Q: 10/1/02

Work Diary, 10/1/02

It's ten o'clock in the morning and I'm sitting in a motorhome on a
campsite in Wyoming. It's an odd time to be camping: the end of
September, the camping season pretty much over. The campsite, Glendo
Reservoir, is fairly empty, the last die-hard campers spread out and
hardly in sight of one another. Park rangers have removed the handles
on the public water pumps in preparation for winter.

I don't go for tent camping, thus the motorhome. It's my friend's;
she's here as well, currently trying to get her palm pilot to activate
so she can do some writing of her own. My laptop, obviously, is already
running. So, we sit in a copse of trees, surrounded by vinyl walls, a
refrigerator, coffee maker, sink, and stove, using the latest
technology while the dogs snore on the couch. I wouldn't have it any
other way.

Serious campers, whether they own motorhomes or plain old tents, make
me wonder about the whole camping thing. These are people with boats,
jet skis, water skis, fishing gear, ATVs, grills, coolers, beer, tarps,
picnic tables, chairs, sleeping bags, and usually a handful of
disheveled, tow-headed children. Their camping experience is just that
- an experience, not to be taken lightly. The time spent in planning
their outings would certainly be better spent at home, tilling the
garden or changing the oil on their cars.

So why do they do it? Because, I've come to learn, the time they spend
is actually worth it. People like my friend and me, who essentially
bring their households with them when camping, do it because it's a
chance to get away from our real households: The bills, the dishes,
phone calls, chores like painting the bathroom and, yes, tilling the
garden. Putting a great distance between oneself and one's house makes
it impossible to worry about the damn house. It's a lot like watching
the news on television. What could you do, really, for those people
stuck in that burning building?

For me, the appeal is certainly not nature. My home rests on the fine
line between suburbia and the city. Just two blocks over and I would be
living in an area that I am fond of mocking and deriding; I feel much
the same about nature, though I don't stand in front of trees and say,
"Ha! Your leaves are so seventies!" I'm more Versailles than English
garden; I look at the trees on our campsite, some of them almost hidden
by wild undergrowth, and think a gardener could do wonders with this
place. Fortunately, this area is typically covered in water for most of
the year, evidence of which can be found in the smelly fish carcasses
the dogs are so fond of sniffing out. Water can be a great
cover-up.

I once spent a week tent camping in southwest Texas on the Frio River;
usually my aunt arranged for a cabin but was late in getting a
reservation. It rained the entire time, which in Texas is serious
business. At one point, the rain filled the bottom of our tent, so much
so that my young cousin, who'd been raised to sleep through his
father's rock band rehearsals, was found floating in the water as he
napped through the afternoon. The rain didn't prevent the repetitive
thump-thump of Tejano music coming from a nearby campsite, however,
which lasted long into the night. When my uncle went to investigate, he
was accosted by several drunk, surly men in cowboy boots who surrounded
him like some sort of Tijuana posse. My fondest memory of that trip is
my aunt grabbing the tire iron from the car and charging forward while
screaming, "What the HELL is going on out here!" My uncle was returned
wet but safe from certain bodily harm. My aunt doesn't like tent
camping, either.

Several years ago, my partner and I went camping with a friend and his
boyfriend in the Great Sand Dunes, located in southern Colorado. A
strange place; looks like a desert, but you always know there's an end
to the misery. When we arrived, it was already dark. The minute we
stepped out of the car, the mosquitoes attacked; fortunately, I'd had
the foresight to bring bug spray. Sticky and smelling strangely of pine
needles from the spray, we set up our tents - my partner's and mine a
tiny, mildewed pup-tent thing rented from the university; our friends'
an extravagant, windowed affair that I'm sure they're still paying off.
Next we decided it was time to smoke some pot and eat, not necessarily
in that order. All went well until the next morning, when we discovered
the still-raw ground turkey on the grill and the cramps begin. Two of
us spent much of the day in the public restrooms, watching the orderly
parade of ants go about their business and listening to the demonic
giggles of the flushing ladies toilet next door. Did I mention we'd
dropped acid earlier, despite the fiery heat in our bowels? It doesn't
matter; before my friend and I began roosting on the toilet, all four
of us had witnessed a young girl in full makeup, following us on the
trail while scratching her crotch. Mass hallucination? Perhaps, but I
was glad to be behind the concrete walls of the restroom and safe from
the prowling Lolita of the Great Sand Dunes.

The last time I tent-camped, I was here in Wyoming, at Glendo
Reservoir. I came by myself, even spending $100.00 on a new dome tent
that had the added feature of a tarp that buzzed like a swarm of bees
in the gentlest wind. I became disoriented once actually reaching the
camp area, taking my Honda Accord off-road and finally settling on what
looked like a nifty spot in view of the water. The next morning a man
appeared at the opening of my tent - just as I was on my back, legs in
the air and stripping off my underwear to put on my swimsuit - and
politely told me I was set up in a drainage ditch. As he was leaving,
he offered me his site, which came with its own picnic table and three
inches of sandy topsoil. The sand swallowed my eye glasses (found after
a frantic search on the day I left), but my tent stayed put only
because the strong Wyoming wind took a reprieve - a huge disappointment
to the sail boarding campers but a boon to me, as dome tents have a
tendency to parachute their way for miles when not properly tied down.
I spent three days outlining my hand on typing paper and filling in the
swirls of my fingerprints, an exercise that put me the closest to a
state of Zen than I've been. Sometimes other campers would come by,
especially of the teenaged variety, and chat. "Nice day," they'd say;
or my favorite: "Leaving soon? This sure is a great spot you've got." I
pictured the parents of these kids sending them out on scouting
missions, telling them to find a better place to camp "or else." I
stayed put like any good American, of course, and was amazed when it
took me less than ten minutes to load up my paltry camping gear and
backtrack my way to civilization.

I will never be mistaken for an outdoorsman. I say this with absolutely
no shame. Anyway, I think that type of person is rare; witness the roar
of boat engines behind me at this very second. Sometimes, when I'm
driving through the mountains on a particularly nasty, curvy stretch of
road, I picture those poor pioneers, their wagons stumbling along and
the children decidedly bored. What would they think to be brought into
our world, their month-long trips reduced to hours? We'll never know,
but one thing is certain: If they'd had the chance, you can guarantee
they would have mortgaged their own children to buy a motorhome for the
journey.