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| Charred dragon head on Hotel Creek |
The trailhead sits behind the Cedar Grove Lodge. As I step off the trail I see a sign on one of the Lodge back buildings. "Showers." A woman and two teenage girls enter. I'm already sweaty and dusty. In four days I'll be ready for a hot shower. Will they sell me one? I walk over to the Lodge to ask.
The lobby doubles as small market. It's stocked with ice cream, frozen steaks, a apocalyptic supply liquor, and souvenirs like $40 T shirts and cuddly stuffed rodents. I queue up behind two ten-year olds buying ice cream with small change, a tanned young couple checking in and an older fellow with a open beer.
The young couple appear to have walked off the cover a lifestyle magazine. He is shirtless, hairless and ripped. She is fit and shapely. His wears shorts with a wide waistband that spells "Made in the USA." She wears purple shorts a size smaller than skimpy and a matching crop top. Her arms are crossed. She stares vacantly into a display case with pint-sized bear carvings from China. Things are not going well.
"We can always leave," he whispers.
She shrugs, but says nothing. I feel for him. I suspect Lilalee's sympathies would be different.
The older fellow turns me as if he is about to say something. He doesn't. He just nods an acknowledgement.
"How you doing?" I ask reflexively.
"I woke up on the right side of the grass," he says. "At my age, it doesn't get much better." It sounds more like a warning than a joke.
The wait seems like an eternity. I try not to appear impatient.
"How can I help you?" says the woman behind the counter. She's a shade past 50 and leaves no doubt who commands this outpost of humanity.
"Is it possible for a backpacker buy a shower?"
"$3.50 for 10 minutes," she answers. "Want one?"
"Not today."
She wrinkles her nose in jest as if fending off something offensive. "Sure?"
I would like to impress, say something clever, but, as usual, when I want it most, my wit takes leave. When I was younger I would have offered any old stupid retort. "I don't smell anything," or "Must be your upper lip" or something equally vapid or rude. On pain of recollection, I surrender to the matter at hand. "Can I ask..I saw the Ladies', but not the Mens' showers..."
"There's just the one," she says as a matter of fact. She sees I'm confused and adds, "It's kind of coed. But don't worry — No extra charge."
New neighbors arrived while I was out hiking. Three RVs pulled up across the gravel not a hundred feet from my camp. Their encampment is like a midway. The awnings are out. Padded chairs and hammocks are deployed. There's a privy shower, and an a canopy over enough tables and chairs to feed a platoon. A dozen kids are screeching about the tables and trees. Two teenager girls are playing cards against two teenage boys. Several men are sipping bottles of beer. The trio of women are monitoring simmering pots on a row of Coleman stoves. One smiles at me.
I'm not in a friendly state. I don't want to move my camp and the morning burrito is at the cramping point. On the bright side, if you have to be sick in the wilderness, it's best to get sick in a place with flush toilettes.
I head over to the restroom. It is deluxe: three shiny metal urinals, two stalls and two sinks with a "no bathing" nailed over both sinks. The louvered light is dim. The stalls are empty. I lock myself in the corner stall and settle in feeling safe and secure.
I hear two teenagers enter. They must be from the midway. I am quiet as possible.
"Man, it stinks in here," says one.
"Shutup," says the other.
Some water runs in the sink.
"How's my hair," asks one.
"It's stupid," says the other. "Let me have the comb."
"Julia is hot," says the first. "I mean Anna is hot too, but did you want Julia?"
"Sure. Whatever," replies the other. "Let's get out of here genius."
After their departure, I defiantly sponge off. There's just enough light to see the changes of my person: new blooms of body hair, recent spots on crinkling, paunchy skin. Nature's way of signalling that internal machinery is imperceptibly wearing out. I can feel it in my bones. Nothing can be done. What difference if I leave a puddle by the sinks? I think of those teenagers. It will happen to them. It will happen to their kids. The inevitability leaves me melancholy.
The day fades but does not cool. A cover of broken clouds race past. The air is sticky and thick with the smoke from the midway's camp fire. I fire up the JetBoil to hydrate my chili concoction. The smell of the hydrating garlic puts me off, so I settle for just nibbling on a Picky Bar and some tea. Twilight arrives and so the mosquitos. Masses of them. They come after me like hundreds of tiny whining cordless drills.
I crawl into my UL-1 and sprawl on my bag. No cowboy camping tonight. The tent is hot. I climb out to remove the fly and dive back as fast as possible, but not fast enough. I have company. I mash a half dozen black streaks into the netting. It's still hot. I am sweating. Despite all the people around I undress and lie down to read.
I dream. I'm in a rodeo arena with two other kids. We're competing in the wild cow milking contest. One kid holds the head. The other kid holds the tail. I'm supposed to squirt the milk into a Dr. Pepper bottle. I can't get milk from the teat. The kids are yelling. The crowd laughing. I bolt up drenched in sweat.
The moon shines like a headlight through the netting then fades behind the clouds. The mosquitos swarm like black motes in the moonlight. The midway is quiet. It's just 2 am. I must get some sleep. Why can't I 'take' some sleep? I take a nap. I take a bath. I take a shit. But, I can also give a shit. What's the sense in that? I take a pee but don't give a pee. I take a breath, but not give a breath. I can give up but not take up. Is that right? I take a hike, a swim, a lunch, a shower, a swim, a trip, a photo, a break, a turn, a look, or just take off or away...
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| 2 am moonshine |