All three Park boys who grew up at the Humboldt Avenue house were, in turn, members of the boy scout troop that was affiliated with our church, Hennepin Avenue Methodist. For many years there was a "scout hall" building for Troop 7 in the middle of the large parking lot at Hennepin Church. It was a rickety building, basically one medium sized room about 25 or 30 feet long, with a small stairway that led to a partial basement where scout equipment was stored. For such an affluent congregation, the building was a shambles. It had electricity but no running water or toilet.

I remember well coming back by bus from Camp Many Point (one of our enjoyable scout summer camp trips). I needed to head into the church to go to the bathroom. This was later in the afternoon and it was time for the church janitor to close up the church for the day. I had no idea that what happened next was possible, but I heard a man's voice call into the bathroom (three stalls in a row) -it sounded like "Whoa!" I had no idea what was happening and did not make any response. The janitor could not see anyone in the bathroom, and since I did not call back after about five seconds, he locked the door! From the outside, in the main hallway. I finished up and was shocked to discover that it was now impossible to get out. He was gone in a moment. I pounded on the door and called out, but no one was nearby.

That bathroom, in the Sunday School wing of the church, was on the main floor, which was about six feet off the ground. There was one window, which could be swung open with a crank. I was a Boy Scout! And I needed to "Be Prepared!" In fact, I was still wearing my scout shirt with the distinctive red bandanna draped around my neck. I climbed onto the window sill and turned around so that my legs were dangling outside. I looked down-six feet down. That was rather a long drop, but what else could I do? A lady in a car that was stopped in traffic nearby was watching me make my escape. She honked to try to stop me from jumping, but I had no other choice. I pushed my way out and landed on my feet, rather athletically. Soon I was taking the two-minute stroll around the Sunday School wing to the Scout Hall building. I rejoined my fellow scouts and set to the task of locating my sleeping bag and duffle.

I was about to walk home (just a few blocks away) when a man we didn't know came into the Scout Hall. Apparently, the lady who had honked to get my attention had pulled around to the parking lot. She wanted to report to the church staff (who were all about to leave for the day) that one of the boy scouts had just jumped out a church window, and she wondered if he was all right. The guy asked around trying to find the boy who had to jump out of the bathroom window. I thought about not speaking up, but I decided that I probably should show him that I was not injured. It turned out that he was the very janitor who had locked me in. He apologized profusely. "Why didn't you say something when I called in?" I answered that I had no idea what was going on. My mind had jumped to the warnings all us boys received about grown strangers trying to corner us vulnerable kids. The janitor was not a predator, clearly. He was relieved I was okay, and ended our little interaction with another interesting observation: "What's the point of locking all the bathrooms in the first place?" My thoughts exactly. That sure didn't enter my mind as something I needed to be wary of. He looked contrite enough to probably forego the door-locking from then on.

I spent about five years as a Boy Scout, and basically learned a lot about knots, building a campfire, handling a canoe, dealing with random challenges, and helping fellow scouts in their own development. We followed the Boy Scout Handbook, which gave us useful advice in many situations. The main attraction this whole scouting kit and caboodle had for me was the fun I had with my scouting peers. Some of these scouts were already friends from school, and social contacts were important to me then.

I remember, during my testing for First Class Scout, I was called upon to prove I could cook a baking powder biscuit on a campfire. I could make the campfire easily enough, but the dough for the biscuit (prepared at home and wrapped in tin foil) just would not cook on my fire. After a while, it was partially baked, and the adult tester checking my work told me, "If you can eat it, I will count it as a pass." I did manage to get it down my throat, although it was an ordeal, and the doughy parts tasted terrible. Another requirement of my first-class testing was being able to follow a trail that had been set up by another scout. I asked brother James, (five-years older than me and already a first-class scout) to set up a trail using standard indicators made with sticks, twigs, rocks, and other special signs that scouts should understand. We did the test in nearby Kenwood Park, and I successfully followed the trail markers to the conclusion. It was kind of fun for both of us. James signed the paperwork to authenticate that I passed this part of the qualifications.

Among many random recollections, one that sticks in my mind concerns a partially deaf boy who joined our troop for a few months when I was in sixth grade. This kid was a year younger than me. He was a friendly boy, trying hard to fit in. One time we were examining a boy scout hatchet, and I noticed he pronounced the name of the tool as "hat-thet." I turned him slightly so he could see my mouth. "It's a 'hat-chet'." He said it back perfectly, having watched my mouth say the word, and he remembered it clearly thereafter. He was grateful that I made the effort to get him to say it correctly. He spoke quite well in spite of his hearing problem.

My final Boy Scout camping experience took place just after my ninth-grade year in school. This was a full-fledged wilderness canoe trip to the wilds of northern Minnesota, near Ely, close to Voyagers National Park. There must be dozens of lakes, large and small, within a twenty-mile radius of Ely. This was the trip of a lifetime for scouts aged 12 to 15. Our four camp councilors already knew a lot about taking boys on canoe trips. There were about twelve of us scouts, and we were each expected to do our share of the work. We took a bus to Ely, way north of Duluth, and then transferred all our stuff to a couple of smaller vans, one of which pulled a trailer with canoe racks. We made our way to the camping outfitters and rented several aluminum canoes. We also acquired a large pile of supplies, in various carrying bags, which included rented camping equipment, our canvas tents, cooking pots and lots of food.

This was an exploration of the wildest, most pristine territory I had ever seen. There was a launch area at the edge of the lake next to Ely, and many canoers from everywhere were using it. The four men in charge of our bunch knew where we were going over the course of our seven-day trip. The maps were very clear and detailed, and luckily there were a lot of signs posted everywhere so people could see where they were. We learned from the signs that the portage to Lake Whatever was 1.1 miles down this path. We (three of us at a time) all learned how to carry a canoe over our heads while walking down a twisty dirt path that wound around trees, bushes, and big boulders. I knew what portaging meant, but I was not prepared for how much muscle power it entailed. The men with us were quite athletic and could carry most of the gear and bags of supplies without too much effort. All the boys had to carry their own sleeping bags and backpacks while carrying their canoes. We must have done at least two portages each day. A portage sign that read 300 yards to the next lake was always welcome. Everyone became a lot more fit on that trip.

There were many fishermen and fisherwomen out on the water. Some of them were catching really big northerns, walleyes, and other game fish. We scouts had already been told that we wouldn't be doing any fishing this trip. (Too much extra equipment would be needed.) Every day, we would try to keep to the schedule the planners had in mind. We worked hard to win the distance we had to cover. The food was basic, but good, with some fresh things that we ate up the first few days. Then, cans and packages of dehydrated foods were all we had left. I learned during the week that powdered scrambled eggs cooked over the fire in the wilderness tasted much better if we made sure nearly all of the water added to the mix was cooked off before eating the eggs.

We saw lots of fascinating, true wildlife of all sizes: large (e.g. black and brown bears, elk, moose, deer), many medium-sized animals (like badgers, racoons, and bob cats) and small ones (chipmunks, squirrels, bunnies, mice). All the animals were used to seeing people, but reluctant to stay around. We were exhausted, but thrilled, as we went from place to place. Every day, as the sun started to get low in the sky, we would choose an island to camp on. There were dozens around. We got good at setting up our tents and building our campfires, cooking what we needed before diving into our sleeping bags for the night. Sometimes we would sing campfire songs and talk about what had happened that day, such as the time our three-scout canoe came within four feet of a brown bear swimming between islands. He saw us and whoofed at us, but couldn't do anything threatening because he was too busy swimming. One guy whacked his paddle on the water in the bear's direction, but a counselor nearby yelled to let him be.

We all got very used to each other, and we bonded in varying degrees. Some people tended to be slackers, others turned into leader-types. Some kids were known to be stronger, others were clumsier, but we all liked each other. Littler kids were not expected to be able to do too much, and we worked as a wordless team to make sure everyone stayed healthy. We all survived unscathed. We had a snipe hunt once, after which everyone knew those hunts were just jokes to trick the younger kids. No one caught any snipe, although we were told that they were a very quick bird that often got away.

Not all canoe and water experiences were on lakes. There was one fifteen-minute thrill ride that involved white water on a river. Our trip planners knew about a small river that led from one lake to another on their route. They decided that this stretch was safe enough for all of us to take. It saved us a portage, and it was rapid enough to provide a little heart-acceleration for first-timers like me. I was in the front end of a canoe, and one of the counselors who was an experienced canoeist was in the back (steering) end, with some supply bags in the middle. I was really nervous as we got into the fast water of the river, and he smiled encouragingly at me, reminding me that I should watch for rocks. I did not do as well as I should have, but I was a greenhorn, after all, and had never been charged with this kind of responsibility. My job entailed using my paddle to push us away from rocks-some were boldly sticking out of the water; others lurked just under the surface. I was poised with my paddle, waiting for the chance to deflect the front of the canoe away from the black jagged stones in front of us, but I was often too slow on the draw to make it work. Without warning, a rock would suddenly strike the bottom of the canoe right under where I was kneeling. Every time, I was amazed that it didn't tear a hole in the bottom. Those aluminum canoes were built to flex, and we would breeze on down the river nearly instantly. I got a little better at avoiding the worst rocks as we progressed downstream, surrounded by white water, and finally, after several tense minutes, the river took a bend to the left and widened out by several feet, calming the fast water into a much lazier flow pattern. The young man in the back of my canoe (who could have been a gymnast) had his hands full the whole ride down and probably saved us from swamping about a dozen times. I was very impressed and thanked him for saving us. I was also glad we didn't lose any of the gear, still nestled in the middle of the canoe.

I was asked to bring my trumpet to use in my role as the bugler for the troop. (I didn't want to lug its case around, so I carried the horn inside my pillow case, using the pillow as a protective cushion.). Early every morning, I was awakened by one of the counselors to play Reveille to wake everyone up. I was a pretty good trumpet player by then, having gone through three years of middle school band. Sometimes, that early, I would not be in very good shape to play yet, and the notes came out sour. More than once a suddenly awakened counselor would call out, "Somebody wake up the bugler!" Anyway, my loud and harsh sounds would always get everyone moving, even if the notes were not well played.

One evening, the troop was getting ready to turn in, and the dusky lighting on the sunset horizon was as lovely as any calendar photograph or artist's painting. I decided to play my trumpet for a little while. I was able to figure out in my head what notes and fingerings I needed to play one of my favorite songs: Over the Rainbow. After I started playing, I was amazed by the way those notes could carry across the water and through the trees and hills, each note echoing on for at least two seconds. The reverberation there was a real thrill to hear. I played through the whole song twice. My compatriots really liked hearing it, and I can only assume that other folks within a couple of miles didn't mind it either. Perhaps, lodged in the memories of a couple of dozen fisher people and other travelers in that neck of the woods there remains the surprise of faintly hearing that soaring melody floating through the air at dusk in the north woods of Minnesota.

Further, the entire population of wildlife within earshot must have lifted their heads and perked up their ears, hearing something remarkably different. Not a threat, just a surprising departure from the sounds they already knew well. I like to think it might have done everyone with ears some real good for a little while.

The next morning, I got up early for a short walk around our island The thick underbrush tried to trip me at every turn. I came across a wide variety of wild birds who were already up, making a whole lot of joyous noise. But then I was totally surprised to see a pair of white cockatoos flying by who spotted a human (me) and came right over to a very close branch. They were excited to see me, in their way, bobbing around and staring at me with curiosity. I gathered that they were familiar with people, but not lately. They must have escaped from somebody's open window. They looked healthy and happy, fending for themselves, and they had each other, too, after all. I was really pleased they had come over for that short hello. Other birds were less daring, probably thinking of me as a suspicious stranger in their world, while, it seemed to me, the cockatoos and I liked each other.

At the end of the week, all our canoes, equipment and canoeists arrived back at the boat landing near Ely. It was already quite dusky, so we could not have our final time of singing around the campfire. In the morning, the canoes and other rented gear were returned to the outfitters, and all the counselors and scouts jumped onto the school bus with their sleeping bags and backpacks and headed back to the Twin Cities, about five hours away. The whole trip probably left some vivid, treasured memories for us all. It must have made a lasting impression on me, because, look at me now: at 79 years old, I'm still fondly reminiscing about it.