It’s the time of year when parents eagerly leaf through the brochures from summer camps. Wondering where they can send their children for a couple of weeks. Or, better, an entire summer.

There are many choices, none cheap. Some can run as high as almost $5,000 a week. It’s much more complicated than the old days of 30 or 40 years ago, when campers went canoe-tripping or took swimming lessons. When crafts consisted of gluing cedar branches together.

Kids can still do some of those things, although modern canoe trips can last the entire summer and those crafts might well include movie-making or living like an astronaut or open heart surgery. (OK, I made up that last one, but you get the idea.)

As a child, I always felt a bit deprived when I watched campers’ canoe trips head down our cottage river. So, when I was an adult with children myself, I was vulnerable to a chance to spend a week or two at a family camp.

It sounded splendid: a lake deep in the Laurentians, with cabins. People who had been there sang the praises of the food. They raved about rich stews, golden ears of corn slathered with butter, and breakfasts of bacon and eggs, waffles and toast.

True, there were religious aspects to this camp. But church services weren’t mandatory, and so we signed up.

When we arrived in midsummer, the place looked good, even picturesque. The private lake glistened in the sun, and I strolled down to the beach. Oh, oh. Trouble in paradise…

As I walked toward the dock, a teenage boy hurried up and said, “You can’t do that.”

Surprised, I said, “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t do that,” he repeated. “You can’t go down by the water when it’s not supervised.”

I objected: “But I’m just walking.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m the lifeguard, and I’m not on duty yet.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I went on bravely. “Besides, I’m a good swimmer.”

“But you haven’t passed our test,” he said.

There were many things I thought of saying and doing, but I decided I would just go back up the hill and join the 30 or so of us filing into the dining hall. Some of that much-praised food would settle me down.

After a few minutes, the kitchen doors swung open and staff appeared with large, aluminum bowls that had to be full of rich soup or stew. I dipped a ladle in one and came up with uncooked, shredded cabbage. It was floating in thin consommé. Not only was it tasteless, it was all. This was our rich supper.

There was much muttering from amongst us campers but, suddenly, the people who were running the place seemed to have vanished. Probably, they had driven into town to find a restaurant. When I asked what was happening in the kitchen, I was told the cook had quit and there was no one left who knew their way around a kitchen.

It turned out we had stumbled into survival camping. Luckily, we had a couple of chocolate bars and that made our supper back at the cabin. Then came a knock on the door, and there stood a girl of about 13 or 14.

“Good evening,” she said. “I’m your facilitator.”

All I could say was: “Huh?”

“Your facilitator,” she said. “It’s time to go to the meeting hall for discussions.”

“Discussions?” I asked.

She explained: “We usually talk about bible passages. Then have cocoa and cookies.”

The lure of food almost got me, but I was wary: “Cocoa and cookies?”

She hesitated, then said: “Most nights. But tonight, we have no milk and no cookies.”

I closed the door and left her outside. When she had gone, we piled into the car and drove 30 miles to a restaurant. When we got back, we were past the 9 p.m. curfew and lights out. But, luckily, there were no sentries or guard dogs and we made it to our cabin.

And that was my summer at camp. One night. And I never envied campers again. IE