damonjustisntfunny.com

When you have asked someone for directions to a place and are taking dictation, in that moment, everything makes sense. The turns, the promises, the stark analyses of options; everything is as clear as day and you think to yourself: “surely I could never get lost! This man knows what he is talking about!” However, the moment that person has left (nay, the moment they turn to leave) your certainty crumbles and you are standing naked without any semblance of useless information and suddenly, you trust no one — not even yourself.

After the grocery store debacle in Crescent (which was: that we passed a perfectly good grocery store in Gilcrest for a crappy store in Crescent because Crescent had a bigger icon on our map — damn you AAA!) I was not feeling very trustworthy. Joe of Bend, OR had promised us that we would find a campsite outside of Crescent and before we turned onto Route 138 — he was sure of it. At least, he thought he was sure of it. He was, for sure, pretty sure that there was a campsite somewhere around there, surely — at least, to the best of his recollection.

The one thing that Crescent had to offer, other than dual payphone booths in the middle of a dusty abandoned parking lot and tumbleweeds, was a National Forest Ranger Station. We almost pedaled right by it but as that my legs were not in the mood for pedaling I did not hesitate to enter and inquire about our lodging options and there, ladies and gentleman, can I get a hallelujah, was the first pretty girl I had seen other than #6 on this entire trip. Her name was Lacie. Or something like that.

Imagine for a moment, as I did then, what would have been if #6 had eluded me in Seattle and I had still been on the quest. Imagine the scene that unfolds not as it actually did, but as it would have if I had been starved of my kiss and was still searching, aimlessly, for it. Follow along the sordid path of what was all the while dreaming of what could have been and you will find that the latter option is worth erasing from your creative memories.

She stood behind the counter, examining something on a computer, in a typical Ranger Station welcome area. Small, but not without purpose, the building appeared to have been recently renovated. There was drywall and spackling and the smell of fresh paint mixed with the trademark verdant aura and emanated throughout the building. She was the only one present — save myself — and now you, dear reader.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello Lacie, how are you?”

She smiled, then, and her eyes fixed on mine for a moment longer than is proper. I had picked up the knack of casually reading a persons name tag and then addressing them by their first name before being properly introduced a few years prior when I found that it created a most interesting initial exchange of dialogue — and usually most awkward for the person named.

“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

“Well.”

I sauntered up to the counter with as much suaveness as I could muster. And it wasn’t very much. I was wearing bicycle shorts and bicycle shoes and had my helmet and glasses in my hand. To make matters worse, the counter was very low and did not properly hide the ridiculousness of said bicycle shorts and all their inappropriate bulges. I quickly put my helmet down in front of me and leaned forward slightly, so as to protect my quickly diminishing image.

“Can I help you?”

“I believe you can. My associate and I are bicycling to Crater Lake and–”

“Oh really! I’ve never been to Crater Lake.”

I took a moment to compose myself and hide the horror that must have shot across my face unchecked. It was less than a day’s ride on a bicycle to Crater Lake (that majestic place of beauty and wonder where all little boy’s and girl’s dreams come true) and couldn’t have been more than a two hour drive. And yet: she had never been. The Park Ranger; the woman whose job it was to be outside and do outdoorsy things; the woman who should have lost her virginity at Crater Lake. I stuttered.

“Well: well: well: don’t you think you should go?”

“I know, I know I should, it’s just I’ve never gotten around to getting out there.”

“Well, that’s where were headed; you could give us a ride. Hmm?”

She laughed and she had a good laugh and a wonderful smile but she was wearing green Forest Ranger pants that swelled at the hips and I couldn’t tell if it was the pants (which do that naturally) or her child-bearing hips.

But still: she was cute.

“Anyway,” I continued, “we’re not going to make it tonight, but we did want to find a place to camp. Can you tell me: Are there any campgrounds between here and there that we might stop at to rest?”

“No.”

And there it was. No. One syllable. One very tiny little word. No. No campgrounds. Nothing. Joe had been wrong and we had been wrong. There was nothing for us. No hope. No joy. Nothing. No where to sleep. The horror came creeping slowly into my awareness. I could feel the icy grip of the cackling Joker on my neck.

“But,” she added, almost casually, “you can camp anywhere in the National Forest if you wanted — you don’t need to be in a campground.”

And at this, I choked. My throat constricted entirely and I could not breathe for a moment. Composure went right out the window. The elation that coursed through my body threatened to liberate the control I held over my bladder and other bodily functions.

“What did you say?”

“That you can camp anywhere. You can setup a dispersed campsite. Your fine camping anywhere within the National Forest boundaries.”

And then she leaned forward and — I am not lying, this is the ACTUAL GOD’S HONEST TRUTH — our hands touched on the map and she indicated the area available for camping. The area was quite large; it encompassed over half of the map. It was amazing that she had touched my hand but more amazing still that Ben and I could camp anywhere in the great wilderness. I ignored her hand completely.

“Anywhere in there is fine.”

This was a new concept to me. Not the hand touching bit — I was quite familiar with that by now — but the “camp anywhere you wish” concept. My first thought was: this is impossible, this can’t be; and then I thought: if only we had known of this sooner! How different our lives might have been. But still, I had to be sure.

“You mean I camp anywhere in there?”

“Yes.”

“What about here?” I pointed to an area of the map that we would travel through.

“Sure.”

“And here?”

“Yes.”

“What about here?”

“Anywhere in that shaded area.”

“Even here?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” I continued, “so what you are saying is that I could camp anywhere in the shaded area, without a permit, and without paying anyone?” She nodded. “Even here?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

I left the National Forest Park Ranger station and went outside to tell Ben our good fortune. Then I stopped, turned around, and went back in. Ben stood with his mouth open, waiting to say something that he thought was also important but he would have to wait. I realized then that I had to go back in; I had to make sure.

What would have happened, had I still been in Search of #6 is probably this: I would have said to Lacie: you should come to Crater Lake this weekend; we’ll be there until Monday; I’ll leave a note for you on the board. It would be fun.

And what should have happened, had this been a really saucy movie with Brad Pitt (playing me) and Angelina Jolie (playing the Park Ranger), is probably this: I would have gone back into the Ranger Station and we would have had wild and crazy sex next to the newly plastered drywall and the giant statue Tony the Tiger (outside of his natural habitat).

But what did happen, because this is a work of non-fiction, which was none of these things, was that I stuck my head back in and said:

“Are you sure we can camp–”

“Yes! You can! Yes! Please leave now.”

“Okay,” I said, “Okay! Just checking.”

When I came out Ben had collected some pretty useful information of his own: apparently one can collect up to eight cords of firewood with a ten dollar permit — as long as one chopped the wood oneself. This state was unbelievable. I was beginning to respect the National Forest — it was grrrr-eat!

DAMON: June 30th 6 o’clock PM. Ben and I have simply pulled off of Route 138, walked, perhaps, fifty yards into the woods and thrown up camp. We were instructed that this was an okay thing to do in the National Forest along with chopping down ten cords of firewood –

BEN: Eight.

DAMON: Sorry, eight cords of firewood with a ten dollar permit. So: pretty much that’s cool, can still see the road, there is, obviously, no one else around us — nothing whatsoever around us. So we’ve gone from sleeping in someone’s front yard to sleeping in the middle of no where and both times we haven’t had to pay anything, which, as far as I’m concerned, earns us one nice meal.

BEN: Third night!

DAMON: And actually this is our third night in a row when we haven’t — no wait, it’s not our third — oh! it’s the third night on this trip when we haven’t had to pay for anything. So I think that we deserve to eat at nice restaurants again. Sometime soon in the future. Other than that, I’m exhausted and I’m going to be immediately. Good night.

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