Camping, anyone?

The birds woke me at 6:17.  Or perhaps it was my bladder.  I shuffled toward the bathroom and had a fright as I passed the mirror.  A stressed older woman stared back at me.  I squinted at that traitor but the evidence was plain – I looked exhausted.  During the last two months I had accepted – no, arranged – back-to-back activities.  Each day I’d rushed from one engagement to the next.  And I still wanted to invite more friends to dinner, master Photoshop, learn the subjunctive tense, paint Alex’s birdhouses for Saturday market, and write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.  I was suffering from a chronic disease – “Big plans; little time”.  I leaned closer to my image and said, “Geez, you’ve done it again”.

I checked my calendar; every box was full. I said, “Alex, let’s go camping?  Just the two of us.”

Long-time friends were sympathetic when I cancelled activities for the next five days.  They’d been through this with me before. Like a social glutton, I often overfill my plate when offered a smorgasbord of activities.  And, after a while, I get frazzled and need to go on a “social-free diet”.  Camping in the remote mountains would be cleansing and calming.  Or so I thought.

“Where did we put the sleeping bag?” Alex grumbled. He had pulled everything from under our built-in couch.  Old electric heaters, tiles we stored – just in case, and Turkish throw rugs we laid by our bed one winter, plus other things we’d forgotten about long ago  But there was no sleeping bag. Now we were facing a small mountain of rarely used stuff.  It was decision time.  Keep? Or give away? We made two piles and shuffled stuff from one pile to another. Back and forth. Finally, Alex shoved the entire pile back under the couch and we continued our hunt. Next, we looked on the top shelf of my closet. Nada.  Then Alex rummaged through the huge black storage bin on the side of the house.  He discovered our giant frying pan big enough to scramble eggs for a dozen hungry friends. 

However, no sleeping bag.  

While Alex rammed things back into the storage box, I said, “This is so frustrating; let’s just forget our camping trip.” Then a wisp of an image tapped at the door of my memory.  I climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, heaved up the corner of the mattress and there, lying flat between the mattress and box spring, was the sleeping bag.

I scrawled, “Organize stuff!!!” onto a slip of paper and stuck it on the fridge.

It took us three full days to arrange a two-night mini-vacation but on Monday morning we finally locked our gate and drove the long dusty road toward solitude.  We parked. I took a deep breath.  Let it out. But stress had hitched a ride on my shoulders and refused to let go.

Alex set-up the table, chairs and propane stove and I raked away cow pies.  I bent, looked closer, and grabbed my camera.  Then I ran over to Alex, showed him the digital photo and  asked, “Guess what this is?” He glanced at the camera and immediately said, “Judy, why are you taking pictures of cow crap?” Just proves that a farm boy sees crap where a city girl discovers art.

An hour later our camp was totally set-up. We’d been on holiday for four hours – and with the exception of my discovering cow-pie-art – I still didn’t feel calm.  I sat in tense silence.  Then I heard a bell tinkle.  The oak tree that shaded our camp rustled its leaves.  Palm trees swished their arms.  A creature scuttled beneath dead leaves. A snake? No, merely a lizard.  A symphony of sounds. For those few moments I’d forgotten to check my stress level.

Let’s go for a walk,” Alex suggested.  The crunch of sand under our tennis shoes sounded like the snowy Boston evenings of my youth.  Then, as we climbed higher, our labored breathing kept the beat with our footsteps and with each step I said, “Relax. Relax, damn it!”    

Back at camp four cows waited for us.  Should I have been frightened?  Our red apron was hanging from a tree limb.  Would they charge?  They glanced at us a moment and then continued munching the nearby shrubs. Cows know how to take it easy. For a few moments I pretended I was a bovine and immediately got hungry – for salad.  

We prepared arugula, pears, candied pecans and dried cranberries.  We crunched Pan d’Les smeared with a thin layer of blue cheese for me and slathered with butter for Alex.  The sun set behind the mountain and Alex built a crackling fire.  We roasted Argentina sausages on sticks. Alex’s right knee touched my left knee.  He placed his hand on my shoulder and I felt myself unwind. Finally. 

Relaxation can’t be forced.  For the next two days, I slowly let go of my schedule, the computer, and our friends trusting that they’d all be in La Paz waiting for our return.

     

I awoke to silence.  No barking, no traffic, and no swish-swish of our neighbor’s broom. Had I been struck deaf while I slept?  No, I could hear Alex’s gentle snoring. I opened my eyes and, instead of my sparkling bedroom ceiling, I saw gray fabric two feet above my face. We were lying in the back of our Blazer.  Camping.  Senior style.

I reached for my travel clock and shoved my arm back under the duvet.  I peeked at the illuminated clock: Feb. 15 -- 6:29 a.m. – 37 degrees Fahrenheit.  I shook the clock. 37 degrees inside the Blazer!  I needed to show Alex before the sun warmed the car. But how to wake him? I touched his bare stomach.  He screeched, I handed him the clock, and curled into to his still-warm body.  I grunted, “Man make fire; woman keep warm.” 

From a supine position, Alex wrestled into his clothes but I’d slept fully dressed including my hat (but not my shoes).  I snuggled deeper under the covers. Birds and roosters began to sing.  Cow bells rang. 

Alex rekindled the campfire and prepared coffee. I anticipated a lovely “do-nothing, see-no one” day.   

The dogs came first.  Then a boy dragging a stick.  Finally, the boy’s mother appeared.  We exchanged “holas”. She looked at the ground and asked, “Have you seen our cows?” I explained that yesterday four cows had spent an hour in our camp but we hadn’t seen them today, although we had heard cow bells. The woman, boy and dogs walked in the direction we pointed.

Alex, who rarely suggests walking, said, “Let’s look for the lost cows.” I asked, “If we see cows, how will we know if they’re her cows? And suppose we find what we assume to be the lost cows, how does one lead a cow, especially since we don’t know where the woman, boy and dogs live?”  

We heard – cow bells.  We hurried toward them but instead of cows, we found bell-toting goats.

On our way back to our camp a motorcycle drove by.  Alex asked, “Judy, remember when we rode our Kawasaki to West Virginia and camped?”  I said, “Alex, was that the night it poured, and the pup tent leaked, and we were miles from a hotel?  Is that the trip you mean?”

“Yea”, he said, “Wasn’t it fun?” I thought, “This man needs an adventure.”

The sun was on its downward arch when the woman returned. Alone.  No dogs; no boy. She averted her eyes and asked, “Will you take me to search for my cows?”  Alex hurried to the Blazer.  Two bucket seats.  In the back lay our “bedroom”. I said, “You take her, Alex, I’ll read.” Our intimate, “do-nothing, see-no one” day had evaporated.

I grabbed a cookie and my novel Olive Kitterich. Olive was the controlling and demanding protagonist.  Sort of like me but without my sense of humor. I checked the clock – Alex had been gone an hour.  I sighed.  I couldn’t blame Olive’s husband if he ran off with his young shy assistant.

When I was 14 I’d watched Sayonara twelve times. I’d wanted to be shy like Marlon Brando’s Japanese geisha.  I practiced the art of lowered eyes but never managed to subdue my mouth. Or my temper.  Poor Olive.  Poor me.  Poor husbands. I looked toward the west; the sun was fading fast.  They’d been gone almost three hours.  I wasn’t jealous. Really. But what man can resist a woman with lost cows?

Alex looked discouraged when he returned. He and Pati had picked up her physically-handicapped husband (both had squished into the passenger seat) and had driven high into the mountains.  They’d stopped often and Pati walked up and down steep canyons listening for their cows.  Over and over. Finally, they’d given up.

 Alex said, “Judy, can you imagine how desperate they must have been to ask for our help? If they lose those cows, it could mean financial disaster.”  I looked at the ground and felt ashamed of my doubts – a feeling that Olive wasn’t capable of.

I decided to do something un-Olive-like.  I said, “I’ll make the campfire; you relax.”  I lifted a piece of wood. Do large spider families hide in wood piles? I began to regret my impulsive offer when we heard a roar. Then one dull headlight appeared. The dusty young motorcycle rider who’d passed us that morning stopped and said, “English?”  We nodded; he groaned, “Thank god!”

Peter had dropped his bike six times on the impassible sandy mountain road.  Alex said, “Pitch your tent here.” I wondered if we’d be robbed while we slept.  I thought, “Geez, Judy, you’re jealous and paranoid.” We shared our sausages, coffee and campfire and Peter entertained us with stories of mechanical disasters and broken bones. He claimed to be held together with pins and bolts.  Alex said that Peter was held together by determination. Were his stories exaggerated?  Perhaps.  But Peter’s enthusiasm was 100% real.

After breakfast he rode off. Would we (an older-American-couple-camping-in-the-remote-mountains-of-the-Baja) be added to his anecdotes? Maybe. But he’s become one of our memories.

On the drive to La Paz Alex asked, “What about Peter’s body”? Since he turned 65, Alex has become a would-be Body Snatcher; he’s searching for a young, strong, healthy male body to inhabit. I said, “I bet the pins that hold Peter together will rust before he turns thirty.” And, like the good wife I am, I added, “Nah, I prefer your body, Honey.”

Alex asked, “Did you have a good time? I answered, “This trip wasn’t the quiet get-away I’d imagined but perhaps I’m not a “do-nothing, see-no one” kind of woman.”

 At home Alex, the man who knows me so well, said, “Let’s invite friends for dinner tomorrow night.” I grabbed the phone, a pen and headed toward the calendar.