Camping
Posted: July 25th, 2008, 4:40 pm
The dammed up Colorado is a winsome trench of minor hell cut through the high desert's intensity. It snakes around down there in mindless heat until it wells up behind some massive lump of concrete, where you can camp or rent boats and catch third degree burns. I used to cross the dam into Arizona, but now they stop everyone for a bomb sniff and a scowl. Stay in Nevada.
Dave came to visit me in the desert one time, down from the land of gray trees, and he wanted to camp by the water. He'd jammed his girlfriend's pickup to the roof with every conceivable camping and cooking implement, enough food for days, and half of Bob Marley's catalog, so we drove down to Lake Mead. Not the first campground-- too close to Vegas wickedness. No, we drove an extra forty miles to the next one for good measure.
Camping is an odd thing. Out on some nameless trail it's simple: a sleeping bag, lantern, cooler, and release. But it's harder to cut the cord at a numbered campsite. People transport most of their city abode. The campground was nearly empty-- only five, six crews in one small area-- but Dave insisted on camping right beside them. He spent five hours setting up his wilderness apartment while I reconnoitered a nearby wash. Beyond the gas grills and generators I found a suffocating, tightening silence, and each step became more leaden. It was a terrible peace so I climbed out. Atop the rim, faint auburn expanse kept punishing silence at bay.
Back at camp, Dave prepared a four-course supper in his newly-assembled chef's kitchen, and four young men across the road chilled to soothing strains of rage rock on steroids. It's similar to music, only many times more pissed off. Line after line of monster truck hip hop and vein-popping vendettas filled the tranquil desert dusk. I gazed past the din into arid light, the wistful light. The sun bled and died, and moon sneaked up again. Wistful light went silky. We communed with the raging earth and ate gourmet food. Ah, the numbered campsite experience. Spiritual, isn't it?
Dave came to visit me in the desert one time, down from the land of gray trees, and he wanted to camp by the water. He'd jammed his girlfriend's pickup to the roof with every conceivable camping and cooking implement, enough food for days, and half of Bob Marley's catalog, so we drove down to Lake Mead. Not the first campground-- too close to Vegas wickedness. No, we drove an extra forty miles to the next one for good measure.
Camping is an odd thing. Out on some nameless trail it's simple: a sleeping bag, lantern, cooler, and release. But it's harder to cut the cord at a numbered campsite. People transport most of their city abode. The campground was nearly empty-- only five, six crews in one small area-- but Dave insisted on camping right beside them. He spent five hours setting up his wilderness apartment while I reconnoitered a nearby wash. Beyond the gas grills and generators I found a suffocating, tightening silence, and each step became more leaden. It was a terrible peace so I climbed out. Atop the rim, faint auburn expanse kept punishing silence at bay.
Back at camp, Dave prepared a four-course supper in his newly-assembled chef's kitchen, and four young men across the road chilled to soothing strains of rage rock on steroids. It's similar to music, only many times more pissed off. Line after line of monster truck hip hop and vein-popping vendettas filled the tranquil desert dusk. I gazed past the din into arid light, the wistful light. The sun bled and died, and moon sneaked up again. Wistful light went silky. We communed with the raging earth and ate gourmet food. Ah, the numbered campsite experience. Spiritual, isn't it?
you must be a very calm man. i would have freaked out if someone was so rude to pierce the silence so brutally of what was supposed to be tranquility, and with music that obviously isn't everyone's taste. now, bob marley, on the other hand could have been just the right touch for a night of camping on a numbered sight with gourmet food. 