No Critters At The Beach

No Critters At The Beach

Ah, the great outdoors. Being a city boy, I now know why I hesitated when my girlfriend asked if I wanted to go camping with her and her kids and their smelly dog Pogo—kind of a cross between a charcoal colored sheepdog and a ball of moldy smelling yarn—for four long agonizing days and nights. When it comes to vacation, I’m more of a beach person: sand and surf, boardwalks and shops, restaurants and air conditioning. And the little things: hot water, electricity, beds—indoor plumbing. When she told me to bring a flashlight, I didn’t know she meant it as a navigational aid to find my way back from the bathroom to our five star tent in the middle of the night.

Are you supposed to pitch a tent on a hill? I thought it to be about twenty-five degrees up from level, but that was just an estimate. It felt like much more. At first, I tried sleeping across the incline. But every time I rolled over, the hill thought I wanted to play and kept me rolling … right out of the tent. Then Pogo thought I wanted to play. He chased me down the hill barking and growling and nipping at me rolled up in the sleeping bag. He must have thought I was a car. Soon the woods were alive with the sounds of wildlife.

“Shut the f&*% up!”

“Hey! A%#hole! We’re trying to sleep!”

“Where’s my damn gun?”

After slamming into numerous rocks, getting cursed at twice and shot at once, I decided to sleep with the incline instead of against it. The up side was I stayed in place. The down side—I didn’t sleep. I passed out from the blood rushing away from my brain.

The first morning was good, if you’re a piece of meat in need of freezing. I decided to build a fire. I collected all the paper trash that the raccoons and squirrels and birds so thoughtfully removed from the trash bags and spread around the campsite while we slept—or in my case, while I remained unconscious.

The proprietors of this wonderful world of wilderness placed an old truck rim on a circle of rocks bigger then my fist for campfires. All we—the outdoor people—needed to do was provide fuel and flame. Easier said than done. All I had were large pieces of wood. The paper wouldn’t stay lit because it was damp, finding twigs in a mined out campsite was impossible, and I couldn’t range too far searching for them in fear of getting shot. But I did have a hammer and a large screwdriver. So I tried to split the big wood into little wood. And it would have worked too, had I not broken my hand when I missed with the hammer.

Fortunately for me, my car had a hose in the trunk and a full tank of gas. (You see it coming, don’t you?) It’s not humanly possible to siphon liquid through twenty feet of hose, especially with your arm in a makeshift sling. So using the brand new Bowie knife one of the teenage boys brought on the trip, I cut a short length of hose by standing on one end and holding the other end in my teeth. Then I hid the knife. I saw Deliverance. After I dumped what was left of the antifreeze, I siphoned some gas into the jug. I wasn’t much ... just a shade under a gallon.

A few minutes after the explosion—and rolling around in the dirt to put myself out—a couple of guys wearing anti-radiation suits walked into camp muttering something about a mushroom cloud seen from the Ranger Station. They took some readings with a Geiger counter, signaled “All clear,” to each other and, before they left, helped me extinguish the rest of the things that shouldn’t be on fire.

It was good Maggie brought a first-aid kit. While she wrapped me in gauze, she mentioned that some of the ointments might be outdated since she never had to use them in twelve years of camping. Then she sat me in a folding chair and made breakfast. I offered to help, but she said I’d been quite enough help since the food was already cooked.

After breakfast, the kids took off for the pool, but not before asking where we were going to go. They don’t allow cut-offs in the pool, Delaney (the fifteen-year-old) said, so miles of gauze is definitely out. Besides, no one has ever seen a mummy in the woods before, and they were concerned I would frighten away whatever new friends they might make. So I stayed in camp to read a new novel. When they returned for lunch, I’d managed to turn five pages. It was okay, though. I couldn’t read that fast with one eye covered anyway.

Just before dinner, one of the rangers cruised by in his golf cart and told us there had been a bear sighting earlier in the day. A mother and a cub. He warned us not to leave food out overnight and to make a lot of noise if they wandered into camp. So we made note of it and settled in for the evening.

That night was better. The boys had re-pitched the tent so I wouldn’t roll out so easy, and Delaney taped a flashlight to my head so I could find my way back from the bathroom. All I had to do was get Maggie to turn it on and off for me. And as it is with older guys, the nature call came around three a.m. Maggie turned on my light and off I went.

The trip to the bathroom took four minutes at a normal pace. Bandaged up, arm in sling, hobbling along, it took fifteen. After taking care of business, I headed back. Traveling about a third of the way, I heard a rustling in the brush. The hair—the ones that weren’t singed—stood on end. Suddenly the momma bear burst from the brush, stood on her hind legs and wailed a blood-curdling sound I never want to hear again in this lifetime. I stopped and, grunting in desperation, frantically swiped my forearm across the top of my head trying to turn off the light. I either looked like the world’s largest burrito, or an extra from Dawn Of The Dead. Then the cub emerged and she began nudging it back into the woods. Feeling not unlike a raw piece of beef, I watched them disappear. I breathed a sigh of relief and took a step. It was then I smelled something wasn’t right. I turned around and hobbled back to the bathroom. It seems I wasn’t quite finished.

The following morning, the ranger came back around. He said the bears were seen hightailing it to the next mountain at a full run. Said he’d never seen anything like it in his thirty years. Noting my unfortunate condition, he offered us a ride to the pavilion. Maggie got us some coffee and, since it was difficult to sit in the bandages, I decided to stand. She wanted to check on the kids, so she headed to the pool. Finishing my coffee, I didn’t want to walk to the trashcan because leaning against the wall was preferable to moving. Before long, people passing by began dropping money into my cup. By the time Maggie got back I’d made about fifteen bucks, so she made me buy lunch.

Night number three and I was past the halfway point. I could have left if I’d wanted. There was still plenty of gas in my car, but I decided to stick it out. Earlier, Maggie removed the bandages and I could move normally. I figured half a vacation was better then none at all and I was determined to stay since the kids were making fun of me. They wouldn’t let me live it down until next year, and I knew there wasn’t another camping vacation in my future. Sleeping on rocks is okay, if you’re another rock.

So we settled in. I got to sleep rather quickly, but then in the middle of the night, the most God-awful screech broke the silence. It scared the be-Jesus out of me and my eyes burst open. The next thing I knew I was rolling down the hill again. Pogo started barking and running down the hill after me thinking this a fun game. Other campers started cursing me and shooting at me again. When I finally rolled to a stop, I decided to crawl back on my belly, not wanting to give anyone a clear shot.

I slithered into the tent and curled up in a blanket. I guess it was about two hours later, Pogo started a low growl. I opened my eyes and figured it was a squirrel or a raccoon. Then he started barking in earnest and lunged toward the tent opening. The next thing I know, a smell I could almost see entered the tent. Three seconds later, my eyes were watering and I was gasping for air. It reminded me of the World War I gas attacks I'd seen on The History Channel. Now we’re all up with our noses pressed against the screened openings in the tent. Pogo’s laying there not moving and we thought he was dead. He got the best whiff of the skunk’s defensive spray. I guess we were lucky. The smell was gone by morning so we must have suffered only a glancing blow.

That was it for me. I spent the last night in the car. No bugs, no bears, no smelly dogs, no stinking skunks, no explosions, no gauze, no slings, no rolling down hills, nobody shooting at me—and I could drive to the bathroom if I wanted. I didn’t even need a flashlight. Compared to the previous nights, it was a stay at the Hilton.

At the crack of dawn I was like a man possessed: picking up the trash, putting things away, taking down the tents—with people still in them—and packing up the cars. When Maggie saw me running toward the car like a man avoiding a category-five hurricane, she called out: “What about breakfast?” I stopped in my tracks, the dream of a quick getaway dashed. I trudged back up the hill to where she stood and handed her twenty bucks.

“Stop at McDonald’s,” I said. “It’s a nice place. You’ll like it. They have water there you don’t have to scoop from a stream.”

“You didn’t enjoy yourself, did you?”

“Oh, I enjoyed myself. You come here the same time every year? In July?”

“Yes, the last week. You want to come next year?"

“I’d love to, honey, but I have a business trip scheduled.”

“I could schedule a different week.”

“… for the whole month. August too. And June.”

So when they started their engines, we headed toward home. They went east and I went north. Next year, I think we’re going to Ocean City. There are no critters at the beach. And I know in my heart, God did that on purpose.

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