It's quiet, as still as a forest should be in the dim, early morning
light of late summer. Not a sound from outside. I carefully, slowly
use both hands to peer through the horizontal metal ribbons that form
the Venetian blinds. Not a soul to be seen in the heavily forested
campground. The few trailers and recreational vehicles parked to the
side of the main road like branches on a tree seem lifeless. There is
no sign of activity anywhere. The wet, narrow ribbon of asphalt
leading to the campground shower is barren, giving hope to the fact
the restroom and showers are as empty as well.
I quickly grab my shaving kit and check to see if I remembered to
replace the small, oddly shaped piece of soap that looks like a very
small saddle. Yes, a new bar is safely in the plastic case, so I grab
fresh underwear and my camp towel, slip on my shower clogs, and
quietly open the trailer door. I look around before I step out, as if
perhaps I was being watched by professional surveillance teams, and
once I assure myself no one else has ventured into the realm, I step
down carefully, one step at a time, breathing the heavy, smoke laden
air from the campfires that had burned late into the night. As I
slowly walk to the road a small bird silently flutters across the
campsite, the only sign of life, but it is no threat to occupying the
small shower stall that awaits me.
I glance uphill, toward the cul-de-sac, luck is on my side, the road
is empty. I turn and head quickly down the road, I only have one
hundred or so yards and a hot shower awaits. I speed up, as if I'm
racing an unseen competitor, and, suddenly, I am competing with
someone! A heavy-set man in his late forties steps into the road
between me and the bath house and stops to look at his shaving kit.
Where did he come from? I speed up, flopping noisily now, practically
running to get ahead of him, but he looks up and sees me coming. He
quickly bolts for the bath house. There is no way I can intercept him
or pass him. I resignedly slow my pace. At least there are two
showers, so not all is lost. I doubt he'll use all the hot water
before I finish.
But catastrophe strikes just as I turn on the final path to the door;
another camper comes around the corner of the bath house from the
other side, his red towel draped around his neck like a horse collar.
The first gentleman graciously holds the door open for the
johnny-come lately and they both enter together. Damn! Back to the
camper. Time for another cup of coffee.
NEXT: Camping with our furry friend, at:
http://sleepstwo.blogspot.com/2015/09/camping-with-our-furry-friend.html
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