It’s 2:30 before I swing into Mesquite Spring just to see it. There are water hoses here, both potable and non-potable. There’s also flush toilets and garbage bins. And one RV after another. Dogs. Generators. To my surprise there are campsites open. I dither a bit, and then decide to grab one. This is essentially what I was looking for yesterday. It probably won’t be as calm as the night before, but given the random availability, I decide to give it a go.
The cost is $14 a night. It’s been 30 years since I last stayed in an established campsite. Things have changed, so how to pay is something of a mystery. I aim for the main building, which is basically just restrooms, only to discover there’s no place to pay there. It seems like that’s where you’d do things like that. Confused, I ask the “camp curator” who adopts an air of long suffering. Turns out there’s a credit card kiosk at the campground entrance. It’s small, brown, and designed to blend in. I’d completely missed it. Clearly, I’m an idiot.
First priority is to set up the Ready Light and aim its solar panel straight at the sun. It ran a lot more than I’d expected last night, and there was virtually no sun this morning. Hopefully there’s enough daylight left to bring it up to full charge.
Next is a quick lunch of cheese and crackers. It’s pushing 3:00 and this is the first food I’ve had since breakfast. I’ve only been sitting in Brother Blue all day, so I don’t need much before dinner, which will be early. Nevertheless a small snack is in order. After that I get to the business of setting up the tent. Last night I pitched on what might as well have been concrete. Today it’s … sand. I’m surprised. Deep sand. Of course, I don’t have sand stakes. I experiment enough to know the standard stakes that came with the tent are going to be entirely inadequate. Clearly I need to make allowances for this kind of thing in the future.
In the end I use large rocks to hold the stakes in place. It’s needed. As the sun sinks towards the surrounding hills, the wind is coming up. It’s strong and cold. I have to keep a good hold on the guylines to keep the tent from blowing away. Setting rocks on the guylines is probably not the best thing in the world for them, but I want to replace them with reflective cordage anyway, so I figure just this once it won’t make a difference. I just hope they hold. The wind is growing increasingly strong as the shadows lengthen.
As I’m working on the tent, a pickup pulls into the campsite next me me. Three men get out. One is at least ten years older than me, the other two at least twenty years younger. One of the younger men is big, loud, and friendly. He sees me, so he strikes up a conversation. He’s Mark, up from San Diego. He asks if I’m alone. When I say that I am, he says, “Right on” with a flat tone that means something else. I think he’s probably one of those extroverts who don’t understand solo travel. Pretty soon he’s inviting me over for dinner. Chicken Enchiladas. They have way more than they need.
I’ve encountered this in eras past. Outside of the big urban centers, people are open, friendly, inviting. Then, as now, every time someone invited me to their camp I was heartened. The human race isn’t quite entirely lost after all. All the anger, resentment, and suspicion seems locked up in the big cities which are, after all, extraordinarily unnatural constructs. The seem specifically designed to make us all crazy, to force us to be strangers among millions. Under other circumstances I would have accepted his offer. At the least, I would have joined them around their campfire, maybe shared some whiskey, certainly shared some stories.
But these are Covid times. Joining strangers for dinner seems unwise. I wouldn’t ever forgive myself if I went camping and dragged that damn bug home to my family. So I politely decline. I think his companions are relieved. It might be that Mark is the only one in the campground who isn’t playing by the Covid rules.
It’s fully dark by 5:00, so I fire up the Ready Light which is fully charged after all. I’m impressed. Old man winter is edging into the cutting wind, and I’m rapidly putting on one layer after another. Given the cold, I want hot food, so dinner is grilled ham and cheese, and tomato soup. It goes quickly. I’m cleaning up by 6:00. Since it’s there, I take my dishes over to the wash station at the main building. As I’m coming back, I can see my campsite across a sea of tents, trailers, and RVs. The Ready Light is by far and away the brightest thing in the place. It’s washing out Mark’s campfire. I suddenly realize I’m the asshole. Guilty, I race back to my campsite and put out the light. There is a time and a place for such things. That was a mistake.
It’s way too early for bed, so I settle into my camp chair, and I let the evening sink in. There’s a brilliant half moon up that dims the stars but also illuminates a thin river of clouds winding their way through the otherwise clear sky. Across the way, a dog is barking. Someone fires up a generator. Then a baby starts crying. I sigh, put my feet up on the picnic table, and just let the night do what its going to do. Nothing that’s happening in that campground is wrong or bad. If anything is out of place, it’s me. I probably shouldn’t be there at all.
The wind is getting stronger, and colder.
People keep coming into the campgrounds. More generators fire up. Clearly a lot of people are using this as a basecamp. They’re doing day trips into the park, but they already have a spot here all reserved and set up, so its okay to come back after dark. A young couple rolls in driving a Toyota sedan with an unfortunately sized Yakima cargo box perched precariously on top. They immediately fire up a lantern. It isn’t as bright as my Ready Light, but it’s still lighting up my campsite pretty good. I glance at my watch. 6:45. The generators are supposed to all shut down at 7:00. Despite the activity in the campground, it feels like it’s midnight.
People are continually walking by. They’re talking, low voices, trying to be polite, but it’s an intrusion nevertheless. I can’t help but compare that to the solitude last night. I don’t think staying in Mesquite Spring was a mistake; I need to see this just once to remember why I avoided places like this in eras past. Now I remember. I won’t be going back.
For a long time I just sit back, watch the cloud river, listen to the noises around me, and feel the growing wind. After a while, I’m cold enough that I think I might as well go to bed. It’s only 8:00. My summer-weight sleeping bag isn’t going to cut it tonight, but I brought a second bag so I can double up. It’s my daughter’s, which means it’s too short, but I can at least use it as a blanket. I head off, hoping that the neighbor’s light and the random noises won’t keep me up. At least the generators have stopped.
Later, my tent jerks, shudders, and violently shakes. It wakes me up. 10:30. I climb out to check my tent stakes. They’re holding. The wind has grown fierce. I’m a lousy judge of these things, but I think it’s running 20 – 30 mph. People have all disappeared inside their trailers, RVs, and tents except for the young couple next to me who are still up talking quietly. At least they’ve turned down their lantern.
The moon has moved, and the cloud river has thinned. The stars are brighter. I stand there a long moment, buffeted by the desert wind, soaking it in. But I’m only wearing sweats and the wind is clutching at me with icy fingers. I don’t mind the cold, but I do respect it. If I get chilled it’ll take a long time to warm up in my sleeping bag. Back to the tent, then, and sleep. Even despite the wind and the shuddering tent, it comes easily.
Day two has ended. I can’t imagine what day three will bring. The morning will decide for me.