My Vacation
*****copyright 2001 Dale Hansen no reproduction without permission***
A lot of people have asked me “How was your vacation?” I understand that most people are being polite and don’t really care about my vacation, but there are the masochistic few that actually do want to hear a story. If you really don’t care, as I suspect is the case, then the answer is “fine.” And “Yes, a lot of fun, thanks.” You may now cease reading this.
Having come this far, I can only assume that you are of the rare “other” class of person who either really is interested or you mother read you too many bedtime stories as a child and now you look for more. Well, dig in.
My wife’s Birthday is June 1st. This will actually become important at several junctions later on. June 1 was a Friday this year and my vacation was slotted for Saturday the 2nd to Sunday the 10th. My wife and I decided to split up our vacation time and take two holidays. First we would go camping over the weekend, and then return Monday, rest, wash, fly out Tuesday to Chicago, return on Friday, have the weekend to our selves. On paper, it looked like a great plan.
Be It Resolved;
We came across a camper’s guide to spots around Arizona and decided to check out a spot near the thriving metropolis of Globe. It was on top of a mountain, 7500 feet above sea level, but it was slightly developed and limited to 14 campsites. We knew that waiting until Saturday morning might be too late, we could miss out on the camping experience of a lifetime if some one else got there first. I looked at my employee records and found out that I had just enough vacation hours left to grab that extra Friday, June 1st, my wife’s birthday. Now the hard part; to convince my boss to let me go.
When I asked, his initial response (and indeed the attitude that carried through the entire conversation) was “I don’t care.” I felt empowered! I ran to the phone in my cube and called my wife, “I got your birthday off,” I crowed, high on my own success with so delicate a negotiation. We immediately set to making plans.
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall, Spend Thursday night packing, ready to load up the truck Friday morning at dawn and be set up in camp by breakfast. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were updated (in ink!), plans made, purchases made. And God said, “Nah, too easy.”
Now that you firmly understand that Friday June 1st is and was my wife’s birthday, there is another digression I must make. An introduction to my mother is required. When my mother was born, automobiles were a rarity, the most common form of transportation, other than walking, was the horse-drawn carriage or wagon. In her lifetime, she has seen the progression from horses to space shuttles and high-speed data access. Through all of this technological evolution, she best understands how the horse works. Unfortunately, she’s allergic to them.
My father passed away several years ago. My mother, in her 70s, remarried last year - a wonderful gentleman named Bob
Bob also does not understand technology in all of its subtle forms, and will readily admit it. That does not in anyway deter him from playing with the newest toys. The difference between these two people is best illustrated in the crystal bowl analogy. If I gave a beautiful hand cut lead-crystal bowl to my mother, she would put it in a glass case on a top shelf to look at and treasure. If I gave it to Bob, he’d fill it with gravy and plop it down in the middle of the table to be passed and washed.
I think they’re a perfect match.
Bob has a bit of gypsy in him. Many years of desk work staring out of windows to the great unknown have caught up to him and the only way to appease the constant itch in his wanderlust is to go and find what ever it was on the other side of the window. By preference, his permanent address is the Texas license plate on the back of his motorhome. The only thing keeping him in the same city as I am is my mother’s house. This largish home, while nice, is really too big for my mother’s needs, and to immobile for Bob. To this end, it has been on the market for several months, and they have been in constant prayer that it would sell. Finally, their requests were granted, and the house sold. I found out 15 minuets after calling my wife.
We found a deal where we could afford two Internet services, so we gave one to Mom and Bob. Now they have a laptop, internet services and email. And though Bob really likes the high tech gizmos and isn’t afraid to experiment, he did ask that I set things up for him. But the new internet service started on the first of the month, Friday, June 1st, did I mention it was my wife’s birthday? The service was changing the logon permissions Thursday night, and it was (of course) taking much longer than usual. By the time I got home it was after 10PM, we were in bed sometime after midnight.
OK....
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall, Spend Thursday night at Mom and Bob’s house setting them up with email on a new laptop. Then packing at dawn the next day, loading up the truck in the late morning and being setup in camp by lunch. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were updated (again, but his time in pencil!), plans made, further purchases made. And God said, “Nah, still too easy.”
I believe it was divine inspiration that made forget to set the alarm clock. Invoking Divine inspiration means I don’t have to admit to having flaked. We awoke at about 9 or 9:30AM.
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall; Pack in the morning, load up the truck in the afternoon and be setup in camp by dark. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were not updated (no more room on that page!), plans made, further purchases made. And God said, “Now your getting it.”
Around noon, we decided that it would be too dark to set up camp by the time we got there. A new strategy was formed;
Be it resolved, blah, blah, blah; Pack up today, throw the crap randomly into the truck in the morning and finally leave the house. So let it be written, and all the rest of that. Daytimers were thrown away as useless, plans shredded, further purchases made. And God said, “YOU GOT IT!”
Saturday morning, I watched as the bumper of the truck get progressively lower and lower as I threw more and more things on it. This is camping, after all! This is the fun of roughing it in the great outdoors. Air mattress with frame; check. This was the great challenge of man versus nature! Four pillows, six blankets; check. This is the true test of manhood, the challenge of the open frontier! One can propane, $20.00 worth of firewood; check. This was primal man at his animal best! OOPS! Nearly forgot the bagels! Where are they? AH! Over by the camp toaster
The springs on my little pickup compressed and groaned as I piled it on higher and higher. This was ridiculous! Something HAD to be done! Mustering my ire and under the intense heat of an Arizona sunrise, I spun on my heel, stormed into the house and confronted my wife. I told her in no uncertain terms and without possibility of discussion that “We … are … NEVER …going … backpacking!” and stormed out.
I don’t think that I really destroyed any backpacking fantasies she may have harbored, at least I was somewhat reassured from the amount of giggling that followed me back out of the house again.
The open road. There is nothing like the feeling of blacktop rolling away from under your wheels on the open freeway. Miles of tar ahead of you, never mind what may be behind, the call of the open road is addictive and impossible to ignore.
Ok, there was a stop a block away from the house for ice. And there was the gas stop in Apache Junction and the soda refill stops here and there and even a “The dog has to pee” stop, but in general, the open road cannot be denied.
One of the things I like about driving the highways and byways is the variety of sites. The gas stations designed by Frank Lloyd Write, the towns created at random and by accident. The latter describes Superior, Arizona. An old mining town; when the bottom fell out of the copper industry, the bottom fell out of Superior.
Going from eight lanes of concrete and steel highway designed to reflect the Arizona sun straight into any windshield and blind the diver, to a single lane each way of blacktop designed to melt in the Arizona sun and stick to tires, past a holiday inn sitting in the middle of sage brush with nothing near it except a stoplight and a Walgreen’s like an air-conditioned oasis in the desert, and finally, after having passed Silly Mountain Road (which has become my new “I wish I had THAT address”), brings you to Superior. The exit for the camp site is located between Superior and Globe
Now, I am a veteran of four different camping excursions. I know many things about camping, like, the damage hail can do to a tent or how it sounds when lightning strikes trees in your immediate campground area, that sort of thing. One of the areas of expertise I have is finding little forest roads. I have become deft at locating these dirt tracks. They are almost always hidden behind a copse of trees, quietly nestled in a strand of pines, or laying serene behind a tumble of boulders. I even found one under a bush once. But this was the first forest road I ever came across that was hidden behind a junk yard. To be truthful, the road was hidden at the back of a residential district, the houses were behind a junk yard. As I drove down these little streets toward the forest road, I kept thinking about the irony of a wrecking yard so close to these houses. Frankly, I was amazed that the junk yard didn’t move to a better neighborhood.
Now, remember I said the campsite was at an elevation 7,500 feet, Globe is about 3,000 feet. The campsite is either 20 miles from Globe or 4,500 feet from Globe depending on your perspective. I had gone from eight lanes on concrete to two lanes of black top, now I was looking at a single lane of dust. I thought to myself, “At least the shrinking roads have ended, at least it won’t get smaller!” And God said “I thought you were beginning to get it! What happened?”
We began climbing the mountain. 20 miles of dirt road, which, true to the irony that was the theme of my vacation, did get narrower. The road never actually got narrower than the width of my truck, I know because I kept looking for that. You see, the view is spectacular going up that mountain. Far away vistas and rolling land stretch out before you, and the panoramic view is completely uninterrupted by visual obstacles like …oh … guard rails just as an example. The speed limit on this road is 15 MPH. There are no police, no place for a speed trap or radar zone, so, really, the only penalty for speeding is a long plunge off the side the of the mountain to a lingering, flaming death. Plus, it does go on your permanent record.
This road was well kept, but it was a single lane, narrow, twisty, with blind turns and switchbacks that made going 15MPH seem like extreme sports. So we went a little slower in most spots, never faster. 15 MPH on a 20 mile stretch of road, you do the math. I found out that after enough time, even sheer terror can be boring.
The campsite was everything we had hoped. There was a little port-a-potty on the site, and there was running water. Unlike my previous camping experiences, there was no water actually running through the camp site and under the tent, so I took this as a good sign.
We entered the area and pretty much decided on the first campsite we came to. We saw a small area that had three sites, (distinguishable from the picnic tables cemented into the ground) and a single potty. We decided to go for the campsite in the back, so drove past the obvious turn. I had to back up about a dozen feet to get there again. Remember how full I said the back of the truck was? As often as I had camped, this was my first experience backing into a tree. I was surprised how truly immovable a tree can be.
After renegotiating with the flora, we got to the road and discovered, to our dismay, that the entrance we had fought and struggled for did not, in fact reach our campsite. I therefor took our two wheel drive, overloaded, mini-pickup truck four wheeling through campsites and between pines to get back to where we were before we backed up and reformed my bumper to pine tree shape.
Once parked, we where NOT moving the truck again until we went home.
Now came the time to set up camp. Ground tarp, tent, fly, bed, nightstands (yes, night stands! Look, it’s a bit hard to explain and this is already too long, just go with it OK?), table stuff, cooking stuff, and at some point through all of this I suddenly remembered what the air is like at 7500 feet. I probably would have noticed the air a little sooner if there had been a little more of it. I began to regret not taking an oxygen tent.
Eventually everything was in place, and I had to pee.
Understand that there are many bodily functions I generally don’t write about, and this is certainly one of that category, but this was the explanation for waking up all those moths and mosquitoes. See, the port-a-potty was actually a luxury condo for hundreds of flapping, blinding, flying bugs. I felt rather like I was in a low budget version of Hichcock’s The Birds.
I found an isolated tree far away from the road. Or so I thought. It turned out that the pretty "hiking trail" near our campsite was actually a twist in the road we drove up on. I can think of better ways to meet new neighbors.
As soon as I walked back to the tent, my wife announced that she was going into the port-a-potty. I insisted she arm herself with every anti-bug weapon we brought. Thus equipped with a disappointingly small arsenal, she entered the gates of insect hell. I waited, anticipating her immediate turn around amidst many shrieks and screams. And waited. The dog fell asleep. I knew it couldn’t be much longer. I think I might have dozed off next to the dog when she finally re-emerged. I marveled at her courage and fortitude. “There weren’t any bugs in there,” she said, “I think you chased them all out.”
I cautiously returned to the riot scene only to find one little moth near the screen that substituted for a window. He looked scared. I had chased them away. I was reassured of my role as protector. After all, I did clear out the bugs for my wife right? Then I caught the smell and marveled anew at my wife’s iron constitution. I swore an oath then that I would not sit on that thing for any reason, and being a man, I was reasonably sure I could get away with it. As soon as the oath was made, God quietly began to test that resolve.
I emerged to find the dog was awake again. Apparently, I had chased all the bugs out of the port-a-potty, and they were currently swarming around the campsite, demanding restitution. It looked to be a class action suit. In fact, they had apparently called some distant relatives to come and plead their case with them.
The sunset that evening was lovely, with the streaming rays of sun cascading through the trees, back lighting a million transparent wings. I ooohed and aahhed and slapped my silly head off.
Once the camp fire was lit, the smoke kept the insects away. Understand that the bugs where only kept away from where the smoke was, the fire didn’t bother them on the side where the smoke wasn’t. Fortunately, no matter where I stood in the campground, that was where the smoke went. In addition to keeping off the bugs, though, it did add a thickness to the air that my citified, smog-ridden lungs appreciated.
That night, another couple appeared to share our little slice of paradise with us. They took a site a ways away, so there was pretty good privacy, and they were generally quiet. They had no tent, they had no baggage. They had a cooler and two sleeping bags. They slept in the back of their pickup and carried nothing with them. I could feel waves of envy coming off of my truck. Their bumper was pristine too.
The wind started up that evening. Too windy for flying bugs. As long as the wind blew, the bugs kept away and the smoke found me with a vengeance. Actually, the first day and night there was rather pleasant. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. Then it was time for bed.
It got down into the low forties at night. As a former resident of Minnesota, and a 25 year resident of the Arizona desert, I have come to believe that hell is actually a cold place, not unlike the land of my birth, but with drafty, ill-suited accommodations, not unlike my tent. We have an air mattress with a frame, kind of an inflatable queen sized cot. My doctor suggested using it as a way to not have to sleep directly on the cold ground. This is much better. This allows the cold air to circulate freely under us. The mattress is made of vinyl, so not only did I sweat profusely, laying on a vinyl surface, but the frigid wind came under me and froze the sweat to my body. I awoke (several times) covered in salted ice. Also, at some point the mattress sprung a slow leak. By morning I was lying on a shower curtain draped over a dozen designer spikes.
I am thinking of changing doctors.
When I woke, the wind was still blowing. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. No bugs. The temperature of the air had started to warm, the temperature of my bones hadn’t. I was still cold. By the sheerest luck, I had a jacket in the truck. I hadn’t put it away after the winter season (God bless the lazy!), and had it available in my time of need. By morning it had become a part of me.
We went for a walk through the campground, letting the dog stretch his legs and giving me a chance to warm myself. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. On the other side of the road we came in on, there were some empty campsites. Just past them was a view that was breathtaking. It was probably the furthest I have ever been able to see outside of an airplane. The sweeping vistas, the rolling mountain sides in the far distance, turning a touch blue in the horizon, slightly more brown toward Phoenix, was incredible. And I had brought the camera! I was so proud of myself! I remembered the camera! I gave it my wife with a flourish of triumph and splendor and with full fanfare. Of course the batteries were dead. We had spares with us, but they were back at the campsite.
I lost my temper then, a bout of verbalized frustration. As I spun around, some of the salt ice fell off of my back. We decided to return after lunch with new batteries.
I listened to the wind whispering in the trees.
Our new neighbors left after breakfast and got stuck on the same road I had to come out of. Let me go over this again. An EMPTY pickup, the same size as my overloaded truck, STUCK on a piece of road the I would have to drive over too.
One of the other campers we walked by on our way to the cliff was able to tow them to the main road and then they both left the area, removing the possibility of my getting out the same way.
I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. I began imaging it was whispering about me.
I went back to the port-a-potty. I still being tested, but a vow is a vow. I swore that I would explode before sitting in there. I guess it just seemed more and more like those were going to be my options. I gritted my teeth, clenched muscles I didn’t know I had, and kept my vow.
I left my jacket on, because the wind was still whispering in the trees. I started wanting the bugs back. I tried to read The wind apparently read much faster than I did because it kept trying to turn the pages. I tried to write and it didn’t much care for my style, it ripped page after page out of my grip. About the only activity left me was listening to the wind whispering in the trees. It didn’t seem to like the fly on our tent much either, as it kept trying to pull that away with it too.
I looked longingly at the port-a-potty, but a vow is a vow, and I am good for my word. It was a stupid vow, but having made it, I was stuck with it. About 2PM my wife said, “I ‘m listening to the wind whispering in the trees.” I agreed that I too was hearing it. She replied “ I am so sick of listening to the wind whispering in the trees! It’s like a constant white noise.”
“So,” I tried to say very casually, “what do you think we should do?” Please dear lord, let her say ‘leave and go home’.
“Well,” she said, “I kind of hate to give up on our camping trip.”
I sighed and agreed with her. I took another long look at the port-a-potty, clenched my jaw and set about getting a fire ready for that night.
At about four, my wife said, “This wind is driving me crazy!”
“Well, the dog isn’t having any fun,” I replied. Do you see the genius at work here?
“I don’t want to go down that mountain road in the dark,” she wisely reminded me. “Do you think we could be ready before dark?”
I took one more look at the pot-a-potty, clenched my jaw tighter. It wasn’t exactly determination she saw in my eyes. “I can have us packed and gone in under half an hour!” I growled.
It took 45 minuets. The back of the truck was higher than before, but when I packed it at home, I was only impatient to leave the house, not screamingly desperate to find pluming. I maneuvered the truck around so that I could get out on the road at an angle, avoiding the same trap our former neighbors fell into. It worked very well, but I was left facing the wrong way. I needed to back up again. The same backwards rout that led to the bumper tree. I actually re-arranged the side view mirror, but the bumper was not re-injured, and we were well on our way, a headlong plunge 4,000 feet down a narrow dusty lane and a setting sun.
After the first few miles, I started smelling hot brakes. Even in my desperation and with regrets to the disappearing port-a-potty, I couldn’t go faster than 25 MPH down the mountain. I put the truck in first gear and let the motor keep me to a slow crawl down the face of the mountain.
An hour and change later, we were out of Superior and on our way home. Going over a mountain pass (something none of my truck’s four cylinders like to do), a man in a large pickup truck pulled up beside us, honking and repeatedly pointing at my truck. He was mouthing something I could not make out. I needed to pull over and check the load.
It was about five miles before I found a place to pull over. There was no limit to the amount of vehicular horrors i imagined during that time.
The good news; The load was fine. There was nothing lost or damaged in the bed of the truck. The bad news; flat tire. The good news; I have a spare! The bad news; it’s flat too. Thus began the epic journy of stopping every 15 minuets to refill the tire. And that is how we made the 80 mile drive back to Phoenix.
We never did put new batteries into the camera.
This was the first half of my vacation.
A lot of people have asked me “How was your vacation?” I understand that most people are being polite and don’t really care about my vacation, but there are the masochistic few that actually do want to hear a story. If you really don’t care, as I suspect is the case, then the answer is “fine.” And “Yes, a lot of fun, thanks.” You may now cease reading this.
Having come this far, I can only assume that you are of the rare “other” class of person who either really is interested or you mother read you too many bedtime stories as a child and now you look for more. Well, dig in.
My wife’s Birthday is June 1st. This will actually become important at several junctions later on. June 1 was a Friday this year and my vacation was slotted for Saturday the 2nd to Sunday the 10th. My wife and I decided to split up our vacation time and take two holidays. First we would go camping over the weekend, and then return Monday, rest, wash, fly out Tuesday to Chicago, return on Friday, have the weekend to our selves. On paper, it looked like a great plan.
Be It Resolved;
We came across a camper’s guide to spots around Arizona and decided to check out a spot near the thriving metropolis of Globe. It was on top of a mountain, 7500 feet above sea level, but it was slightly developed and limited to 14 campsites. We knew that waiting until Saturday morning might be too late, we could miss out on the camping experience of a lifetime if some one else got there first. I looked at my employee records and found out that I had just enough vacation hours left to grab that extra Friday, June 1st, my wife’s birthday. Now the hard part; to convince my boss to let me go.
When I asked, his initial response (and indeed the attitude that carried through the entire conversation) was “I don’t care.” I felt empowered! I ran to the phone in my cube and called my wife, “I got your birthday off,” I crowed, high on my own success with so delicate a negotiation. We immediately set to making plans.
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall, Spend Thursday night packing, ready to load up the truck Friday morning at dawn and be set up in camp by breakfast. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were updated (in ink!), plans made, purchases made. And God said, “Nah, too easy.”
Now that you firmly understand that Friday June 1st is and was my wife’s birthday, there is another digression I must make. An introduction to my mother is required. When my mother was born, automobiles were a rarity, the most common form of transportation, other than walking, was the horse-drawn carriage or wagon. In her lifetime, she has seen the progression from horses to space shuttles and high-speed data access. Through all of this technological evolution, she best understands how the horse works. Unfortunately, she’s allergic to them.
My father passed away several years ago. My mother, in her 70s, remarried last year - a wonderful gentleman named Bob
Bob also does not understand technology in all of its subtle forms, and will readily admit it. That does not in anyway deter him from playing with the newest toys. The difference between these two people is best illustrated in the crystal bowl analogy. If I gave a beautiful hand cut lead-crystal bowl to my mother, she would put it in a glass case on a top shelf to look at and treasure. If I gave it to Bob, he’d fill it with gravy and plop it down in the middle of the table to be passed and washed.
I think they’re a perfect match.
Bob has a bit of gypsy in him. Many years of desk work staring out of windows to the great unknown have caught up to him and the only way to appease the constant itch in his wanderlust is to go and find what ever it was on the other side of the window. By preference, his permanent address is the Texas license plate on the back of his motorhome. The only thing keeping him in the same city as I am is my mother’s house. This largish home, while nice, is really too big for my mother’s needs, and to immobile for Bob. To this end, it has been on the market for several months, and they have been in constant prayer that it would sell. Finally, their requests were granted, and the house sold. I found out 15 minuets after calling my wife.
We found a deal where we could afford two Internet services, so we gave one to Mom and Bob. Now they have a laptop, internet services and email. And though Bob really likes the high tech gizmos and isn’t afraid to experiment, he did ask that I set things up for him. But the new internet service started on the first of the month, Friday, June 1st, did I mention it was my wife’s birthday? The service was changing the logon permissions Thursday night, and it was (of course) taking much longer than usual. By the time I got home it was after 10PM, we were in bed sometime after midnight.
OK....
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall, Spend Thursday night at Mom and Bob’s house setting them up with email on a new laptop. Then packing at dawn the next day, loading up the truck in the late morning and being setup in camp by lunch. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were updated (again, but his time in pencil!), plans made, further purchases made. And God said, “Nah, still too easy.”
I believe it was divine inspiration that made forget to set the alarm clock. Invoking Divine inspiration means I don’t have to admit to having flaked. We awoke at about 9 or 9:30AM.
Be it resolved, and henceforth done that the parties of the first part shall; Pack in the morning, load up the truck in the afternoon and be setup in camp by dark. So let it be written, so let it be done. Daytimers were not updated (no more room on that page!), plans made, further purchases made. And God said, “Now your getting it.”
Around noon, we decided that it would be too dark to set up camp by the time we got there. A new strategy was formed;
Be it resolved, blah, blah, blah; Pack up today, throw the crap randomly into the truck in the morning and finally leave the house. So let it be written, and all the rest of that. Daytimers were thrown away as useless, plans shredded, further purchases made. And God said, “YOU GOT IT!”
Saturday morning, I watched as the bumper of the truck get progressively lower and lower as I threw more and more things on it. This is camping, after all! This is the fun of roughing it in the great outdoors. Air mattress with frame; check. This was the great challenge of man versus nature! Four pillows, six blankets; check. This is the true test of manhood, the challenge of the open frontier! One can propane, $20.00 worth of firewood; check. This was primal man at his animal best! OOPS! Nearly forgot the bagels! Where are they? AH! Over by the camp toaster
The springs on my little pickup compressed and groaned as I piled it on higher and higher. This was ridiculous! Something HAD to be done! Mustering my ire and under the intense heat of an Arizona sunrise, I spun on my heel, stormed into the house and confronted my wife. I told her in no uncertain terms and without possibility of discussion that “We … are … NEVER …going … backpacking!” and stormed out.
I don’t think that I really destroyed any backpacking fantasies she may have harbored, at least I was somewhat reassured from the amount of giggling that followed me back out of the house again.
Silly Mountain Road;
The open road. There is nothing like the feeling of blacktop rolling away from under your wheels on the open freeway. Miles of tar ahead of you, never mind what may be behind, the call of the open road is addictive and impossible to ignore.
Ok, there was a stop a block away from the house for ice. And there was the gas stop in Apache Junction and the soda refill stops here and there and even a “The dog has to pee” stop, but in general, the open road cannot be denied.
One of the things I like about driving the highways and byways is the variety of sites. The gas stations designed by Frank Lloyd Write, the towns created at random and by accident. The latter describes Superior, Arizona. An old mining town; when the bottom fell out of the copper industry, the bottom fell out of Superior.
Going from eight lanes of concrete and steel highway designed to reflect the Arizona sun straight into any windshield and blind the diver, to a single lane each way of blacktop designed to melt in the Arizona sun and stick to tires, past a holiday inn sitting in the middle of sage brush with nothing near it except a stoplight and a Walgreen’s like an air-conditioned oasis in the desert, and finally, after having passed Silly Mountain Road (which has become my new “I wish I had THAT address”), brings you to Superior. The exit for the camp site is located between Superior and Globe
Now, I am a veteran of four different camping excursions. I know many things about camping, like, the damage hail can do to a tent or how it sounds when lightning strikes trees in your immediate campground area, that sort of thing. One of the areas of expertise I have is finding little forest roads. I have become deft at locating these dirt tracks. They are almost always hidden behind a copse of trees, quietly nestled in a strand of pines, or laying serene behind a tumble of boulders. I even found one under a bush once. But this was the first forest road I ever came across that was hidden behind a junk yard. To be truthful, the road was hidden at the back of a residential district, the houses were behind a junk yard. As I drove down these little streets toward the forest road, I kept thinking about the irony of a wrecking yard so close to these houses. Frankly, I was amazed that the junk yard didn’t move to a better neighborhood.
Now, remember I said the campsite was at an elevation 7,500 feet, Globe is about 3,000 feet. The campsite is either 20 miles from Globe or 4,500 feet from Globe depending on your perspective. I had gone from eight lanes on concrete to two lanes of black top, now I was looking at a single lane of dust. I thought to myself, “At least the shrinking roads have ended, at least it won’t get smaller!” And God said “I thought you were beginning to get it! What happened?”
We began climbing the mountain. 20 miles of dirt road, which, true to the irony that was the theme of my vacation, did get narrower. The road never actually got narrower than the width of my truck, I know because I kept looking for that. You see, the view is spectacular going up that mountain. Far away vistas and rolling land stretch out before you, and the panoramic view is completely uninterrupted by visual obstacles like …oh … guard rails just as an example. The speed limit on this road is 15 MPH. There are no police, no place for a speed trap or radar zone, so, really, the only penalty for speeding is a long plunge off the side the of the mountain to a lingering, flaming death. Plus, it does go on your permanent record.
This road was well kept, but it was a single lane, narrow, twisty, with blind turns and switchbacks that made going 15MPH seem like extreme sports. So we went a little slower in most spots, never faster. 15 MPH on a 20 mile stretch of road, you do the math. I found out that after enough time, even sheer terror can be boring.
The campsite was everything we had hoped. There was a little port-a-potty on the site, and there was running water. Unlike my previous camping experiences, there was no water actually running through the camp site and under the tent, so I took this as a good sign.
We entered the area and pretty much decided on the first campsite we came to. We saw a small area that had three sites, (distinguishable from the picnic tables cemented into the ground) and a single potty. We decided to go for the campsite in the back, so drove past the obvious turn. I had to back up about a dozen feet to get there again. Remember how full I said the back of the truck was? As often as I had camped, this was my first experience backing into a tree. I was surprised how truly immovable a tree can be.
After renegotiating with the flora, we got to the road and discovered, to our dismay, that the entrance we had fought and struggled for did not, in fact reach our campsite. I therefor took our two wheel drive, overloaded, mini-pickup truck four wheeling through campsites and between pines to get back to where we were before we backed up and reformed my bumper to pine tree shape.
Once parked, we where NOT moving the truck again until we went home.
Now came the time to set up camp. Ground tarp, tent, fly, bed, nightstands (yes, night stands! Look, it’s a bit hard to explain and this is already too long, just go with it OK?), table stuff, cooking stuff, and at some point through all of this I suddenly remembered what the air is like at 7500 feet. I probably would have noticed the air a little sooner if there had been a little more of it. I began to regret not taking an oxygen tent.
Eventually everything was in place, and I had to pee.
Understand that there are many bodily functions I generally don’t write about, and this is certainly one of that category, but this was the explanation for waking up all those moths and mosquitoes. See, the port-a-potty was actually a luxury condo for hundreds of flapping, blinding, flying bugs. I felt rather like I was in a low budget version of Hichcock’s The Birds.
I found an isolated tree far away from the road. Or so I thought. It turned out that the pretty "hiking trail" near our campsite was actually a twist in the road we drove up on. I can think of better ways to meet new neighbors.
As soon as I walked back to the tent, my wife announced that she was going into the port-a-potty. I insisted she arm herself with every anti-bug weapon we brought. Thus equipped with a disappointingly small arsenal, she entered the gates of insect hell. I waited, anticipating her immediate turn around amidst many shrieks and screams. And waited. The dog fell asleep. I knew it couldn’t be much longer. I think I might have dozed off next to the dog when she finally re-emerged. I marveled at her courage and fortitude. “There weren’t any bugs in there,” she said, “I think you chased them all out.”
I cautiously returned to the riot scene only to find one little moth near the screen that substituted for a window. He looked scared. I had chased them away. I was reassured of my role as protector. After all, I did clear out the bugs for my wife right? Then I caught the smell and marveled anew at my wife’s iron constitution. I swore an oath then that I would not sit on that thing for any reason, and being a man, I was reasonably sure I could get away with it. As soon as the oath was made, God quietly began to test that resolve.
I emerged to find the dog was awake again. Apparently, I had chased all the bugs out of the port-a-potty, and they were currently swarming around the campsite, demanding restitution. It looked to be a class action suit. In fact, they had apparently called some distant relatives to come and plead their case with them.
The sunset that evening was lovely, with the streaming rays of sun cascading through the trees, back lighting a million transparent wings. I ooohed and aahhed and slapped my silly head off.
Once the camp fire was lit, the smoke kept the insects away. Understand that the bugs where only kept away from where the smoke was, the fire didn’t bother them on the side where the smoke wasn’t. Fortunately, no matter where I stood in the campground, that was where the smoke went. In addition to keeping off the bugs, though, it did add a thickness to the air that my citified, smog-ridden lungs appreciated.
That night, another couple appeared to share our little slice of paradise with us. They took a site a ways away, so there was pretty good privacy, and they were generally quiet. They had no tent, they had no baggage. They had a cooler and two sleeping bags. They slept in the back of their pickup and carried nothing with them. I could feel waves of envy coming off of my truck. Their bumper was pristine too.
The wind started up that evening. Too windy for flying bugs. As long as the wind blew, the bugs kept away and the smoke found me with a vengeance. Actually, the first day and night there was rather pleasant. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. Then it was time for bed.
It got down into the low forties at night. As a former resident of Minnesota, and a 25 year resident of the Arizona desert, I have come to believe that hell is actually a cold place, not unlike the land of my birth, but with drafty, ill-suited accommodations, not unlike my tent. We have an air mattress with a frame, kind of an inflatable queen sized cot. My doctor suggested using it as a way to not have to sleep directly on the cold ground. This is much better. This allows the cold air to circulate freely under us. The mattress is made of vinyl, so not only did I sweat profusely, laying on a vinyl surface, but the frigid wind came under me and froze the sweat to my body. I awoke (several times) covered in salted ice. Also, at some point the mattress sprung a slow leak. By morning I was lying on a shower curtain draped over a dozen designer spikes.
I am thinking of changing doctors.
When I woke, the wind was still blowing. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. No bugs. The temperature of the air had started to warm, the temperature of my bones hadn’t. I was still cold. By the sheerest luck, I had a jacket in the truck. I hadn’t put it away after the winter season (God bless the lazy!), and had it available in my time of need. By morning it had become a part of me.
We went for a walk through the campground, letting the dog stretch his legs and giving me a chance to warm myself. I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. On the other side of the road we came in on, there were some empty campsites. Just past them was a view that was breathtaking. It was probably the furthest I have ever been able to see outside of an airplane. The sweeping vistas, the rolling mountain sides in the far distance, turning a touch blue in the horizon, slightly more brown toward Phoenix, was incredible. And I had brought the camera! I was so proud of myself! I remembered the camera! I gave it my wife with a flourish of triumph and splendor and with full fanfare. Of course the batteries were dead. We had spares with us, but they were back at the campsite.
I lost my temper then, a bout of verbalized frustration. As I spun around, some of the salt ice fell off of my back. We decided to return after lunch with new batteries.
I listened to the wind whispering in the trees.
Our new neighbors left after breakfast and got stuck on the same road I had to come out of. Let me go over this again. An EMPTY pickup, the same size as my overloaded truck, STUCK on a piece of road the I would have to drive over too.
One of the other campers we walked by on our way to the cliff was able to tow them to the main road and then they both left the area, removing the possibility of my getting out the same way.
I listened to the wind whispering in the trees. I began imaging it was whispering about me.
I went back to the port-a-potty. I still being tested, but a vow is a vow. I swore that I would explode before sitting in there. I guess it just seemed more and more like those were going to be my options. I gritted my teeth, clenched muscles I didn’t know I had, and kept my vow.
I left my jacket on, because the wind was still whispering in the trees. I started wanting the bugs back. I tried to read The wind apparently read much faster than I did because it kept trying to turn the pages. I tried to write and it didn’t much care for my style, it ripped page after page out of my grip. About the only activity left me was listening to the wind whispering in the trees. It didn’t seem to like the fly on our tent much either, as it kept trying to pull that away with it too.
I looked longingly at the port-a-potty, but a vow is a vow, and I am good for my word. It was a stupid vow, but having made it, I was stuck with it. About 2PM my wife said, “I ‘m listening to the wind whispering in the trees.” I agreed that I too was hearing it. She replied “ I am so sick of listening to the wind whispering in the trees! It’s like a constant white noise.”
“So,” I tried to say very casually, “what do you think we should do?” Please dear lord, let her say ‘leave and go home’.
“Well,” she said, “I kind of hate to give up on our camping trip.”
I sighed and agreed with her. I took another long look at the port-a-potty, clenched my jaw and set about getting a fire ready for that night.
At about four, my wife said, “This wind is driving me crazy!”
“Well, the dog isn’t having any fun,” I replied. Do you see the genius at work here?
“I don’t want to go down that mountain road in the dark,” she wisely reminded me. “Do you think we could be ready before dark?”
I took one more look at the pot-a-potty, clenched my jaw tighter. It wasn’t exactly determination she saw in my eyes. “I can have us packed and gone in under half an hour!” I growled.
It took 45 minuets. The back of the truck was higher than before, but when I packed it at home, I was only impatient to leave the house, not screamingly desperate to find pluming. I maneuvered the truck around so that I could get out on the road at an angle, avoiding the same trap our former neighbors fell into. It worked very well, but I was left facing the wrong way. I needed to back up again. The same backwards rout that led to the bumper tree. I actually re-arranged the side view mirror, but the bumper was not re-injured, and we were well on our way, a headlong plunge 4,000 feet down a narrow dusty lane and a setting sun.
After the first few miles, I started smelling hot brakes. Even in my desperation and with regrets to the disappearing port-a-potty, I couldn’t go faster than 25 MPH down the mountain. I put the truck in first gear and let the motor keep me to a slow crawl down the face of the mountain.
An hour and change later, we were out of Superior and on our way home. Going over a mountain pass (something none of my truck’s four cylinders like to do), a man in a large pickup truck pulled up beside us, honking and repeatedly pointing at my truck. He was mouthing something I could not make out. I needed to pull over and check the load.
It was about five miles before I found a place to pull over. There was no limit to the amount of vehicular horrors i imagined during that time.
The good news; The load was fine. There was nothing lost or damaged in the bed of the truck. The bad news; flat tire. The good news; I have a spare! The bad news; it’s flat too. Thus began the epic journy of stopping every 15 minuets to refill the tire. And that is how we made the 80 mile drive back to Phoenix.
We never did put new batteries into the camera.
This was the first half of my vacation.
posted by methatiam | 6:48 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home