Up

By 1:00 pm on Sunday, the church parking lot was buzzing with parents, teens, and an army of duffle bags and sleeping bags. We spent a good hour loading everything into the bus, laughing, shrieking, and scrambling for the coveted back seats.

After sitting in the usual San Fernando Valley traffic, we finally gained some speed and hit the open road. "Boogie Wonderland" by Earth, Wind & Fire played on the radio, and my best friend Vicki and I laughed until our stomachs hurt—like we always did when we were together.

Welcome to Teepee Village

When we finally pulled in, my dreams of rustic log cabins (the ones my sisters had bragged about) went up in smoke. Instead? Teepees.

Not the charming, storybook kind either—these were oversized canvas cones perched on concrete slabs, wide open at the bottom so every gust of mountain air (and probably a raccoon or two) could stroll right in. Inside sat six rickety bunks that looked like they’d been salvaged from an army surplus store.

We groaned in unison, glaring at the youth director as if he’d betrayed us personally. “This part of camp is for the junior high kids,” he announced cheerfully. Teepees. Junior high teepees. Welcome to Hume Lake.

Middle School Logic

By Monday morning, the smell of bacon and eggs drifted through the pines. The girls in my teepee stampeded to the bathrooms, blow dryers blazing, determined to look our Monday best for the boys who had caravanned in from Escondido, San Diego, Fresno—even Santa Cruz.

Why we thought soulmates were forged at summer camp is beyond me. But middle school logic is its own strange species.

The Race Down the Hill

After breakfast came the campfire, team assignments, and the usual rah-rah counselor energy. Then it was time for obstacle courses and relay races.

Somewhere along the way—probably while trying to impress someone—I bragged about being a runner. My long, skinny legs and too-short tube socks made it look believable. My team (mostly younger boys who hadn’t hit puberty yet) nominated me to race down the hillside. What could I do but nod and commit?

Picture this: white terry cloth visor, red-and-white striped shorts set, blue Adidas, and striped tube socks that never quite reached my knees. Beauty wasn’t in my toolkit yet—but humor was.

When the whistle blew, off I went—twiggy legs darting between pines, dodging rocks and holes. Honestly, where were the safety monitors? Who sends middle schoolers barreling down an unmarked hill in the Sequoias? The ’70s were wild. I was determined to win. To look cool. To not just survive but shine. But almost immediately, I realized I was doomed. The hill was steeper than it looked, the terrain a minefield, and by the halfway point, I was trailing. Not dead last, but close. Panic set in. Instead of giving it my best, I gave up—slowing to a walk. When I finally crossed the finish line, far behind the pack, I did what any self-respecting thirteen-year-old desperate for dignity would do: I started limping.

Enter Darren from Santa Cruz

Pretending to be breathless, socks sagging, and pride wounded, I announced that Darren Waterston from Santa Cruz had tripped me. Yes, that Darren—the blond, feather-haired boy with the Chicklet smile who had instantly become the camp crush for many of the girls. To seal the deal, I claimed my ankle was sprained. Vicki rushed to my side, guiding me to the picnic table as I added dramatically, “I need ice.”

Soon enough, I was perched on the bench, ankle elevated, basking in the attention of counselors and curious campers. Word spread like wildfire: Darren Waterston from Santa Cruz had tripped me. I had become the injured heroine of the Teepee Village hillside race.

And then, just like out of a cheesy teen movie, Darren himself pushed through the crowd. Very confused but concerned, he dropped to one knee and placed his right hand on my left knobby knee. I froze. “I had no idea I tripped you! I’m so sorry, I didn't even see you!” Of course, he had no idea. He’d been one of the lead runners that day. For a split second, I imagined a dramatic crime of competitiveness—him shoving me down to the ground to claim victory—but I quickly backpedaled on that idea. Too risky. Too serious. So, I smiled crookedly, nodded meekly, and said, “It’s okay, but I may never walk again”. Everyone laughed, and I was relieved.

By the end of camp, the story had faded, but Darren and I, oddly enough, exchanged addresses and decided to become pen pals—it lasted until 1982. He was at least a foot shorter than me, so there was never any romance, but for a while, Darren Waterston from Santa Cruz was my friend.

The Ride Home

Saturday morning came too soon. The bus that had roared with excitement on the way up was hushed on the way home. Sunburned faces leaned against windows, soft giggles mixed with the hum of the tires, and even Vicki and I were quieter than usual.

What I Learned

Looking back, I didn’t know it yet, but that camp taught me something important: even when you don’t feel like a winner, don’t give in to imposter syndrome. Prepare, show up, and keep going.

If only I’d scouted that hillside beforehand instead of fussing over short socks and awkward nerves—I could’ve leaned into my strengths instead of faking an injury.

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