For the past week, elk have been bugling in the forest near my camp. That means it's rutting season. I don't hear it in my car at night, but it's hard to ignore during the day. The males call to each other, I imagine they are saying, stay out of my territory, bro. I may have liked you yesterday, but today we are sworn enemies. That cow is mine!
When you hang around an area long enough, and walk by campsites day after day, people start to recognize you. Let me tell you about some of the other creatures I've met this week. It's funny that last week I blogged that I needed more friends. Be careful what you wish for.
JOHN
John is a fifty-something bald man with a white moustache and a desperate desire to get laid. (Not by me, obviously. Old enough to be his mother, yada yada). John and I were parked on the periphery of the same clearing. My minivan fits in small spaces. John drives a red monster jeep thing and pulls a 25-foot trailer. He rides his bike daily, wearing no shirt, no hat, and no shoes. He likes to get high in every way conceivable. Wine, whiskey, and weed seem to be what he mentions most. John believes he's connected to the Earth through the soles of his feet. Yesterday, he visited me on his bike and said he intended to sell his vehicle, trailer, and bicycle and buy an electric bike that can pull a small two-wheel trailer, in which he plans to carry his camping gear, a small power station, and a portable solar panel. With an extra battery for the e-bike, he said he can travel fifty to sixty miles per day for a lot less money than he's spending now. He reassured me he's done this before. He said he needs to cut back on his drinking and smoking before he implements his plan.
GEORGE
The camper who took John's campsite is named George. He drives a minivan and sleeps in an orange tent. His minivan is a mess, but he has a huge fridge with a freezer and a Jackery 1000 to run it. He has 200 watts of solar on the roof. George is tall, thin, maybe a couple years older than me, with a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache and very little hair on his scalp. He's a real estate developer who has some deals in the works but is currently broke. George is estranged from his daughter. George reads a lot and isn't shy about telling me what to read. He thinks Ariana Huffington is the bomb, by which I mean, he thinks she's a total "babe." I asked why he called her a babe. He got defensive and praised her other attributes. Today he expounded on the many reasons why people are messed up, offering explanations such as ruined gut biome, metabolic dysfunction, and Adult Children of Alcoholics.
MARK
A few days ago, I walked up the road past an open clearing. A very large pickup truck was parked by an old mid-sized trailer (similar to John's). A bloated man sat in a camp chair in the sun with a small fluffy dog at his feet. The man waved and said "come on over," so I navigated the terrain and met Mark and his dog, Ozzie. Mark is clearly unwell. He said he had a heart condition that required him to wear a monitor that sent data to the medical data specialists, who most likely can do nothing if Mark has a heart attack out here in the middle of the forest. Mark was drinking coffee shirtless in the blazing sun while wearing rainbow wraparound sunglasses. His ankles and hands are red, chapped, and swollen. Ozzie kept licking his leg. After telling Ozzie to cut it out, Mark recommended I get a small generator and put it in the passenger seat of my van.
MARTY
On the way back from meeting Mark, I ran into a woman with two dogs. She was going my way, so we walked together. Marty is maybe mid-fifties, a little shorter than me, with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her two dogs were mid-sized things. One had beautiful blue eyes. I forgot to ask their names. Marty had a lot of stories to tell, one of which was of interest to me. Recently she bought 4.7 acres of land in Goldendale, AZ. She put a shed on it to store her furniture, but she isn't supposed to live there because she's not hooked up to septic and the shed isn't up to code as a livable space. She lives in her motorhome, hauls water, and relies on solar. The law in Mohave County says she can only spend seven days out of a year camping on her own land, but she ignores the law. She said she didn't know what she was getting into, and now she's spent all her money.
LISA
In the wayback corner of this clearing is Lisa and her spindly chihuahua Ginger. Lisa kept to herself for most of my time at this campsite. She drives a white minivan similar to mine but more beat up, and she somehow managed to pitch an enormous white tent. She's short but strong, I'm guessing. She came over to talk after two men pulled up in a big black pickup, parked, and unloaded two motorcycles. She asked if I knew them. We got to talking. She's an architect with a disconcerting habit of laughing at what she says. I got many glimpses of her perfect teeth. Lisa is worried about the recent Executive Order giving authorities permission to force homeless people into treatment.
THE FUN NEVER STOPS
Mark pulled up when Lisa and I were talking and proceeded to act like a jerk when he heard Lisa talking about rangers photographing our license plates to add us to the database of homeless people who might need to be institutionalized. Mark's opinion was that it would never happen. He called Lisa an idiot. She defused the conflict with remarkable grace and skill, I thought. I walked away before the conversation was over.
George went away and came back and gave me the update, with details, on the sad saga of his real estate problem in Marana. Yesterday John rode up on his bike and talked to me at my open sliding door. George came over to join the conversation. It was a two-way conversation, with me as witness. It's amusing to be a fly on the wall, observing the banter of two men who are using words to arm-wrestle.
Today, George said that what is wrong with everyone (including me, apparently) is that we don't know how to eat, sleep, think, or poop. Something like that. He gave me a list of books to read. Then he gave me his entire life story from kindergarten through the Vietnam draft, which he escaped by virtue of winning the number lottery.
The theme of this week is listening while others talk. And talk. And talk. Now that I've met a small sample of forest dwellers, I can offer a tentative theory: These people are lonely eccentrics who are hungry to be heard. They latched onto me like a mosquito probing for a blood meal.
I know how to listen. I can be pretty good at it when I really try, and I'll put up with a lot, offering platitudes like "oh really!", "how did that go?", and "it sounds like you've had an amazing life." I do this because I like being of service. It's a small gift I can give that costs me nothing. It's kind of fun to see them bloom. Like thirsty desert flowers, they open up and bask in the attention. At last! Someone is interested in me!
Nobody asked me anything about myself. I volunteered a few things at first, but I quickly realized they didn't care about me, so I switched my strategy and kept my responses short and empathetic, along the lines of "me, too!", and "I had a very similar experience!"
Today after George berated humanity for not pooping correctly, I'd had enough. I said something like "this just proves that humans are too stupid to live" and walked away. I think he was a little taken aback. But he still can't stop talking. In fact, all these creatures can't seem to stop talking. Bla bla bla, yada yada yada.
I asked to meet people, and this is what is out here. Probably there are a few "normies" like me who are trying to maintain a semblance of their "normal" lives but just happen to be doing it in a home on wheels. I won't find them, because they are avoiding the creatures of the forest, which is probably what I need to start doing, now that I've had a taste of their desperation.
