Road Agent
Adventures of a wayward Traveler
Adventures of a wayward Traveler
Bobcat Lake
“Campsites are only ten dollars a night, the ranger said. “Cheap.
Do you have a golden age pass?”
“Yep!” I said, patting my wallet. “It’s the best perk of old age
since the nose hair trimmer.”
“Good,” she said, “even cheaper, five bucks. And you can gather
all the firewood you want.”
Cheap digs, free fuel, great! It doesn’t get any better than that.
My free fourteen day stay limit at a “dispersed” camping area near
Sedona had expired and I was more than ready to upgrade. Squatting
in cactus patches gets old after a while. A privy with a door that locks
and, if you’re lucky, a seat that’s been warmed is a real luxury.
“Take a right at the Costco,” the ranger said. “Bobcat Lake is just
a hundred yards up the road.”
Okay, so the site wasn’t situated romantically, but the
opportunity to score a five year supply of cocktail napkins for only
$8.95 was just a short hike away.
Just before the entrance to the campground I encountered a
traffic stop. What the hell? It was too far north for the Border Patrol.
But as I queued up I was relieved and more than a little amused to
see someone dressed as Smokey the Bear waving the next car on.
When my turn came I pulled over and greeted the fur ball.
“Yo, Smokes!” I said, “Where’s your shovel?”
“Heh, heh,” he laughed lamely. He must have heard that at least ten
times that morning.
“Welcome to Bobcat Lake, sir,” he said. “We’re conducting a
little survey this morning.”
We? I looked around but didn’t see Yogi Bear or Boo Boo.
Then he whipped out a clipboard and produced a pencil from behind
a fuzzy ear. At the sight of this I quipped, “You must be a
“bearacrat.” The pun produced a groan from the depths of the bear
suit.
“Ah, you’re just groaning because you didn’t think of it, Smokes.”
“Sir,” he continued, deflecting my jest. “Where are you from?”
I persisted with my sarcasm. “Silly bear, I’ve got California plates
and I’m wearing Ray Bans. Where do you think I’m from?”
“Ah, L.A., right?”
“Ri-iight!”
“And what’s the purpose of your visit to Bobcat Lake, sir?"
“Cheap rent and free firewood.”
“Heh, heh. I mean what you plan to do during your stay? Are you
going to fish?”
“Nope.”
“Birdwatch?”
“Nope.”
“Kayak?”
“Nope.”
“Well then, what are you going to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I haven’t decided yet. Don’t ever say that to a bureaucrat. It
stymies them. They are compelled by rules and their very nature to
fill in every blank on that clipboard.
There was a beat of silence during which, I swear, the hair stood
up on the neck of the bear suit.
“Sir, I have to put something down here. Are you going to hike
one of our lovely trails?”
“Nope.”
“Roast marshmallows?”
“Nope.”
“Weinies?”
“Nope.”
Smokey inhaled to heave a sigh of exasperation, and then
checked himself in mid exhale. “We’ll just say that you’re going to
“recreate.”
Recreate? Since when was recreate a verb? But a line of cars
was piling up behind me, so I exclaimed, “Yes, that’s it!” as if Smokey
had just won a game of twenty questions. “I’m going to recreate.”
His relief projected right through the bear suit. He jotted my
response down and said, waving me on like a case of the mange,
“Well enjoy your stay at Bobcat Lake, sir, and have a lovely time
recreating.”
“Will do,” I assured him, “and I’ll stomp that fire out cold.” Then I
tooled away, singing A Recreating We Will Go to the tune of an old
standard.
At the kiosk where you register I scoped the site map and rolled
my eyes. The campgrounds were laid out in loops: Loop A, Loop B,
Loop C and so on. I hate loop configurations. When you set out on a
hike, no matter in which direction, you feel like a figure in an Escher
drawing, forever trudging uphill and never arriving.
The house rules on the kiosk read: Find your site first, then
return to register, after which some wisenheimer had scrawled, Ha,
Ha!
The campgrounds were impressive. I glided along paved loops
to a site that was walled with flagstone and surfaced with freshly
raked gravel. I would be recreating wieners over a steel fire pit
equipped with an adjustable grate and dining at a recently stained
redwood picnic table. I couldn’t wait to get lost on the way to kiosk to
register.
left the truck to mark my space. Then, in the futile hope that the
return trip would be easy on my knees, I set off on an uphill course.
To entertain myself I brought my binoculars. For insurance I packed a
bag of bread crumbs to mark my way back. And, as an extra
precaution, I pinned a note to my shirt that read: My name is Johnny.
I’m lost. If you find me call my Mommy at 914 937 62whatever.
But first I had to pee. The privy was conveniently located across
the road and downwind from my campsite. It was a Frank Lloyd
Wright affair cantilevered over a rushing stream. Outside fresh
drinking water could be cranked up the stone shaft of a quaint old
well, in a moss covered bucket. The men’s room was blindingly
spotless. On my way out the door I half expected and attendant to
hand me a towel.
And then I ran into Umberto.
He was standing next to a fourteen cylinder pick-up that was idling
on three of them. The rig was raised four feet off the ground on high
clearance gear.
“Good morning,” he said, “I am Umberto.” He was grinning
through a Pancho Villa moustache. One of his front teeth was
stainless steel. It glinted so brightly I almost heard it ping. He wore a
denim jacket with the sleeves cut off to reveal tattoos down to his
knuckles. One inscription read: Semper fi, Don’t ask why! Over the
left breast pocket of his jacket was an official looking patch with the
words Forest Service Volunteer embroidered on it.
“I am here to serve you,” Umberto said, sweeping a straw hat
from his clean shaven dome.
“Serve me?” I searched for the nearest exit.
“I am in charge of all the latrines,” He continued, snapping open
a plastic trash bag. “It is my job to keep them clean enough to eat out
of.”
I lost my appetite in a nano second. Then I cleared my throat long
enough to stammer a few compliments on Umberto’s craftsmanship.
“We are very proud of Bobcat Lake,” he said; before he
lumbered off to the lady’s room to spit shine the mirror.
I staggered away thinking, nobody volunteers to clean privys,
nobody. I haven’t seen anyone so proud of latrine duty since Andy
Griffith made the toilet seats salute in No Time for Sergeants.
Miraculously, I made it to the registering kiosk without getting lost.
Stupidly, I had forgotten my checkbook.
“Rats!” I said. Actually I said something more pungent, but it was
unprintable. Oh well, I had my binoculars and, contrary to what I told
Smokey, fattening my birding life list was high on my agenda. So I
took my time and retraced the trail of bread crumbs until it gave out
at the burrow of a very fat squirrel.
Loop A, Loop B, here we go loop-de-loop. I would have to go in
circles until my campsite appeared.
The kiosk was throwing a long shadow when I passed it for the
third time. Then, through the ponderosas, I spotted my truck. It was
the moment for decision. Looping was giving me a textbook case of
vertigo. I had to make a bee line across country.
My foot was barely up on the curb when I heard a shrill whistle.
In a trice someone was at my elbow, grasping my sleeve. When I
glanced sleeveward the grasper released me and stepped back.
He was of medium build with a snowy buzz cut that made him appear
bald. His outfit was a sight. I believe they call the style lederhosen.
And he was toting a clipboard. A swift perusal of his left suspender
revealed the second stinkin’ badge I had seen that day. It read:
Gunther Stassi, Camp Host.
“You’re out of line there, Buddy Boy,” He said.
Good grief, I thought, not one of those.
Let me digress here for a moment. Camp hosts are of two stripes:
There is les a faire Larry and his wife Trixie who tell you, “Oh camp
anywhere you want, and set the woods on fire if you have a mind to,”
before pitching their empty Corona bottles into the bushes. Then
there are clipboard toters like Gunther who are freshly retired from
some bloated bureaucracy like the GSA or worse the Post Office.
Gunther probably had a significant other named Brunhilde tucked
away in his Airstream, and one or the other of them would be at my
side every time I lit a match.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I said you’re out of line, Buddy Boy.”
Buddy Boy. I hate when anyone calls me Buddy Boy, that and Ace.
Don’t ever call me Ace. I got my nose in Gunther’s mug and said,
“Nice outfit, Gunther. Are you auditioning for The Sound of Music?”
He ignored the insult and said, “You were about to saunter off of
a prescribed pathway.”
“Saunter?”
Gunther pointed to a little sign neatly lettered with the words:
Please cleave to the trails.
Cleave?
“Gunther, I came here to recreate, not cleave.”
“Well, as you do you’ll have to adhere to prescribed trails and
roadways.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll have to write you up.”
“And?”
“And it will go on your permanent record.”
My permanent record. Aha! That was it. Gunther was a retired
teacher. He probably taught metal shop in middle school, like the
one where I made the heart shaped cookie cutter that’s still in the
bottom of my mother’s junk drawer.
I was about to explain my predicament, but bit my tongue. Any
mention of bread crumbs or the squirrel and Gunther would cite me
for littering and feeding wildlife.
Then I heard a lofty soprano trilling, “Gunther!”
It was Brunhilde. I was saved. She probably had a list of honey-dos
for hubby, and if he didn’t mach schnell she would sick her Valkeries
on him. At the sight of his heels I ducked off the prescribed path and
bushwhacked to my campsite.
It took the better part of a half hour to find my checkbook. It
wasn’t lost. I had just tucked it away in a “safe place” the location of
which had evaded my dimming memory. During the searched I
unearthed several other items that were squirreled away for safe
keeping: A wooden match safe, a Boy Scout compass and a
collapsible sundial. I even turned up my G.I. can opener, the loss of
which had me in tears the evening before over an unopened can of
cling peaches.
Stop looking, I finally told myself. It will turn up. So I took a
breather. A wood pecker flickered by, new to my life list. When I
pried open my Seeley’s Guide to North American Birds, guess what
fell out?
The second trip to the kiosk went as smoothly as the first. I
arrived in two hops and a bound. But on the second hop my pen fell
out of my pocket. (Sigh) Somewhere in my wicked childhood I must
have drowned one kitten too many.
On the way back to the truck I scoured the ground for the pen.
Nothing turned up but a few stray bread crumbs.
Then I heard a door slam and looked up. Parked in Campsite B14
was a huge fifth wheel with the back door to the “toy room” gaping
open like a cornucopia. A man and his wife were rolling an ATV down
the ramp. There was another inside the toy room; both were brand
new. And so was everything else the couple hauled out for the next
thirty five minutes.
They unlashed two wooden kayaks from the roof, erected a pair
of privacy tents marked “His” and “Hers” and pulled out no less than
five coolers in as many sizes. A matching set of Skidoos were on a
nearby trailer. Sparkling next to the stainless steel cookware piled
on the picnic table was a complete set of fiesta ware. Chairs were
unfolded, umbrellas popped open, and a collapsible entertainment
center was assembled to accommodate the 52” plasma screen the
couple wrestled out of the side door of the fifth wheel.
Curiosity got the best of me. I approached the picnic table and saw a
“must have” item, a three speed nose hair trimmer with its own
pigskin carrying case.
The husband stepped over and I pointed to my find. “How much
for the nose hair trimmer” I asked.
“It’s not for sale,” he said.
“Oh come now. I’ll give you five bucks, seven if you throw in the
Niagara Falls coffee mug.”
“This is not a yard sale.”
“It isn’t?”
Gunther was summoned. I got a lecture about criminal trespass
and harassment. And then, just as I was about to trundle off, I found
my pen on the prescribed pathway.
At the kiosk the weight of the world collapsed on me. I had
forgotten the number of my campsite.
It was dark when I finally clipped my registration slip to the post
by my truck. Gunther was on it like a bat on a gypsy moth. He
removed the stub and recorded the event in triplicate for my
permanent record.
Too exhausted to rustle up a meal, I made a lame attempt at
stargazing. Orion was clearly visible, but light pollution from the
Costco parking lot washed out the rest.
In the morning I set out to score some of the free firewood I was
told about. By lunchtime I had a cord stacked up next to the fire pit.
Winded from the task, I paused to rest. For entertainment I watched
a greenhorn camper attempt to back a pop-up tent trailer into the
neighboring campsite. Back and forth, back and forth he went. My
heart bled for him. I’m “hitch dyslexic” myself. Every time I try to back
a trailer up three inches it jackknifes so far I can read the rear
license plate in my side view mirror.
After several curb climbs the guy’s wife got out of their leased
Navigator and guided him in. The lady was quite attractive. But I
couldn’t help noticing what a fish out of water she was. Not a blond
hair on her head was out of place. Her sneakers were out of the box
white. And she had ironed razor sharp creases in her jeans. As she
and her husband negotiated the unfamiliar workings of the pop-up
tent trailer I said to myself, they are going to climb into that thing, zip
the windows shut and won’t emerge until it’s time to leave. I was
right, the wind rocked my truck more than the two of them made that
pop-up teeter.
Two other neighbors were yawningly normal. There was Jim, a
retired police officer, travelling alone in an enormous Safari RV. He
invited me over for drinks. The inside of his rig was so cavernous
our conversation echoed. Derek and his wife Shawna occupied the
remaining campsite in our loop. They were towing a vintage
Airstream that Derek, a retired engineer, had lovingly restored.
Strapped to the roof of the trailer was an Adirondack Guide Boat that
he had assembled from a kit, in one weekend. Derek had the rest of
his image honed to perfection. Everything he wore came straight out
of the L.L. Bean catalog with a smattering of Eddie Bauer here and
there. But unlike the neighbors hiding in the pop-up next door, his
clothes had a worn, lived in look. Derek’s wife served him perked
coffee in a slightly dented Sierra Club cup; He watched birds through
German lenses, and his campfires ignited on the first match. I hate
you, Derek. If I were a woman I’d scratch your eyes out.
Umberto the volunteer was practically a neighbor. He grinned
and waved at me from across the way. I made a note to dig a slit
trench in the bushes. There’s something creepy about a guy who
hangs around latrines all day, snapping open trash bags.
All this observing stirred my appetite. I was arranging neatly split
ponderosa in the fire pit when I was suddenly overcome by the
nauseating scent of edelweiss.
“Gunter, is that you?”
“How did you know?”
“I smelled your cologne.”
“Funny boy,” he said. “Don’t even think of lighting that match.”
“Excuse me?”
“There are no fires allowed here.”
“What do you mean,” I said, pointing to Derek who was frying
organic turkey sausage over perfect coals.
“That’s a Zone II campsite. You’re in a Zone III site.”
“Say, what?”
“Do you feel that breeze coming up the draw? It’s wafting at 5
knots. A serious fire hazard.”
“Code yellow?”
“Code orange.”
I was looking around for a shovel to deck him with when a voice
trilled, “Gunther!”
A mousy looking woman in a muumuu appeared and said,
“Gunther, leave the man alone!” She was carrying a cast iron skillet
in her hand.
“But, love muffin,” Gunther protested.
“Don’t love muffin me. The air mattress needs inflating. Why don’
t you go use your hot air on that.”
Gunther slunk off, leaving me with…
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it. It’s Louise.”
Louise. I rolled the name around in my mouth. “I was expecting…”
“Maria Von Trapp.”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Gunther and I were in Bavaria last fall for Oktoberfest.”
“I see. And that’s why he’s dressed like Hitler Youth.”
“Exactly. The summer before we visited Tombstone and he went
around waving a Buntline Special under everyone’s nose.”
“Ah, boys and their toys.”
“He’s a pain in the ass, is what he is.”
“What’s a girl to do, Louise?”
“You tell me. What am I supposed to do at my age, charm the
pants off George Clooney?”
When Louise toddled off I whipped up a breakfast of charbroiled
oatmeal. Then I left the dishes soaking and set out for the lake with
my binoculars.
Bird life on the water was anything but exotic. Some misguided
soul had liberated a Muscovy and several Pekins in the lake and the
birds had interbred with the local wild fowl. When I stepped to the
shore a flotilla of white headed mallards set upon me, clamoring for
handouts. One of them waddled out of the water and nibbled at my
shoelaces. I booted his duck ass back into the lake and said, “Sorry,
guys, the squirrel got all my bread crumbs.” Then I slipped away in
bird poop.
Uphill I saw activity at a knothole in a ponderosa. It was a bridled
titmouse, my first. He was a bold little guy and allowed me to
approach closely. I was ten feet away when a bullhorn blared in my
ear, “STEP AWAY FROM THE KNOTHOLE!”
Ears ringing, I whirled on my tormentor, “Gunther!” I shouted to
hear myself, “I thought you were supposed to be tuning up an air
mattress.”
“Well I huffed and I puffed and I blew it right up.”
“What’s your problem now?”
“You are violating that bird’s critical space, a Code 53 infraction
of the Migratory Bird Treaty.”
That was it. I’d had enough. I went to Bobcat Lake to recreate
and all I wound up doing was infracting. I stomped away, leaving
Gunther scribbling notes in the margins of my permanent record.
On the way out of camp I passed Smokey the Bear. He was still
interviewing recreators.
“Yo, Smokes!” I yelled as I zipped past him, “Keep on stomping
out those fires!”
When I looked into my side view mirror, Smokey had his paw
raised and he was giving me the finger.
“Campsites are only ten dollars a night, the ranger said. “Cheap.
Do you have a golden age pass?”
“Yep!” I said, patting my wallet. “It’s the best perk of old age
since the nose hair trimmer.”
“Good,” she said, “even cheaper, five bucks. And you can gather
all the firewood you want.”
Cheap digs, free fuel, great! It doesn’t get any better than that.
My free fourteen day stay limit at a “dispersed” camping area near
Sedona had expired and I was more than ready to upgrade. Squatting
in cactus patches gets old after a while. A privy with a door that locks
and, if you’re lucky, a seat that’s been warmed is a real luxury.
“Take a right at the Costco,” the ranger said. “Bobcat Lake is just
a hundred yards up the road.”
Okay, so the site wasn’t situated romantically, but the
opportunity to score a five year supply of cocktail napkins for only
$8.95 was just a short hike away.
Just before the entrance to the campground I encountered a
traffic stop. What the hell? It was too far north for the Border Patrol.
But as I queued up I was relieved and more than a little amused to
see someone dressed as Smokey the Bear waving the next car on.
When my turn came I pulled over and greeted the fur ball.
“Yo, Smokes!” I said, “Where’s your shovel?”
“Heh, heh,” he laughed lamely. He must have heard that at least ten
times that morning.
“Welcome to Bobcat Lake, sir,” he said. “We’re conducting a
little survey this morning.”
We? I looked around but didn’t see Yogi Bear or Boo Boo.
Then he whipped out a clipboard and produced a pencil from behind
a fuzzy ear. At the sight of this I quipped, “You must be a
“bearacrat.” The pun produced a groan from the depths of the bear
suit.
“Ah, you’re just groaning because you didn’t think of it, Smokes.”
“Sir,” he continued, deflecting my jest. “Where are you from?”
I persisted with my sarcasm. “Silly bear, I’ve got California plates
and I’m wearing Ray Bans. Where do you think I’m from?”
“Ah, L.A., right?”
“Ri-iight!”
“And what’s the purpose of your visit to Bobcat Lake, sir?"
“Cheap rent and free firewood.”
“Heh, heh. I mean what you plan to do during your stay? Are you
going to fish?”
“Nope.”
“Birdwatch?”
“Nope.”
“Kayak?”
“Nope.”
“Well then, what are you going to do?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I haven’t decided yet. Don’t ever say that to a bureaucrat. It
stymies them. They are compelled by rules and their very nature to
fill in every blank on that clipboard.
There was a beat of silence during which, I swear, the hair stood
up on the neck of the bear suit.
“Sir, I have to put something down here. Are you going to hike
one of our lovely trails?”
“Nope.”
“Roast marshmallows?”
“Nope.”
“Weinies?”
“Nope.”
Smokey inhaled to heave a sigh of exasperation, and then
checked himself in mid exhale. “We’ll just say that you’re going to
“recreate.”
Recreate? Since when was recreate a verb? But a line of cars
was piling up behind me, so I exclaimed, “Yes, that’s it!” as if Smokey
had just won a game of twenty questions. “I’m going to recreate.”
His relief projected right through the bear suit. He jotted my
response down and said, waving me on like a case of the mange,
“Well enjoy your stay at Bobcat Lake, sir, and have a lovely time
recreating.”
“Will do,” I assured him, “and I’ll stomp that fire out cold.” Then I
tooled away, singing A Recreating We Will Go to the tune of an old
standard.
At the kiosk where you register I scoped the site map and rolled
my eyes. The campgrounds were laid out in loops: Loop A, Loop B,
Loop C and so on. I hate loop configurations. When you set out on a
hike, no matter in which direction, you feel like a figure in an Escher
drawing, forever trudging uphill and never arriving.
The house rules on the kiosk read: Find your site first, then
return to register, after which some wisenheimer had scrawled, Ha,
Ha!
The campgrounds were impressive. I glided along paved loops
to a site that was walled with flagstone and surfaced with freshly
raked gravel. I would be recreating wieners over a steel fire pit
equipped with an adjustable grate and dining at a recently stained
redwood picnic table. I couldn’t wait to get lost on the way to kiosk to
register.
left the truck to mark my space. Then, in the futile hope that the
return trip would be easy on my knees, I set off on an uphill course.
To entertain myself I brought my binoculars. For insurance I packed a
bag of bread crumbs to mark my way back. And, as an extra
precaution, I pinned a note to my shirt that read: My name is Johnny.
I’m lost. If you find me call my Mommy at 914 937 62whatever.
But first I had to pee. The privy was conveniently located across
the road and downwind from my campsite. It was a Frank Lloyd
Wright affair cantilevered over a rushing stream. Outside fresh
drinking water could be cranked up the stone shaft of a quaint old
well, in a moss covered bucket. The men’s room was blindingly
spotless. On my way out the door I half expected and attendant to
hand me a towel.
And then I ran into Umberto.
He was standing next to a fourteen cylinder pick-up that was idling
on three of them. The rig was raised four feet off the ground on high
clearance gear.
“Good morning,” he said, “I am Umberto.” He was grinning
through a Pancho Villa moustache. One of his front teeth was
stainless steel. It glinted so brightly I almost heard it ping. He wore a
denim jacket with the sleeves cut off to reveal tattoos down to his
knuckles. One inscription read: Semper fi, Don’t ask why! Over the
left breast pocket of his jacket was an official looking patch with the
words Forest Service Volunteer embroidered on it.
“I am here to serve you,” Umberto said, sweeping a straw hat
from his clean shaven dome.
“Serve me?” I searched for the nearest exit.
“I am in charge of all the latrines,” He continued, snapping open
a plastic trash bag. “It is my job to keep them clean enough to eat out
of.”
I lost my appetite in a nano second. Then I cleared my throat long
enough to stammer a few compliments on Umberto’s craftsmanship.
“We are very proud of Bobcat Lake,” he said; before he
lumbered off to the lady’s room to spit shine the mirror.
I staggered away thinking, nobody volunteers to clean privys,
nobody. I haven’t seen anyone so proud of latrine duty since Andy
Griffith made the toilet seats salute in No Time for Sergeants.
Miraculously, I made it to the registering kiosk without getting lost.
Stupidly, I had forgotten my checkbook.
“Rats!” I said. Actually I said something more pungent, but it was
unprintable. Oh well, I had my binoculars and, contrary to what I told
Smokey, fattening my birding life list was high on my agenda. So I
took my time and retraced the trail of bread crumbs until it gave out
at the burrow of a very fat squirrel.
Loop A, Loop B, here we go loop-de-loop. I would have to go in
circles until my campsite appeared.
The kiosk was throwing a long shadow when I passed it for the
third time. Then, through the ponderosas, I spotted my truck. It was
the moment for decision. Looping was giving me a textbook case of
vertigo. I had to make a bee line across country.
My foot was barely up on the curb when I heard a shrill whistle.
In a trice someone was at my elbow, grasping my sleeve. When I
glanced sleeveward the grasper released me and stepped back.
He was of medium build with a snowy buzz cut that made him appear
bald. His outfit was a sight. I believe they call the style lederhosen.
And he was toting a clipboard. A swift perusal of his left suspender
revealed the second stinkin’ badge I had seen that day. It read:
Gunther Stassi, Camp Host.
“You’re out of line there, Buddy Boy,” He said.
Good grief, I thought, not one of those.
Let me digress here for a moment. Camp hosts are of two stripes:
There is les a faire Larry and his wife Trixie who tell you, “Oh camp
anywhere you want, and set the woods on fire if you have a mind to,”
before pitching their empty Corona bottles into the bushes. Then
there are clipboard toters like Gunther who are freshly retired from
some bloated bureaucracy like the GSA or worse the Post Office.
Gunther probably had a significant other named Brunhilde tucked
away in his Airstream, and one or the other of them would be at my
side every time I lit a match.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I said you’re out of line, Buddy Boy.”
Buddy Boy. I hate when anyone calls me Buddy Boy, that and Ace.
Don’t ever call me Ace. I got my nose in Gunther’s mug and said,
“Nice outfit, Gunther. Are you auditioning for The Sound of Music?”
He ignored the insult and said, “You were about to saunter off of
a prescribed pathway.”
“Saunter?”
Gunther pointed to a little sign neatly lettered with the words:
Please cleave to the trails.
Cleave?
“Gunther, I came here to recreate, not cleave.”
“Well, as you do you’ll have to adhere to prescribed trails and
roadways.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll have to write you up.”
“And?”
“And it will go on your permanent record.”
My permanent record. Aha! That was it. Gunther was a retired
teacher. He probably taught metal shop in middle school, like the
one where I made the heart shaped cookie cutter that’s still in the
bottom of my mother’s junk drawer.
I was about to explain my predicament, but bit my tongue. Any
mention of bread crumbs or the squirrel and Gunther would cite me
for littering and feeding wildlife.
Then I heard a lofty soprano trilling, “Gunther!”
It was Brunhilde. I was saved. She probably had a list of honey-dos
for hubby, and if he didn’t mach schnell she would sick her Valkeries
on him. At the sight of his heels I ducked off the prescribed path and
bushwhacked to my campsite.
It took the better part of a half hour to find my checkbook. It
wasn’t lost. I had just tucked it away in a “safe place” the location of
which had evaded my dimming memory. During the searched I
unearthed several other items that were squirreled away for safe
keeping: A wooden match safe, a Boy Scout compass and a
collapsible sundial. I even turned up my G.I. can opener, the loss of
which had me in tears the evening before over an unopened can of
cling peaches.
Stop looking, I finally told myself. It will turn up. So I took a
breather. A wood pecker flickered by, new to my life list. When I
pried open my Seeley’s Guide to North American Birds, guess what
fell out?
The second trip to the kiosk went as smoothly as the first. I
arrived in two hops and a bound. But on the second hop my pen fell
out of my pocket. (Sigh) Somewhere in my wicked childhood I must
have drowned one kitten too many.
On the way back to the truck I scoured the ground for the pen.
Nothing turned up but a few stray bread crumbs.
Then I heard a door slam and looked up. Parked in Campsite B14
was a huge fifth wheel with the back door to the “toy room” gaping
open like a cornucopia. A man and his wife were rolling an ATV down
the ramp. There was another inside the toy room; both were brand
new. And so was everything else the couple hauled out for the next
thirty five minutes.
They unlashed two wooden kayaks from the roof, erected a pair
of privacy tents marked “His” and “Hers” and pulled out no less than
five coolers in as many sizes. A matching set of Skidoos were on a
nearby trailer. Sparkling next to the stainless steel cookware piled
on the picnic table was a complete set of fiesta ware. Chairs were
unfolded, umbrellas popped open, and a collapsible entertainment
center was assembled to accommodate the 52” plasma screen the
couple wrestled out of the side door of the fifth wheel.
Curiosity got the best of me. I approached the picnic table and saw a
“must have” item, a three speed nose hair trimmer with its own
pigskin carrying case.
The husband stepped over and I pointed to my find. “How much
for the nose hair trimmer” I asked.
“It’s not for sale,” he said.
“Oh come now. I’ll give you five bucks, seven if you throw in the
Niagara Falls coffee mug.”
“This is not a yard sale.”
“It isn’t?”
Gunther was summoned. I got a lecture about criminal trespass
and harassment. And then, just as I was about to trundle off, I found
my pen on the prescribed pathway.
At the kiosk the weight of the world collapsed on me. I had
forgotten the number of my campsite.
It was dark when I finally clipped my registration slip to the post
by my truck. Gunther was on it like a bat on a gypsy moth. He
removed the stub and recorded the event in triplicate for my
permanent record.
Too exhausted to rustle up a meal, I made a lame attempt at
stargazing. Orion was clearly visible, but light pollution from the
Costco parking lot washed out the rest.
In the morning I set out to score some of the free firewood I was
told about. By lunchtime I had a cord stacked up next to the fire pit.
Winded from the task, I paused to rest. For entertainment I watched
a greenhorn camper attempt to back a pop-up tent trailer into the
neighboring campsite. Back and forth, back and forth he went. My
heart bled for him. I’m “hitch dyslexic” myself. Every time I try to back
a trailer up three inches it jackknifes so far I can read the rear
license plate in my side view mirror.
After several curb climbs the guy’s wife got out of their leased
Navigator and guided him in. The lady was quite attractive. But I
couldn’t help noticing what a fish out of water she was. Not a blond
hair on her head was out of place. Her sneakers were out of the box
white. And she had ironed razor sharp creases in her jeans. As she
and her husband negotiated the unfamiliar workings of the pop-up
tent trailer I said to myself, they are going to climb into that thing, zip
the windows shut and won’t emerge until it’s time to leave. I was
right, the wind rocked my truck more than the two of them made that
pop-up teeter.
Two other neighbors were yawningly normal. There was Jim, a
retired police officer, travelling alone in an enormous Safari RV. He
invited me over for drinks. The inside of his rig was so cavernous
our conversation echoed. Derek and his wife Shawna occupied the
remaining campsite in our loop. They were towing a vintage
Airstream that Derek, a retired engineer, had lovingly restored.
Strapped to the roof of the trailer was an Adirondack Guide Boat that
he had assembled from a kit, in one weekend. Derek had the rest of
his image honed to perfection. Everything he wore came straight out
of the L.L. Bean catalog with a smattering of Eddie Bauer here and
there. But unlike the neighbors hiding in the pop-up next door, his
clothes had a worn, lived in look. Derek’s wife served him perked
coffee in a slightly dented Sierra Club cup; He watched birds through
German lenses, and his campfires ignited on the first match. I hate
you, Derek. If I were a woman I’d scratch your eyes out.
Umberto the volunteer was practically a neighbor. He grinned
and waved at me from across the way. I made a note to dig a slit
trench in the bushes. There’s something creepy about a guy who
hangs around latrines all day, snapping open trash bags.
All this observing stirred my appetite. I was arranging neatly split
ponderosa in the fire pit when I was suddenly overcome by the
nauseating scent of edelweiss.
“Gunter, is that you?”
“How did you know?”
“I smelled your cologne.”
“Funny boy,” he said. “Don’t even think of lighting that match.”
“Excuse me?”
“There are no fires allowed here.”
“What do you mean,” I said, pointing to Derek who was frying
organic turkey sausage over perfect coals.
“That’s a Zone II campsite. You’re in a Zone III site.”
“Say, what?”
“Do you feel that breeze coming up the draw? It’s wafting at 5
knots. A serious fire hazard.”
“Code yellow?”
“Code orange.”
I was looking around for a shovel to deck him with when a voice
trilled, “Gunther!”
A mousy looking woman in a muumuu appeared and said,
“Gunther, leave the man alone!” She was carrying a cast iron skillet
in her hand.
“But, love muffin,” Gunther protested.
“Don’t love muffin me. The air mattress needs inflating. Why don’
t you go use your hot air on that.”
Gunther slunk off, leaving me with…
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it. It’s Louise.”
Louise. I rolled the name around in my mouth. “I was expecting…”
“Maria Von Trapp.”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Gunther and I were in Bavaria last fall for Oktoberfest.”
“I see. And that’s why he’s dressed like Hitler Youth.”
“Exactly. The summer before we visited Tombstone and he went
around waving a Buntline Special under everyone’s nose.”
“Ah, boys and their toys.”
“He’s a pain in the ass, is what he is.”
“What’s a girl to do, Louise?”
“You tell me. What am I supposed to do at my age, charm the
pants off George Clooney?”
When Louise toddled off I whipped up a breakfast of charbroiled
oatmeal. Then I left the dishes soaking and set out for the lake with
my binoculars.
Bird life on the water was anything but exotic. Some misguided
soul had liberated a Muscovy and several Pekins in the lake and the
birds had interbred with the local wild fowl. When I stepped to the
shore a flotilla of white headed mallards set upon me, clamoring for
handouts. One of them waddled out of the water and nibbled at my
shoelaces. I booted his duck ass back into the lake and said, “Sorry,
guys, the squirrel got all my bread crumbs.” Then I slipped away in
bird poop.
Uphill I saw activity at a knothole in a ponderosa. It was a bridled
titmouse, my first. He was a bold little guy and allowed me to
approach closely. I was ten feet away when a bullhorn blared in my
ear, “STEP AWAY FROM THE KNOTHOLE!”
Ears ringing, I whirled on my tormentor, “Gunther!” I shouted to
hear myself, “I thought you were supposed to be tuning up an air
mattress.”
“Well I huffed and I puffed and I blew it right up.”
“What’s your problem now?”
“You are violating that bird’s critical space, a Code 53 infraction
of the Migratory Bird Treaty.”
That was it. I’d had enough. I went to Bobcat Lake to recreate
and all I wound up doing was infracting. I stomped away, leaving
Gunther scribbling notes in the margins of my permanent record.
On the way out of camp I passed Smokey the Bear. He was still
interviewing recreators.
“Yo, Smokes!” I yelled as I zipped past him, “Keep on stomping
out those fires!”
When I looked into my side view mirror, Smokey had his paw
raised and he was giving me the finger.
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