Former campers and counselors from foreign lands recall their camp welcome
Pierre Beretz (France, 71-73):
For a French kid in the 70s, Nebagamon was on the other side of the world. Even my English teacher could not pronounce “Wisconsin” correctly, and I was one of the lousiest pupils in the English class.
When I arrived at Camp, I remember that new campers were invited for a welcome meeting at the Big House. Nardie said we could come in according to the distance we had traveled from our home. I think some guys from Florida or Mexico stood up and wanted to be first, and I did not move because I did not really understand what was going on. Nardie had to say, “No, we have a camper from France!” The kid next to me asked me, “What state is France in?” It took me some time to consider what was new because it was in the USA, or what was new because it was in Camp Nebagamon. What songs were in English (that I did not understand)? And what songs where in Danish (that no one could understand)?
I completely lost contact with the camp family after my last year as a Lumberjack, as there was no email, and writing letters was probably not so usual for cabinmates. But I kept a strong remembrance of those fabulous weeks, where everything was different, where you could dress as you wanted, where you could drink the lake water during the canoeing trips.
I was now the best in my English course, and my life was changed by what I learned and shared with people so different from me. I was now so wise about things that did not even exist for my friends, more opened to the outside than before, and it sure helped me in many ways. Thirty years later, I could send my two kids to Nebagamon, and now we share memories—not only of the great moments of stress for the first few days, but also the rec hall songs, the campfires when tripping, and the sunsets at the Point. Their mother is sometimes jealous of this closeness we have, but she knows this great experience is an asset for their future life, and that they will keep the fires burning.
Mikael Qvist Rorsted (Denmark, 78-82)
I first attended camp in 1978. I was 13 years old and had just finished 7th grade in Denmark. My cabin was Axeman 6, a great bunch of guys who knew each from years together at camp. Among them were Ed Pines, Andy Rifkin, Stu Cowles, and John Kleeman, who went on to become a longtime friend. Our JC was Steve Frank, and our SC was John Zuraw. I couldn´t have asked for a better group of people to introduce me to Nebagamon life.
It was not without challenges, however. My father Bendt and my two older brothers Jesper and Kasper had all been to camp and loved it. So I had only ever heard the good side of the story. The bad side? Well, the language! Remember, this was 1978—no Internet, no MTV, no U.S. television. The only place in Denmark where I could learn the English language was in the classroom, and I very quickly realized that maybe I should have paid a little more attention! I understood almost nothing of what was going on during that first week. I pretty much just followed the pack and hoped for the best! I remember coming out of the Rec Hall and not really understanding what everybody was signing up for or why. So, when my cabinmates all went to projects, I just walked around for a bit and went back to the cabin wondering where everybody had gone.
Of course, this didn´t work out. So I contacted my brother Kasper and told him I was unhappy and I wanted to go home! I was told in no uncertain terms that this was not a possibility. And thank goodness for that. Kasper, my counselors, and my fellow campers all did what they could to make me feel at home and welcome—even organizing a soccer game (pretty unheard of in ´78) against A-4 to give me a chance to shine. Remember, everything I was good at back in Denmark—which was mostly (European) sports—was more or less unheard of in the U.S. And vice-versa. I had never known about baseball or American football.
All of this was about to change. John Zuraw took it upon himself to teach me the wonders of baseball (I am forever grateful to him for that), and later that summer, I played in the Axeman-Lumberjack game and hit a single. Not bad for a Danish rookie. John even mail-ordered me a New York Yankees cap, which I proudly wore when I returned to Denmark—a changed person, having experienced the best summer of my life.
James Atkinson (Australia, 08-11)
I arrived at Camp Nebagamon for the first time anxious about what I had gotten myself into. Travelling halfway around the world to look after strangers kids for two months, in this small town in Wisconsin, where I didn’t know anyone. However I was welcomed with open arms and soon found myself a part of the camp family. Camp Nebagamon brings such a fascinating mix of people together, from different backgrounds, cultures, countries, religions and it works. I have been lucky enough to travel to many places around the world but nowhere else have I felt so included and made so many strong relationships with people, then those I made at camp. I loved it so much I returned for four straight summers and found whenever I travel around the U.S., and even the world, there is someone from the camp family offering to let me crash on their couch, or borrow their car or ride around on motorbikes in Thailand with! Since my time at camp I have been lucky enough to host a number of camp alum in Australia. It’s my opportunity to show my gratitude and thank Camp Nebagamon for allowing me into the family.
I have a permanent reminder of Camp tattooed on my wrist. KTFB. It’s a daily reminder of the friendships, the adventures, the laughs and the lifelong friends I have made, all because Camp Nebagamon welcomed me into family, and for which I will be forever grateful.
Euan Kerr (Scotland, 78-84)
The first member of the Camp Nebagamon staff whom I met was Ted Stein. It was in the parking lot of the Twin Gables Motel in Poplar, Wisconsin. I wasn’t in the greatest shape, having just completed a trip from Edinburgh, Scotland, that had taken the best part of three days and involved trains, two planes, a very strange night in the Chicago YMCA, and then an all night bus trip which dropped me off in this parking lot around 6 a.m. I called camp as instructed and was told someone would pick me up, but I should grab a cup of coffee at the motel in the meantime.
Euan Kerr, 1983
I walked in and I swear the place was not only full of people, but it went silent as I came through the door. I sat at the counter, and as the conversation resumed the waitress asked me where I was headed. “Camp Neba-gammon” I replied. “They say ‘neh-BAG-amon’ round here” she said, leaving me with my coffee. I slurped it down and headed back to the parking lot after paying. Eventually, a huge station wagon bounced into the lot, and a guy with a big smile got out. However, when he spoke my heart sank. This guys voice was so deep it came out of his toenails. My first thought was: If everyone at this camp is like this, I’m in trouble.
But I quickly realized Ted was a great guy who shared similar musical tastes to my own. When I arrived, I met Sally and Nardie, as well as some of the office staff, and I learned the rest of the camp staff would arrive in a couple of days. I was stunned by the beauty of CN itself and delighted by Paul Bunyan and all of the Herb Hollinger whirligigs. I got to see many of them during a personal tour of camp led by Frank Q Sachs and his friend Stanton Q Strauss (man, these Americans had fancy names.) They filled me in on wealth of information about Nebagamon, and a whole lot of lore. They clearly both loved the place, and delighted in showing it off.
I wrote a letter home that night, telling my family I thought I had really fallen on my feet. Little did I know…
Lars Kolind (Denmark, 67-70)
I came to Camp Nebagamon in 1967 as an orienteering counsellor aged 20. My English was less than impressive, but after eight weeks of hiking with different groups of Nebagamon campers, I started to even dream in English.
Lars Kolind
My four summers at Nebagamon taught me how great America can be. The natural beauty at Isle Royale, Porcupine Mountains, and the Boundary Waters area was stunning. The people I met at camp showed me how generous and welcoming America can be. I felt it was all of us first, not just America First. As a foreigner, I immediately felt part of the family, and everyone was interested to learn from our differences. I got to love and to respect America, and this passion has proved much stronger than attitudes towards changing political regimes.
The words “This shall be a place of welcome for all” meant something very concrete for me. Camp Nebagamon has huge social impact on all of us. I came to camp though friends who were Scout leaders just like me. I continued as a voluntary Scout leader after my Nebagamon years, practicing the openness and friendliness that I had become accustomed to at camp. Today I am the Chairman-elect of the World Scout Foundation. The fires indeed kept burning. And one day, I shall return to Nebagamon.
Neils Jorgensen (Denmark, 58, 60-64)
I remember that when I was first approached by Bendt Rorsted I was not interested, because I had just spent two years at a college in California, and wanted to see the Soviet Union. But Bendt said, ‘I promise you that when you have tried Camp Nebagamon once, you will want to go back.’ He was right. I came for six years. It was the time of Muggs Lorber, and his welcome was overwhelming. He immediately sent me to the “Yacket Man” in Superior, so I could be looking like a real lumberjack.
Niels and Inger Jorgensen, adding Swahili to the sign in 1980
Having just spent two years in California, the U.S. was quite familiar to me, so I liked the “we can do it ” attitude. If you had a good idea, and if it was safe, money was not a problem. That’s why Muggs approved that I take a group of the best hikers on a trip due north of camp until we reached Lake Superior, where we were picked up by a Camp Nebagamon transport.
Ricardo Phillips (Mexico, 76, 78, 80, 84, 86)
I remember my trip to camp was a trip in itself. I had been to camps before, but they were all close to big cities and for short periods of time. After two long flights, a stayover in Mineapolis with a counselor whom I just met, and a long drive to Nebagamon, it really felt far away from home and from most of what I was used to. This was the wilderness for me (and to think we were a couple of blocks away from a DQ). We dont get woods like Nebagamon in Mexico.
My brother and I were the first Mexicans to ever arrive at camp. In the beginning, few of my fellow campers even knew what Mexico was like, and I did not really understand where they came from either. We changed that and brought a bit of Mexico into my cabin—the usuall stuff like spicy food (yes, I had actually smuggled spicy Mexican candy into Nebagamon). By the end of summer, camp felt so much closer to home.
Nebagamon was not my first camp, but it turned out to be my last. I came back as a camper for three years and as a counselor for two. My son and my nephews came back to camp. I guess my son has a plaque in the rec hall as a second generation camper, and I hope he does the same with his kids some day.
Three years ago, just before flying to Chicago, I had a beer with Matt Steenrod, a good friend form Colorado. To my surprise, after letting him know I was flying to pick my son up at a camp in Wisconsin, I discovered he had also come to Nebagamon as a trip counselor. Soon after, my son and I flew to San Diego to meet the rest of the family, and while looking at seals in La Jolla I casually met somebody. Our conversation took us to my son,to camp and—again to my surprise—we were actually talking to 1940s camper Lawrence (Punky) Chapman. We continue to mail and talk about our years as campers, our trips, and those funny songs Nardie and Sally would have us sing every meal. Camp is no longer that far away or distant. It remains in many of us.
Liam Clements (United Kingdom, 09-11)
I do remember my first evening at camp—during staff training. Most of the guys were former campers and first year JCs, so they were all happy to be back at camp. They were looking at moving to an empty cabin so they can all stay together like when they were campers. Luca Bacci (Highland Park, IL) made the point of staying in the cabin with me because I didn’t really know anyone. We wound up chatting most of the night about where we came from and the cultural differences. It was just a simple thing to do, but it was a nice gesture that made me feel welcome.
One of the initial challenges of camp was the language—the different words we use for certain things. It wasn’t really a concern with the staff, but seeing as I was looking after the youngest kids in camp, they sometimes didn’t understand what I was on about. At the same time they did find some of my pronunciations funny, which I think helped with them relaxing around me early on. Also, in England we use the word “damn” in the same way Americans use “darn.” We don’t see it as a cuss word, but early on my Swampers starting telling me I cussed when I wasn’t even aware of it.
One of the biggest differences I found at camp was the singing around the campfire and in the rec hall. At home it is seen as a stereotypical thing that is done at American camps and is kind of seen as a bit cheesy. As soon as you get to camp, though, and join in with all the songs and camp traditions, it is something that you buy into and is what makes up part of Nebagamon’s magic. When you get home from camp, these experiences of camp are the hardest part to explain to people that have never been involved with an American summer camp.
Liam Clements (2nd from left), Jamie Lau (4th from left) and the rest of the CN tennis staff
Jamie Lau (United Kingdom, 10-13)
During my first summer at camp, I was 20 years old, traveling for the first time to the U.S. from the UK, not knowing a single person, and being the only new international staff that summer. Needless to say my first night’s sleep in Swamper 2 wasn’t the most settled. Everything was different: the type of food, the taste of the water, the smell of the trees, even the language (both Americanisms and Nebaganisms). But the most defining and memorable experiences I have at camp are that the people are different.
More importantly, the ethos of the community is different; people trust one another implicitly. If you ask for help, you’ll get multiple offers. You don’t have to shout to be heard. And every cog is just as valued in this well-oiled machine. Nothing shows this more than the council fire tradition, and for me, that is where I truly understood the gravity of the phrase “This Shall Be A Place of Welcome For All.” This idea of openness, and sharing, and acceptance resonates so strongly in everything I do to this day.
I’ve been asked multiple times before, “How did you ‘get’ camp so quickly having never been a camper?” My response is simple: Camp gave it to me.
Jakob Middelboe Ronnow (Larsen) (Demark, 67-70, 72-76)
It was the year 1968. Yes, THAT year! I was a Swamper counselor from Denmark. It was an election year. Now, in Denmark we all are what you would call “liberal.” It is a many hundred years’ tradition that we shall share each others’ burdens. It has worked pretty well in all the Scandinavian countries so far. Therefore it goes without saying that I was all for the democratic candidate nomination of Senator Eugene McCarthy. “Clean Gene”—our man!
At camp we had the Mock Political Convention, and I think you could say I went all in—maybe a trifle too keenly—for the senator. It was totally impossible for me that anyone could have other conceptions of a perfect presidential candidate than the senator from Minnesota. But at the Camp Convention there were plenty of other opinions—many for Hubert Humphrey, even some for Richard Nixon. And decent boys and counselors with fairly reasonable arguments were supporting them. I believe it was the most heated convention at camp for many years, mirroring the very tumultuous events that took place in Chicago and the real USA in the months afterwards.
But what if all of the campers and counselors agreed on everything and had the same political view as me? Would you call it idyllic scenery? No! DULL scenery! Much too often we seem to forget that life is so wonderful because we are NOT alike, because we do NOT have the same opinions, same looks, tastes, preferences. The differences make our lives richer—on one condition though. On the condition that we invest time to listen to each other, give room for each other, try to be open and learn from each other, in spite of races, creeds, nations. Important as never before.
That is exactly the attitude I met at Nebagamon. That it was a place of welcome for ALL. Also for those who preferred Nixon in 68! Also for the over eager counselor from Denmark. What a place! Keep it that way! It makes lives richer.
Bemidji, MN: Perhaps the most famous Bunyan statue, though oddly one of the least artful, this 18-foot-tall, 2.5-ton behemoth celebrated his 80th birthday this year. Though once hailed by the Kodak Company as the country’s “second most photographed icon” behind Mt. Rushmore, this Bunyan suffers from proportionality issues, more resembling the shrunken-headed hunter in the waiting room in the final scene of Beetlejuice than a rugged woodsman.
Brainerd, MN: Next to the Bemidji Bunyan, perhaps the next most famous is the eerie colossus on the road into Brainerd that figured prominently in the Coen Brothers’ 1996 classic film Fargo. But in the same way the fictional film was billed as “based on a true story,” the Brainerd Bunyan is a prop based on an actual talking statue sitting on the outskirts of town in the Bunyan-based amusement park Paul Bunyan Land. A second Bunyan joined the party about a decade ago at the Brainerd Lakes Welcome Center, sitting on a stump with his right hand permanently hoisted in the air patiently waiting for a high five for carving the Grand Canyon.
Bangor, ME: Maine’s “Queen City” also asserts to be Bunyan’s birthplace and also lays claim to what a plaque says is “reputed to be the largest statue of Paul Bunyan in the world.” Bangor’s 31-foot-tall, 3,700-pound giant is one of the more life-like Bunyan’s, a quality exploited by an actual Bangor native, Stephen King, who brought Bunyan to life in his 1986 book It after the statue was possessed by an evil spirit.
Westwood, CA: Some six hours southeast of Klamath, sits another Golden State Paul, in a town built by the actual Red River Logging Company, which was credited with popularizing the Paul Bunyan myth through advertising pamphlets in the early 1900s. For a town with such a rich Bunyan history, Paul here sports a slight physique suggesting he might be more comfortable reconciling the lumber company’s books then felling mighty pines. Westwood’s Paul doesn’t even have a beard; instead sporting a magnificent Mario-esque mustache.
University Park, IL: With his shoulders slumped and eyes cast downward, this 25-foot Bunyan stands (or more accurately, slouches) on the campus of Governor’s State University in the south suburbs of Chicago. The renowned artist Tony Tasset reportedly wanted this Paul to reflect the world-weary mindset of America in the early 2000s, but we like to think Paul is just deflated at the thought of the Chicago Bears missing the playoffs yet again. 
tmaster of Lake Nebagamon for many years. The Drolsons were the first to invite the Lorbers into their home—and I remember musical evenings there, with each Drolson playing an instrument or singing. Ed and I were buddies. We learned to walk on stilts together (I have the picture to prove it). At Friday night roller skating in the village auditorium it was a treat to watch Eddie, the picture of grace, gliding in perfect timing to the music. He also was a great dancer (I loved to dance the polka with Ed). In 1953, Ed started what would be a 20-year run on the staff. He was a senior counselor, then a village push (Swamper and Axeman), and he finished his career at CNOC. One of the highlights for Ed was being chosen to be a counselor on camp’s See America Trip, and he reflected on that adventure throughout his life.”
As a part of our annual camp reunion trip to New York City, one of my favorite things to do is to visit the Statue of Liberty. I find it immensely inspiring to view Lady Liberty and to imagine the experience that millions of immigrants had as they arrived in America to begin their lives anew. As they approached New York harbor, I am sure that many of them found the magnitude of the cityscape to be incredibly intimidating. Would they be able to succeed in this huge city? In this massive country? And then, as the boat moved into the harbor, I suspect their fears were greatly diminished as they gazed upon the welcoming face of Lady Liberty.
So, despite the intimidating nature of that colossal and fake lumberjack at our entrance, I believe that this sign (the brainchild of Nardie Stein several decades ago) communicates what Lady Liberty’s poem—“The New Colossus”—hoped to convey: There will be challenges ahead, but Nebagamon welcomes them, wants to help them, and hopes to make them part of our family.
Fortunately we eventually had some Jensens, Mikkelsens, Bojlunds, etc., to help us realize that there were actually other Danish names as well. (To confuse me more, there is a tradition in Denmark of tripartite names and surname changes—often in an attempt to have father, mother and children all share the same last name).
