Our first tent-camping trip in years was to Great Falls, where we stayed in a private RV park. We liked the park in our motorhome days, but its tent sites now seem seldom used.

We were delighted when a Canadian couple pulled in. "Hey," they said, "you must be the only other people in America still tent camping." They'd taken a six-week camping swing through the lower 48 and had met few others.

All was well until we broke camp to head home. The Canadians were gone and I'd just started moving the car closer to load. The tent was empty but still staked -- sort of. A great wind came up. Wind in Great Falls? Imagine.

Our tent is big and early 90s' high-tech. The door faced the wind and the rain fly was fastened to the tent, not staked. The wind picked up the whole caboodle and tossed it rolling toward a low, wire fence between the campground and the road. The Sun River is across the road.

I saw the tent bounce over the fence with my husband chasing it. He sensibly decided not to jump the fence and instead dashed for the gate. In my head were images of the tent slamming onto a car on the road or sailing gaily into the river and floating away.

My prayer was, "Help, Lord, help." I read somewhere that "Help," is the most frequent of prayers. I know why.

The tent landed in a huge puffy lump in the ditch, harming no autos or people. Thank you, God. And we only had to splint a tent pole.

Our next camping trip happened a week later with friends at the Kading Campground. Lovely place, wonderful trip -- except that we forgot the warm stuff, sleeping bag pads, wool socks and hats, and toasty jammies.

I was as cold as I've ever been. I couldn't sleep. At four a.m. I roused Lowell, who helped me to the car. I spent the rest of the night inside, zipped into my bag, able finally to sleep but still cold. My left leg felt half frozen and it took two weeks for me to walk normally on it again.

The next morning I learned that the temperature had dropped to 38 degrees that night. Lowell came to town, rounded up everything we forgot and bought a tent heater. That night we turned the heater off too soon. It was better but I wasn't warm.

Now we're preparing to camp again, same friends, different mountain campground. Don't I ever learn? I woke up last night thinking, "OK, I have fleeces to sleep in now, a warmer bag, a bigger cot pad. I'm worried. Dear Lord, help!"

Was that Divine chuckling I heard? But it sounded like my dad's voice. Saying, Yes, you too are God's beloved. That doesn't mean you get to wimp out. You haven't recently, so don't now. Toughen up, my girl. Wear wool. Pray a lot.

Help, oh help, Lord. Amen.

Joan Uda is a retired United Methodist minister who lives in Lewis and Clark County joanuda@yahoo.com www.riceuniverse.net/joanuda