We just got done planning out the rest of the trip. There's a fair amount of flex built in because who knows, but the general itinerary is set, which is a good feeling. It's a lazy afternoon now. I'm writing up the travelogue, Luke is noodling with the guitar, Mark's hanging out in his tent. I've just drafted 20 emails to go out checking up with friends and looking for places to stay down the line.
It's beautiful here. The early morning clouds have blown over and the sky is clear. I just had to make a break for some sunscreen. In an hour or so I'll go take a shower. It's a good place to drop down for two nights.
Like I said we got in on a cancelation, meaning in order to get the second night one of us had to get up and get in line outside the entry ranger booth as close to 7am as possible. I found this out from our man Ranger Wes shortly after we arrived, so I volunteered to pull the morning duty. The plan was to try and get the extra night, and if not to do the laundry early and get back on the road to Goblin Valley (our next stop) where we'd take the respite.
I managed to get out there at 7:15. The booth opens at 8 and there were four men ahead of me. Three older dudes who were chatting it up and a young(er) heavyset guy on the outskirts. Anticipating a 45 minute break I availed myself of the general store coffee and found a post to lean on. The three older dudes were solid Americans, coming in from Hawaii, Georgia and California. The other fella was yet another German. They're everywhere!
For my part, I basically sat and sipped and got in on a few chuckles when I could. The tone was clearly set by the core triumverate and while it certainly wasn't my home zone I found the patter to be enjoyable and easy. Our little group was joined in short order by an asian girl representing a camp of mountain bikers, an older gent from Florida with a GOP Team Leader hat, and a quiet guy who was last in line. The Ranger opened his booth a little before 8 and promptly ran out of renewal forms. I got the last one and then the beureaucracy ground to a halt. I assume everyone got their spot again as there seemed to be room enough for all.
So I cruised back to our camp to deliver the news, making a short detour to trash my general store coffee cup and do a walk by of a site populated by attractive young German backpackers who I'd seen going around while I was waiting in line. We're always on the look out for Cute Girl Camp, even though most sources tell us it's a myth. Gotta keep hope alive anyway. This was the real deal, but they were packing to hit the road, hitchhiking as it turned out. Curses. C'est la vie. There's more coffee when I get back and everyone's happy that we have our spot again. Laundry prep happens and I volunteer to wrangle the washers and dryers so I can sit and write and do my thing for a while.
The first stint at the laundry I meet a nice older fellow from Vancouver, WA. I'm wearing my Oregon t-shirt and that's his alma matter so that's how the conversation starts. He's on a few weeks kick with his wife and we talk about Oregon and the West and school and the like. It's nice. I give him the url for this site and he drops me off an entertaining-looking pulp paperback that he finished, The Codex by Douglas Preston. It's not the sort of book you're really concerned with stocking in your library for reference or re-reading, so he's happy to let it go and I'm happy to have some entertaining lit for the trip.
So I sit and write a bit and listen to the two camp-worker girls, one Chinese and another Slavic, talking to one another in their common language of broken English about the peculiarities of their native tongues. It's quite an interesting bit of eavesdropping for a moment there. They seem to get on well, and I fell a bit proud for a minute that this sort of thing goes on in an American National Park.
Luke pulls up in the truck to get me because breakfast has happened; an egg scramble mixed in with the leftover bum-pack stew and some bacon on the side. It's nice, but the laundry's not dry -- there was a delay before I could get in on a dryer -- so I have to eat and dash back to get it.
There's still a little more time on the dryer so I sit in the truck and listen to music. A van pulls up and this older man gets out, strikes up a conversation with me about the rocket boxes, which are relatively new to him as a Nebraska native. Turns out this gentleman, Dick, is quite a firearm fan, and a racist to boot. It's about 90 seconds into the conversation -- I think I asked him, "where are you coming here from?" -- before he starts in talking about how much he resents the "so called Native Americans" for all the freebies they get. This quickly transitions to talk (he's doing 99% of the talking) of his guns, the time he slashed a "nigger mugger" to death in New York City in the 70s, scaring off intruders to his Yosemetie camp with his wife and 11 guns worth of ammo, and so on. He's lonely and these are his stories, and I smile and nod and let him tell them before excusing myself to get my clothes.
I tend not to engage these people. He's in his 60s. I'm not going to change him, but I'm curious what he's got to say. It's that other side of America, you know? Sure it's uncomfortable to listen to that kind of racism, the glorification of violence. The amorality. But it's something I think is important to know and understand. There's so much paranoia that lies underneath it all. He was sure that had he not been armed to the teeth, those people in Yosemetie were going to kill him and his nephew and son, and rape his wife. This seems unlikely to me, but again, I didn't challenge him. I just got my laundry, wished him a safe trip and went back to camp.
(there's more)
