Not so east of the Rockies. Campgrounds there are usually in state parks and have strict park hours with tight security. At 10 p.m., gates close and no one enters or leaves--at least not by vehicle. I too was once ignorant of Eastern outdoor protocols. Where I come from, you just pull your trailer out in the desert and park it wherever you want, and there you go--camping. If you are more civilized, you pull into a small little campground up a canyon beside a stream that has few sites and a single outhouse with a green fiberglass roof. Even the national parks let you come and go as you please.
But no, not back East. Even some national forest campgrounds (in the rare places there is national forest) lock their gates after 10:00. It's just that way. So, as I worried and fretted, Marci listened to music, sang la-la-la-la along with it, and told me not to worry. It was damn irritating. I half hoped we'd have to spend the night sleeping in the car just so I could say, "I told you so."
As it turned out we made it. I can't even remember if there was a gate. We just drove on into an eerily empty state park and then dropped down through the thick, short oak woods to an almost vacant campground. There was one other occupied site, just across the road from us. I feared we might be chopped up in the night, thrown into the camper, and driven off in the morning to be consumed later.
When we opened the car door, heat and humidity hit like a wall. Out west, nights are cool, even on the Fourth of July. When we go to see the fireworks, we take sweaters and blankets, and some years, that is not enough. It is simply not supposed to be above 70 degrees at night. It must have been like 85 that night. And if there is moisture in the air, it is suppose to fall. It's not supposed to hang out up there in the air, dancing all around you, going, "You wan't cool, refreshing rain, don't you--Well, ha, ha, ha! I'll make you sweat torrents of stinky slime instead!" Of course, I lived eight years in Dallas, so I should have known it would be like this, but what the mind remembers abstractly, the senses do not. I was shocked and horrified. My nostrils simply would not accept this new reality as normal.
As we had set up our tent before going to San Antonio, we were able to go right to bed. We were tired and I quickly fell asleep. However, I woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat. When I opened my eyes, the tent was four inches above my head. It was small and we were on cots, but the cozy space had not bothered me during the cold nights of the Rockies. Something about the heat and humidity changed everything. I felt like I couldn't breath, and the visual reminder of the tight space just intensified it. I felt like my entire body was being consumed by a worm. I started to panic, which made breathing even harder. I felt I'd go crazy in my own skin. Finally, I woke Marci and pleaded to change places.
Next to the door, I unzipped the flaps, rolled them back and stared out the screen into the invisible but all too real heat and humidity as I waited for death. Eventually, I dozed off and got some sleep before dawn. When I woke up, random drops of rain hit the tent with a ping. Outside, the sky was low and heavy, but other than that all was well. I was alive and excited to meet the day.
As it turned out we made it. I can't even remember if there was a gate. We just drove on into an eerily empty state park and then dropped down through the thick, short oak woods to an almost vacant campground. There was one other occupied site, just across the road from us. I feared we might be chopped up in the night, thrown into the camper, and driven off in the morning to be consumed later.
When we opened the car door, heat and humidity hit like a wall. Out west, nights are cool, even on the Fourth of July. When we go to see the fireworks, we take sweaters and blankets, and some years, that is not enough. It is simply not supposed to be above 70 degrees at night. It must have been like 85 that night. And if there is moisture in the air, it is suppose to fall. It's not supposed to hang out up there in the air, dancing all around you, going, "You wan't cool, refreshing rain, don't you--Well, ha, ha, ha! I'll make you sweat torrents of stinky slime instead!" Of course, I lived eight years in Dallas, so I should have known it would be like this, but what the mind remembers abstractly, the senses do not. I was shocked and horrified. My nostrils simply would not accept this new reality as normal.
As we had set up our tent before going to San Antonio, we were able to go right to bed. We were tired and I quickly fell asleep. However, I woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat. When I opened my eyes, the tent was four inches above my head. It was small and we were on cots, but the cozy space had not bothered me during the cold nights of the Rockies. Something about the heat and humidity changed everything. I felt like I couldn't breath, and the visual reminder of the tight space just intensified it. I felt like my entire body was being consumed by a worm. I started to panic, which made breathing even harder. I felt I'd go crazy in my own skin. Finally, I woke Marci and pleaded to change places.
Next to the door, I unzipped the flaps, rolled them back and stared out the screen into the invisible but all too real heat and humidity as I waited for death. Eventually, I dozed off and got some sleep before dawn. When I woke up, random drops of rain hit the tent with a ping. Outside, the sky was low and heavy, but other than that all was well. I was alive and excited to meet the day.
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