We have been exploring the history of Camden State Park, our southwest Minnesota recreational wilderness.
My family’s connection to Camden began shortly after Mom and Dad met in Marshall and began dating in 1954. Mom laughed as she recalled winter excursions to Camden, “Dad and I walked all over that park in the winter. One time we were hiking through snow and Don said, ‘I don’t think this is a trail anymore.’ I remember our boots were filled with snow.”
My association with Camden began in the early 1960s as a youngster on family camping trips. Camden was a frequent camping destination for our family, since it was so close.
The excitement built as we drove the winding, valley road from Lynd to Camden’s old entrance, which was adjacent to the custodian’s cabin, now the “Redwood Lodge.” My folks checked in at a small hut there.
The park road crossed the river on a stone bridge near the entrance and passed the North Picnic Area before crossing the river again on a lower, stone bridge between the picnic area and the beach. We turned off the park road behind the bathhouse into the beach parking area and continued into the campground.
Mom preferred camp sites along the hillside near the campground entrance. They satisfied two objectives. First, they were closer to the beach area, so a shorter walk for swimming. Second, these sites were close to the small bathroom building against the hillside that had sinks and toilets, key facilities for a family with children.
My folks had a clear division of campsite labor. Dad leveled our “Trailblazer” camper; set up the canvas awning and windbreak; set up the camp kitchen he had built; and prepared the fireplace for cooking. Mom was mistress of the camper. She stowed food and clothes; made the beds; and began preparing for the next meal. My older sister, Debbie, and I grabbed the multi-gallon water jugs to fill from the spigot down the road, lugging them back together.
My siblings and I loved climbing the steep hill behind the campground. An informal trail along the hill’s crest wound through a cluster of huge boulders. Depending on our mood, those boulders were a castle, a fort, or a badlands region full of outlaws. One fall camping trip revealed the world’s largest pile of leaves at the foot of that hillside. We buried one another in leaves.
During low-water, we’d carefully cross the river next to the campground, stepping from boulder-to-boulder, arms outstretched to maintain balance. I invariably slipped into the water with a splash and whoop of surprise. My Red Ball Jets never came home dry from a Camden camping trip!
Dad once took us on an adventure to visit Camden’s old Group Camp. This involved navigating a low-water river crossing by the South Picnic Area. I barely recall visiting the Group Camp, but vividly remember Dad driving our Chevy wagon right through the river.
Mom laughed when I asked about that day, saying, “I looked at your Dad and said, ‘I hope you know what you are doing.’ But we drove right through and up the far bank to a shelf where the road continued.”
I asked Mom if we ever visited the artesian spring by the South Picnic Area for water. She exclaimed, “Oh, yes. That was the best water!”
We did lots of hiking. Mom recalled, “We hiked all over that place. I remember pushing a stroller up the Sioux Lookout Trail.” Our 1950s-era stroller was nothing like the lightweight, big-wheeled, strollers of today. Ours was steel with a wooden seat and small wheels that dug into grass or gravel, seeking to defeat the pusher. We took turns, with Dad and Mom inevitably doing the lion’s share of the work.
The swimming beach was always popular, but that water was cold and the deeper you went, the colder the water. But it was fun nevertheless and the bathhouse concession provided us popcorn. Mom always checked for a lifeguard on duty. I remember the teenagers who were not occupying the diving raft anchored in the deep end congregated on the hillside west of the pool.
Mom reminded me that we often hosted one of my neighborhood friends during those trips. Bruce’s mom sent him with hamburger to help with our meals, while Kevin’s mom sent bars. My guest camper and I slept in the back of our station wagon.
Camden disappointed only in my spectacularly unsuccessful, years-long pursuit of the wily Camden brook or rainbow trout. I recall being stunned when I later spotted a gentleman in waders casting into mid-river riffles. Apparently, I had been going about it all wrong.
We were generally summer Camden visitors, but I remember one winter trip to Toboggan Hill. Mom laughed when I asked if she remembered that trip, saying, “Oh, yes, but that was hard work climbing up the side of the slope to get to the top.” She was right on that account. My clearest memory involves flying down the hill from the top; getting turned around half-way down; and shooting the rest of the way backwards before taking a terrific tumble near the bottom. I only climbed halfway up for my remaining runs.
I camped at Camden last summer and hiked up the steep hill above the lower campground. The hillcrest trail is still there as are those huge boulders in case you need an adventure in a fantasy castle, fort, or outlaw-filled badlands.
I welcome your participation in and ideas about our exploration of prairie lives. You may reach me at prairieviewpressllc@gmail.com.
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Camden love letters – the Palmers at Camden in 1960s - Marshall Independent
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