Adventures While Camping Solo

I recently found myself camping in bear country. Alone in a canyon with just my dog
and a small air horn that I bring for emotional protection. After a series
of campsites flooded with people, I was happy to find this empty site located alongside
a babbling creek a few miles up a canyon off a gravel road. Zoey (dog) and I arrived in

early afternoon just as a mountain rainstorm began to descend upon us. We sat in the
van, me eating my chicken salad and Zoey wishing I'd share, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once it did, we set up our camping spot in quick order, explored a path as far as
it would go in one direction and then back to the van. Not another vehicle passed on
the road. No other camper arrived to share our large group site. It was only 3 pm - -
still hours before dark - - and we were already quite bored. I decided to head back to
town for a quick tour of its cemetery, and to pick up a bottle of tequila.

A few hours later, back at our solitary campsite, I sipped on the tequila as I prepared
and ate my evening meal. After dinner, I took a couple more sips of the tequila and
was enjoying its warmth ooze through my veins when I noticed the scratches.

Tell tale vertical scratches on the trees. Bear scratches. Fresh bear scratches. The
bark was shredded in places well above my head. The nail marks left deep grooves in
the tree's soft exposed flesh. A large bear, no doubt.

"Oh sh*!" was my first tequila-clouded thought. It was almost dark and my brain was
racing. What to do? What to do?! Somehow I extracted from my foggy memory a host
of bear safety skills. I put all food, cooking gear and the clothes I had worn to cook in,
inside a two man tent I had brought along, "just in case". Then, I set the ice chest
outside of the tent, and rigged it with every metal pan or chair I had so I'd hear the
clanging of an intruding bear. Next, I moved the van, where Zoey and I planned to sleep,
to the furthest end of the campsite and turned it around so I could shine the headlights
on the offending bears as they crashed and clanged their way into the ice chest and
nylon tent.

Then it was time for bed. I carefully stowed my glasses in the center compartment. I kept
the airhorn within easy reach. I studied one last time the exit path I would need to navigate
in the dark to reach the road. I hung the van's keys on the turn signal. And then I laid down
to sleep.

Or not.

Images of a large ban of marauding bears kept sleep at bay for most of the night. When
I looked at the clock for the 100th time and saw it was nearly sunrise, such a sense of relief
washed over me. I was still alive and our campsite intact.

This event became a metaphor for me. This isn't the first time I've turned an idyllic scene
complete with babbling creek, into a band of marauding bears. How often am I afraid of what
might happen? How often do I have the skills to navigate a potential hazard, but then doubt
my own abilities?

Yet, in this instance, I put together a plan. And executed it. And, for all intents and purposes,
I survived. Maybe not as gracefully or as confidently as I might've liked. But I didn't go back to town looking for a motel room. Good for me.

Anticipation

I am filled with a sensation not familiar to me - - anticipation.  
I wonder why that is.

I am more familiar with dread. Or to brace myself. Dig in deep. Hang on. 

But anticipation evokes a more positive sensation. It's almost excitement. 

Almost.

I am beginning a new chapter of my life. Early retirement. My only poorly formed plan for how I might spend this time is about to unfold. I intend to travel. Road trips. With my dog, Zoey.

To that end, I have purchased a small cargo van that I intend to live from while on the road. I promised myself that I'd hit the road by 1st day of spring. I have campground reservations for March 22 - 25.  I'm doing it.

We are doing this.  Me and Zoey.
And the unfolding of these long laid plans has filled me with such 
anticipation. Luscious, life-affirming, terrifying and oh-so-welcome anticipation.

I have no idea what we might find or what might happen while on the road. 
And, for the first time in a long, long time, I'm okay with that.

The Dance of Anger (excerpts from book by Harriet Lerner)

subtitle: A woman's guide to changing the patterns of intimate relationships

Anger is something we feel. It exists for a reason.
Ask: What am I really angry about?

If feeling angry signals a problem, venting anger does not solve it. Venting anger may serve to maintain, and even rigidify, the old rules and patterns in a relationship, thus ensuring that change does not occur.

Those of us locked in ineffective expressions of anger suffer as deeply as those who dare not get angry at all.

We cannot make another person change his or her steps to an old dance, but if we change our own steps, the dance can no longer continue in the same predictable manner.

Many of our problems with anger occur when we choose between having a relationship and having a self. This book is about having both.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, late at night, or when I find myself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, I can feel how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things.  It is more than a feeling, it is a knowing.  I know.  Deep in the recesses on my mind, I know that my life has no significance whatsoever.

Sometimes, when such thoughts and knowings are saturating my consciousness, I realize I am not sad.  But I do feel alone.  Terribly alone.  My sweet daughter. The man who I thought might love me. That friend I adore, or my sisters who connect me to my past...they all fall away.  And I am left alone.  So fucking alone.

Sometimes, when I accept how alone we each are in this world, and how futile is our effort to make a connection with another, I can sense my mind hurtling through space and time.  I am tumbling.  There is no place firm to land.  As I free fall, my heart races, my breath is shallow and I wonder if "this" might be it for me.  There is nothing holding me here on this side of the infinite darkness that surrounds me.  I am lost, yet found, at the same time.

Sometimes, as me and my nothingness hurl thru space and time, one of my cats will jump up on the bed and burrow in close to me.  The soft fur, the breath falls, the warmth of the cat's body...all bring me back.  I'm no longer hurtling into nothingness.  I am here.  With a soft warm purring cat lying next to me.

And sometimes, this is enough.

Potty Brown Creek Ranch

I walk with the dog across the pockmarked drive still moist with dew.  The musky sweet scent of sage, dirt and autumn’s dried leaves fill the air.  Birds are chirping gleefully in distant trees.  The dog stops her eager trot long enough to lift her nose.  I’m certain whatever she smells is much more than morning dew and dried leaves. 

Sunrise streaks across the endless sky, casting its brilliant colors far and wide.  It is possible to see the curvature of the earth out here on the high plains.  I stand at the end of the drive, looking west down the road.  This narrow strip of bare dirt travels in a straight line, piercing fields and pastures and dipping down into arroyos only to rise again to crest another hill.  Power poles dot the horizon.  They and this lonely dirt road are the only signs that maybe there are others out here in the sea of grass and stubble. 

I am filled up by this nothingness.  I drink in the orange streaked endless sky and wrap my body in the barren fields that surround me.  My insignificance, so ardently felt now, somehow nourishes my soul.  I am filled with wonder and hope. I want to drink in the sky's colors and swallow the sweet musky air.  I want to lie down and be absorbed whole by this barren land.  I want to feel it in my bones, and have it course through my veins. 

I don't know why this empty place feels so familiar to me.  Yet, it does.

Watching the ship sink...

You know that terrible feeling you get when you see someone you care about make a series of bad decisions? I’m there now with him and it feels like I’m waiting for a trainwreck.  

This path is well-worn for him.  I don’t know, exactly, what will happen or when, but I do know he can’t keep going the way he is without something giving. Maybe it will be his heart; He hasn’t taken his meds since August.  Maybe he’ll get fired or he’ll fall asleep at the wheel?  How many nights can he go with only two or three hours of sleep?  He’s late getting to work more often then he’s on time.  Maybe he’ll get fired? His cough is relentless.  He hacks and he hacks and he hacks some more - - several times an hour.   People turn their heads to see who is making such a horrid sound. And he can’t seem to catch his breath.  He had to stop for several minutes to breathe while spreading out a blanket the other day.  I exchanged worried glances with the others in the room who witnessed this, but nobody said a thing. 

We all seem to know we are powerless to stop this downward spiral he is in.  It sickens me to observe his unraveling. 

Marcos

I met Marcos when he knocked on my door a couple of months ago as spring was trying to become summer.  He wondered if I had any work he could do.  I never saw him before. He said he lived in the neighborhood and was willing to pull weeds, mow lawns, haul dirt or whatever.  He said he was saving up to buy a car.  I told him I didn't have any work that day but to come back the next week.  I doubted I would ever see him again.
 
A week later my doorbell rang and again there stood Marcos, ready to do whatever job I may have for him.  And again, I had to tell him to come back the next day at 9:00 AM and I promised to have two hours worth of some kind of work for him.
 
The next day Marcos arrived right on time and I put him to work pulling weeds.  I pulled weeds with him and we talked easily with one another as we worked bent over in the back yard.  He talked about the fecal coliform count in the lake, the history of State of Colorado, about bicycles and about the Broncos.  He was somewhat vague about where, exactly he lived.  "Over there a couple of blocks," he'd say, pointing west.  "On Wolff Street?" I asked.  "Yeah.  But closer to the lake."   As one can't get much closer to the lake the Wolff street, I surmised Marcos didn't want me to know where he lived and I dropped the subject.
 
Marcos is a large boy.  Chunky.  And he's very articulate.  As he said he was saving for a car, I figured he was maybe 14 years old.  At the end of our first day working together, however, I learned he was only twelve, leaving me more impressed than ever by his confidence, drive, work ethic and charm.
 
Marcos and I worked out an agreement that if he showed up on Saturdays at 9 AM, I promised to have two hours worth of work for him.  Marcos showed up ever single Saturday on time, often early, and always eager to work.  His was easy company.  I began to look forward to my Saturday mornings with Marcos.  He helped me lay flagstone, plant flowers, weed a garden, stain the back porch and have a two-day yard sale.  I let him manage the cash box for the yard sale.  He was a shrewd salesperson, and was able to accurately calculate the sum total of each sale and make change in his head without error.

During our second Saturday working together, Marcos revealed he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, so I started to provide him with a breakfast burrito along with the $20 he earned.  A few weeks later he said he preferred chili rellenos, so I began leaving him to do the work on his own, while I drove to Santiago's to get him a chile relleno dinner. He always shook my hand and thanked me at the end of each of times together. 

The Fourth of July weekend had us driving Marcos to a firework stand where he spent his hard earned money on fireworks he planned to light that night.  On another Saturday he brought me a spoon rest from Mexico as a thank you gift.  As the summer progressed, I learned a little bit more about his family life.  His was an intact family with both his mom and his dad and a younger sister and an even younger brother.  They were always moving, though, it seemed.  From living "closer to the lake" he moved to a house that required he take a bus to get to my house.  A week later he was asking if I could drop him off at a motel off West Colfax where his family moved to when there was a gas leak in the home they rented the week prior.  Another week found him living with an uncle as the apartment they wanted to rent wasn't available yet.  I began to think Marcos was homeless, but he didn't know it.  He was so smart, and witty and he worked so hard, that I couldn't fathom how such a chaotic situation produced such a delightful young man.  I never saw or met his parents.  Marcos said his dad drove by my house to confirm where his son was going every Saturday morning.  That made me feel a little better about his home situation.

I began enjoying Marcos' company so much, that I kept finding more projects he could help me with.  I networked for him and he started working also for another neighbor.  She, too, was equally impressed with his mature demeanor and with his obvious manners and intelligence. 

But this all came to an end this past weekend.  Saturday I waited for Marcos to appear, but he didn't arrive by 9.  I texted Dan telling him Marcos was a no show.  He shared my concern, as Marcos was punctual about everything.  But several hours later, the doorbell rang and there stood Marcos.  Unable to make eye contact he apologized for being late and hoped he could still do some work for me.  He looked so troubled.  I asked him if everything was okay.  He shook his head "no" and burst into tears on my front porch.

After bringing him inside and getting him a glass of water he was able to finally explain his distraught state was because his dad had been arrested and, "deported again."  He said as this was the third time he was caught, that he'd have to do fifteen years in jail.  As with most of Marcos' stories about his home life, not everything added up.  I knew what shame was like as a kid, so I never pressed him for details and allowed the dots to not connect, trying to accept him at face value.  He was afraid that he'd never see his dad again.  He said all of his dad's bank accounts were frozen and now they didn't have the money that they saved for the apartment.  They were back to sleeping in run down motels along West Colfax.

Marcos was so very distraught as he told me his story in between snot-filled sobs.  My heart broke a thousand times over hearing how much weight was on this precious boy's plate.  He was trying to be the man of the house and come up with solutions.   He wanted to get his brother and sister back-to-school-clothes but his mom was too sad to even get out of bed.

I listened and consoled and wondered silently in my head what I might be able to do.  I resolved to help by getting Marcos a gift card so he could get himself and his siblings those back to school clothes.  He and I drove to the store to get the gift card, and then stopped to get him some food and I dropped him off at his uncle's where they were staying for now, promising that I'd be thinking of ways to help his situation during this next week

Four hours later Marcos calls my on my phone excited because they know where his dad is and all they need is someone with ID to sign him out of jail.

"Whaaaat?"  I asked.  He put his reluctant mother on the phone to explain.  In this first ever conversation with his mom I learn his dad was arrested because he was supposed to go to court for a J-walking ticket he got.  He didn't go to court and the police arrested him because he had an outstanding warrant for failure to appear.  As something similar happened months before to a friend of mine, so the story seemed almost plausible to me.  The mom explained she had all the money to geth im out, but she didn't have ID to sign for him.

Whaaaat?

She said I if I called this other woman, Alma, that Alma could explain what I needed to do to get the dad out of jail.  So I called Alma.

Alma, as it turns out, is a bail bondman and Marcos' mom was wanting me to post bond for her husband, Marcos' dad, a man I never met.  After talking with Alma, I learned the bail had been set at $5500, and I needed to sign a promissory note for $5500 saying I'd pay that amount if Marcos' dad did not appear in court for this violation.

$5500.  Wow.  That was a serious chunk of change for me to put at risk on someone I never met.
I texted the mom what I learned and my reasons for hesitating.  She sent a series of texts begging me to please help them.  The dad had never been in any trouble before, she texted.  He didn't party and he didn't drink.  Said that she didn't even own a car so they weren't a flight risk.  She said they had no family, only his 92 year old mother in Mexico.  She pleaded with me, "for the sake of the children," that I sign the promissory note.  I promised her I would think about it.

And I did.  All evening long.

I considered how Marcos' good manners and work ethic had to come from somewhere.  I considered how Marcos said they were staying with an uncle, how he talked about going to aunt's birthday party and how the mom said they had no family.  I considered how I was on the precipice of selling my house for a $150K profit and how this was one of those very rare moments in my own life in which I did have, in theory, $5500 available to put at risk.

Then I considered how little I really knew about this man, this family and their situation.  I considered how I might explain to my friends and family why I decided to risk $5500 on a stranger.  The bit of good karma I stood to gain was outweighed by all the chump potential this request reeked of.  I resolved I would bail out Marcos in heartbeat for $5500 - - but that I couldn't get comfortable doing this for his dad I never met.

At ten o'clock that night I texted the mom my decision to not help.  She text a simple "thank you."  And that was that.

I am sick inside.  Sick, sick, sick. 

I hope as I put some distance between me and this difficult decision, that I will be able to confirm I am being prudent...and not paranoid.