The Weekend — June 5 – 7
In the last exciting episode of RVSue and her canine crew, Bridget, Reggie and I board the Perfect Tow Vehicle and make our way deeper into Siuslaw National Forest.
I hope to find a quiet camp for the weekend at Clay Creek Campground.
The hush of the forest and the patterns of light and shadow across the roadway put me in a near dream state as we follow the road sixteen miles south from Whittaker Creek Campground.
A big truck with a load of logs comes around a curve — hey, didn’t we go through this already? — only this time the truck’s rate of speed allows us both time to get out of each other’s way on the narrow road. I’m alert now!
It’s BLM with a fee of $10 regular/$5 with senior discount pass. Clay Creek has group sites and a ball field, which Whittaker Creek lacks. However, Whittaker Creek has a camp host and Clay Creek doesn’t right now.
The sites near the entrance are too dark for the solar panel. Gee, no one is here. How nice.
Oh, there’s a tenter. Don’t want to park close to that site.
Bridget and Reggie whine and bark to be let out.
“Okay, good idea. Let’s walk the rest of the loop.”
Reggie picks out a level pull-through for us.
Later the crew and I enjoy our second walk of the day.
We explore the campground and follow the road to where a bridge crosses Clay Creek. (The remaining photos in this post are from that walk.)
Shortly after dark, as the crew and I are bedding down, I hear voices from the direction of that tent. Hmm. . . . sounds like twenty-something men.
One-thirty-four in the morning.
I doze off and wake again. Something certainly is hilarious over at the tent. Clock check: two-thirty-eight.
They do leave and others take their place.
Lots of others! By noon the campground is almost full. Without a doubt this day turns out to be the absolute worst campground experience I have ever endured in almost four years of full-time camping.
This is what goes on: a child cries incessantly, a man yells at the child to stop that damn crying, someone in the next site is playing lumberjack with an axe (chop-chop-chop), an OHV starts up and rumbles up the road, a radio plays thump-thump-thump while a female “singer” screams through her nose in the popular fashion of today, a motorbike (vroom-vroom) revs, rumbles, stalls, revs again, and so forth for hours, a diesel truck drives up and idles next to the BLT (why?) while Reggie and the dog in the passenger seat exchange furious barks . . . .
I’d go inside with the windows shut tight but it’s too hot for that.
I turn my head and there goes a man wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top, a top, I might add, that’s unsuccessfully straining to cover his gut. He shuffles along, splay-footed and glassy-eyed, holding a beer can to his mouth.
Oh, dear God. This is so bad I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I stare at the sky through the tree tops.
Somewhere birds sing a gentle song . . .
The crew and I return to Whittaker Creek before the bell tolls eight o’clock on this lovely Sunday morning. I back the BLT into a campsite where we bide our time until a good site is vacated by a weekender.
NOTE: I apologize for the negative tone of this post. I almost didn’t write the details of this past weekend. As usual, the desire to show both the positive and negative of this lifestyle — including my mistakes — won out. The weekend was hell at the time, but now I can look back at my futile pursuit of peace and quiet and laugh. Stuff happens.
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