Saturday, May 2
Prineville Reservoir, Oregon
A guy and a gal moved into the campsite next to us yesterday.
They arrived in separate vehicles, twenty-somethings, talking earnestly the way young people do when the relationship is still new. There’s enough space between my site and theirs that I can ignore them.
Later more young people drive up and join the couple.
They sit around drinking beer, talking and laughing, not at all disruptive. The crew and I go to bed and in the morning only the original couple are in the campsite next to us.
A little before noon I’m sitting outside reading.
The crew is on a quilt on the ground next to my lounger. I hear the clink of glass. I look over and see the couple have packed up and are standing over the fire ring dropping cans and bottles into it.
Oh no, here we go.
Using the fire ring for a trash can. How many times have I seen the results of that?
Well, they’re young. Their minds (and bodies) are attending other matters. Darn it. Should I say something? And what would I say?
I don’t want a confrontation. It’s such a nice day. And I don’t want their little get-together to end badly. Maybe I should ignore it.
Clink. Clink.
But, gosh, people need to learn how to act when camping and if I don’t do something, will they repeat this for years to come? They do seem like good kids. At least they’re picking up after their friends. Maybe they forgot to bring a trash bag.
But leaving trash jeopardizes free camping areas. I should do something . . . .
An idea!
I jump up, go inside the Best Little Trailer, and grab a large kitchen trash bag. When I come back outside, the young woman’s car door is open with music playing. I don’t see her or the young man. He must be in the driver’s seat of his truck and she’s on that side, out of my sight, saying goodbye.
I walk over to their campsite, eyes on the fire ring.
I don’t look in their direction and I don’t stride with attitude. I walk like I’m out gathering daisies or something. At the fire ring I pick up the cans and bottles and place them in the trash bag. I close the bag up tight and tie the handles. Continuing my casual manner, I walk over to the young woman’s car and deposit the trash bag, half-full with bottles and cans, on the driver’s seat.
I calmly drift back to my lounger.
I’m the patron saint of fire rings. I roam the countryside with large kitchen trash bags, pulling cans and bottles out of fire rings. For the common good . . .
I sit down and resume reading. The sound of vehicles fades.
I look over at their campsite.
They’re gone and so is the trash bag. I smile. Gee, that went well.
Later a convoy of vehicles roar into that same campsite.
Teenagers pour out the doors, squealing, hooting, and hollering. A few hold beer bottles. The girls spread blankets on the slope facing the water and prepare to sunbathe in their swimsuits, peeling off shirts and stepping out of shorts. Guys run around, being loud as guys have done ever since there have been girls to look at them. I count five big dogs running loose.
More vehicles arrive, spilling more teenagers.
There’s no way this is going to improve. Soon the music will start and it will go on for hours. We need to get out of here!
I pack up and pull out.
I drive to the other end of the camping area and find a pretty site ringed with cedar trees. Nice view of the water. It turns out to be a better site than the one we left!
Sunday, May 3 and Monday, May 4
The cedars throw dappled shade on our camp. Very pretty!
See my new table? See my dirty dishes?
However, in the morning it’s too cool in the shade on the blue mat.
I place the quilt in a sunny spot and loop Reggie’s tether around a tree branch. Bridget wanders around while Reggie plays with his toys.
It’s very nice here except for the goatheads.
The ground is covered with tiny plants, similar to goatheads, that put stickers in Reggie’s paws. Bridget doesn’t get them. She’s always had an amazing ability to place her paws safely. Anyway . . . . I encourage Reggie to play on the quilt. He seems to agree with the plan.
Every day Reggie tortures The Flea.
I should buy him some more toys. He also needs a soft harness.
“Yes, we’ll go for a walk. You play while I take some pictures first.”
No one is camped at this end of the dispersed camping area.
It’s very peaceful. A few motor boats, honking geese, songbirds, Reggie growling at his victim . . . .
Where’s Bridget?
Well, she was on the quilt with Reggie a minute ago, until I started taking pictures, and then . . .
“Come out of there, Bridge! You’re getting yourself all dirty!”
Speaking of dirty . . .
I did get around to washing those dishes.
rvsue
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