I let the tenseness from our trip dissolve with each swallow of wine. It was kind of fun, sitting in the tent with the rain pouring down, drinking wine and not really knowing where we were. Chris, always the outdoor chef, was cooking tempeh, black beans, and veggies and the smell was filling the tent, making it cozy and comfortable inside. This is what car camping is all about--the option of bringing the luxuries of home into the wilderness.
Subsequently what followed that night made me seriously reevaluate that statement. After dinner, we hung our headlamps from the ceiling and kicked back to read. Not 20 minutes into my book did three cars roll into our campground, full on thumping with bass and flooding the surrounding area with high beamed light.I looked at Chris, incredulous. We had literally stumbled into this place. How had these cars found it? Cars that were, for all purposes, not inclined to country travel?
I gave them 20 mintues before I was to say something to them. They had the music turned up with the doors of the cars open. There was an annoying ding-dong-ding-dong of the door ajar warning that I would catch wind of in between beats.Though I could not see the invaders, I imagined teenagers in souped -up Camaros. Had I been in Virginia I would have expected confederate flags draped in camp, but I was in Colorado, which was ultimately worse.
I suppose one can never escape the interruptions of society, even in the middle of nowhere. We turned off our headlamps and decided to sleep. Within minutes Chris was snoring beside me. I flip-flopped back and forth in my bag, feeling like a worm. I couldn't get comfortable. My nose was cold but my feet were too hot. Laughing resonated across the ground and up into my ears. I put a hat on. I covered my head with my fleece jacket. Hours went by and the car, the lights, the voices never stopped.
The rain had turned to a heavy, slushy mixture and was coming down at a rapid rate. Pockets of the mix had started to collect on the top of the rain-fly of the tent, and when the tent could no longer support the weight, the slush would slide down the sides, making it sound like someone was brushing up against the nylon walls. This alerted one of the dogs, who popped her head up everytime the snow would slide. This minor disturbance, however, was not enough to outweigh the major disturbance a few yards away. I had made up my mind. I located my wool camping clogs, slipped them on, and made my way out into the dark, muddy campground.
A circle of four young men stood around a meager-looking fire. By this time, their cars had been silenced. Their voices, however, cut through the air like the smell of cigarette smoke. It could have been because they were all smoking. In any case, they stood, beers in hand, cigarettes in the other, laughing and talking like they were in someone's living room watching a football game. Not one of them were dressed appropriately for the weather. They had no tent, just a pitiful blue tarp strung between two trees that had already started to sag. I momentarily felt sorry for them.
But I was right, they were wrong. The wilderness was not the place for such activity. I took a deep breath and braced the chilly mist to approach them. It took getting right up to their fire, which felt pretty good despite its size, for them to notice me. They quieted. I asked them if they could please keep it down. They shrugged as if they didn't care and mumbled a barely audible "sure." This infuriated me, and I informed them that if I had wanted to fall asleep listening to someone talk about how much beer they could pound I would have camped out at the local bar. I stomped off, listening to them laugh.
Within minutes they were quiet and I felt like a bitch. I remember high school and probably someone did the same to me. They had been having fun and I was stuck in a tent with a boyfriend I wanted to break up with and a bad case of insomnia.
I camp because I like silence. I like being far removed from my life. This particular night I was having a hard time getting what I normally get out of camping. It wasn't necessarily the guys who were drinking and making merry, though I would have been a happier camper had they not been there. It was something else.
I contemplated joining them for a beer. Maybe I could save someone else the struggle of dealing with their insensitivity to the unspoken wilderness code of silence. Had I a few more glasses of wine, I could show them how important it is to be quiet and respectful when camping. I could lead them in a meditation and make them appreciate the beauty of not being able to detect any signs of human life--that it's nice to be in the middle of nowhere, immersed in silence.
These are pipe dreams, of course.
