Hey, I am new here so I thought I would post some old travel stories (taken from letters I sent to friends). 
~~~~~
We were tired and full and just wanted to find a place to sleep. Justin, Biscuit and I had hitchhiked into San Luis Obispo earlier that afternoon and had been ballyhooed in great detail of a possible sleeping place with “a totally spectacular view” called Terrace Hills.
Our informant was a middle-aged cyclist who happened upon us at the local coffee shop. He seemed to pity us after realizing we had no site in mind to rest our weary backs, it completely not occurring to him that I’d be fine with spending our time exploring the town and stumbling upon a place to spend the night. With almost unwarranted zeal, he hunted down a phone book in the coffee shop for fifteen minutes, afterwards exuberantly trying to navigate me through the unfamiliar lines and street names on the city map therein. Terrance Hills itself did not appear on the said map, “but its right about here” he eagerly reassured me by pointing to the apparent location. Finally, both of us satisfied that I could apprehend the area, he handed me three dollars and departed, his good deed done for the day.
We started out okay, passing foretold signs and landmarks, carelessly venturing in the right direction. Then somewhere, though I tried to follow his instructions best I could, I obviously screwed up. The railroad tracks that had been described were nowhere along our track, as were the street names I’d memorized. I didn’t say anything to Justin, less and less caring how on track we were.
A few minutes before closing time, we came across a health food store and decided to check its dumpster for abandoned goodies. And what a feast there was! Justin gleefully pulled out a box containing four perfectly ripe avocados, two red apples, a grapefruit, some bagged vegetables, an organic tomato, bouquet of fresh basil, and half a fresh watermelon. We carried our find a bit further, halfway hoping to run into some indication that we were headed in the right direction, and then finally plopped down in an empty lot to gorge ourselves. With some sub rolls I’d purchased earlier with an old Albertsons’ gift card, we dined on avo-tomato-basil sandwiches and watermelon.
Across the dimly-lit road, nestled between hills of yellow grass and weeds, was the entrance to California Polytechnic University. Recalling the map from a few hours before, I was finally certain that we were way off track. A student with a fashion mullet and purple skinny jeans walked by, nice, but unable to give us information regarding our original goal.
“Fuck this,” I grunted between mouthfuls of watermelon, “let’s just sleep up there.” I pointed to low slopes of dry, matted, cadaverous-looking grasses and other forage. It didn’t look like much of a hike, but was high and secluded enough that we’d likely go undisturbed till morning. Justin agreed, so we stuffed the apples and grapefruit in an extra plastic bag and raced across the street to locate a point of entry. Biscuit was getting tired, but was still alert and adventurous, eager to sniff the unfamiliar plant life at the base of the hills and seek out something to chase.
Turns out the hills weren’t as easily penetrable and they appeared. A menacing fringe of thorny bushes and implausibly monstrous grey-green weeds seemed to be the foundation of the desired hill. Still, we advanced further and further down the road, determinedly looking for a weak spot to invade.
Then Justin found the dead snake. The creature appeared to have slithered halfway out of its hole, its jaw slack and eyes open as if it had simply gone “oh, fuck!” and keeled over right then and there. It looked so ridiculous that Justin and I wondered if it were a plastic toy, placed there to alarm passerbys. Justin poked at it a bit, until my patience wore and I began to nag him to cut it out. Now we were nearly at the end of the not-so-opportune hills (though we hadn’t checked the ones on the other side of the street) and decided to wander through the university to check the much grander hills we could see towering behind the parking lot and student dormitories.
Polytech University, as it turned out, is quite an interesting campus. Tempting orchards, model irrigation systems, livestock, and other programs kept us interested throughout our hike through the campus. As we neared the campus’ Einstein’s Bagels and partying students, I saw an inspiring amout of bicycles crammed together in a ton of little parking structures.
We spotted some restful looking hills directly behind the dorms and determined that we should try to sleep there. Finally, we looked down on a silent ravine, nestled between the partying students and the road leading through a canyon like a secret hiding spot. Ignoring the “No Trespassing” signs, the three of us hiked down the grassy slope and followed a dry stream bed to an inviting tree. All was quiet except for the occasional passing car along the canyon road and the few students who were still awake way above us. We were secluded enough that we were sure not to be found out, but close enough to the road and the dorms not to feel too isolated.
Justin and I threw down our heavy sacks and relieved Biscuit of his Roughwear doggy backpack, stretching out our aching bodies and sighing relief that we’d finally found a place to rest. We threw out our sleeping bags and Biscuit collapsed onto Justin’s as if he’d never known such relaxation. I pulled out my letter writing kit and began to scribble an address. The sky above us was a peculiar, milky-orange color, a byproduct of the foggy nature of the sky and the city lights beyond.
A few minutes passed, and the forest we were calling a campsite for the night began to look a bit creepy. Then, we heard the scuffling.
It wasn’t terribly loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. At first it sounded like a drunken frat boy stumbling lost through the thick leaves, but then it would be utterly silent. Justin and I watched with wide eyes and stiff, quiet bodies. Scuffle, scuffle, and then quiet. Scuffle, step, step, step, quiet. Justin and I looked at each other.
Scuffling, stepping through the leaves. I don’t believe that I had never been so completely terrified. Literally, I felt that my veins were frozen. Fear slowly pulsed through me like a drug you can’t get out of your blood, almost to the point that you’d slit your wrists just to purge it. Justin sat observing the area where the unidentified noises originated from, calm but alert. Biscuit just snored, which should have assured us that nothing threatening was lurking about.
Whispering with considerable unease, we debated what could be creating the racket. A person? An animal? Not likely a person, we determined, it sounded more like a small group of smallish animals foraging. But what animal? A mountain lion would not have been so carelessly noisy, and Biscuit surely would have alerted us by now to something interested in eating us. Not mice or rats, too small. They must be raccoons. We even heard some tell-tale squeaking to validate our theory.
But we weren’t sure, as our eyes had not actually seen the furry beasts.
It is almost mind-blowing how something as humdrum as a hungry family of raccoons can be so embarrassingly fearsome to modern, nature-sheltered humans late at night. Raccoons, I knew, are benign creatures who generally avoided confrontation unless they or their young were directly intimidated. Even Biscuit, who growls or barks at anything that even seems to have the most miniscule capability to infringe on our territory or safety, snored peacefully through most of the incident. But still, I rolled up my sleeping bag and squeezed into Justin’s, irrationally puerile and still shaking scared. Knowing full well that it was just raccoons that would ignore us, I lay wide-eyed like an atheist who isn’t 100% sure about the nonexistence of a god.
Then, at about three in the morning, Biscuit, who had been slumbering this whole time, finally must have decided that the squeaky critters were too close. He sat alert, eyeing a dark spot not more than fifteen feet in front of us. Justin and I also sat up, seeing nothing. An invisible raccoon hissed, Biscuit growled, and Justin and I decided at last to just leave the place.
Five minutes later, adrenaline channeling stamina through our exhausted, sleepless bodies, we hiked back through the tall, yellow grass, passed the dorms, before finally coming back to the hills at the front of the school that we’d originally schemed to sleep upon. Looking across the road from them, we realized there sat an even more secluded little hill, with no brambles or dead snakes to impede us.
A brief hike and a quick turn later, completely hidden in lovely trees and almost insultingly perfect, was a sleeping spot. Even soft mulch was littered about, coyly whispering “Here I was all along, now come and rest.” And so we did.
~~~~~~
We had heard from friends in Salt Lake City that Highway 1 along the California coast was the way to go if you were hitching. Even kids who typically hop freight trains animatedly confided that they’d rather hitch along that coast than take a train… all for the spectacular views. Our friend Dallan had been the most convincing; his eyes shining like the silver-blue oceans in his memory as he described the worthwhile beauty on each side of the two lane road.
And it was beautiful, for the time we saw it. We caught a ride out of San Luis Obispo with an old man who lectured us about the spot we chose to hitch hike from (he didn’t think we gave drivers enough space to pull over, though he seemed to do just fine) and bored us with brief, vague stories about his own hitch hiking experiences from long before we were born.
He dropped us off at a beach and camping site a few miles north of Morro Bay, letting us know as we grabbed our gear that it wouldn’t be likely for us to catch any rides there until the morning. He pointed out the camping site, wished us luck, and departed. We cooked some rice and the rest of our dumpstered vegetables in our hobo stoves, fed the dog, and explored the beach. The campsite seemed to be a few miles walk into a small forest area. We decided to try hitch hiking until the inevitable fog came, and if our luck had run out for the day, we’d hike the campsite. After a while, the biggest cloud of fog either of us had seen began to absorb the beach and woods, Justin describing it as “black metal as fuck!” Within minutes the ocean had been quietly buried, and a quick head turn revealed that the woods were next. I checked my wristwatch and declared five more minutes on the shoulder. Literally seconds before taking down our sign and resigning to the now concealed copse, a Jeep lumbered out of the parking lot across the road and immediately pulled over.
Another sole old timer invited us in, and after some luggage-tetris we melted into our seats. Our driver turned out to be a just-retired-engineer-turned-photographer named George. He didn’t ask us many questions, but talked for most of the trip, periodically pulling over to take some photographs of things like the Hearst Castle and ocean water that looked more like CGI than real life. He told us that after a year and a half of volunteering in Sri Lanka had made him unsatisfied in his job and that he was now working on publishing a photo-memoir called “Another Leaf.” George told us about his multiple houses, ex-wife and beautiful children he’d photographed while volunteering, chatting nonstop for hours. Americans have a notion that only psychopaths and morons pick up hitch hikers, but in my experience it is just lonely people.
Night fell upon us as we reached the curvaceous mountain roads that clung to the coastline… just as we clung to our seats as our driver nonchalantly raced at almost twice the speed limit. George laughed and said “if my driving is scaring you, just yell at me… just not too loud, haha. No really, if I’m scaring you, just let me know.” Having either a bizarre idea of tact or an inclination to be silent, neither Justin nor I questioned his erratic driving. We passed the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse and the crass, enormous summer homes forced into the magnificent cliffs throughout Big Sur.
George offered us a place to sleep in his RV and a ride to the 5 Freeway in the morning, or a drop off at any place we fancied along the way. We told him we’d consider the couch, drawing boundaries and haphazard scenarios in our heads. After stopping for coffee, we decided that he could pass through our “psychopath filter" and we could at least check out the RV park.
I could hardly stay awake as we practically fell out of the Jeep and stumbled towards the brightly-lit RV. After going over our options, Justin and I chose to sleep in the meadow behind the park, not quite thrill-seeking enough to climb into the RV with our new friend for the night. He pointed us out a nice spot under a tree and authorized us to “tell anyone who gives you trouble that you’re with George.” Aching and grumbling, we rolled out the tarp and sleeping bags, took our last pee for the night, and passed out.
It wasn’t the light that woke us, but Biscuit’s warning growl. Dogs have a fascinating language, and right then I suspect that Biscuit was calmly, but assertively saying “Guys, guys… there's a dude over there being sketch as fuck."
It took me a second to wake up and get a sense of what exactly was going on. About three RVs down from where were trying to shush the irritated dog, the dark shadow of a man stood with an annoyingly bright flashlight. He scanned the meadow, as if not sure where the dog’s growling was coming from, and then fixed blinding beam on us. He held it there momentarily; us more fervently whispering to Biscuit to cut it out, and then he turned it off.
All we could see was the lit cigarette he was smoking. The little red glow hovered there for a moment, and then he turned the light on again, holding it there like some annoying god saying “ha, caught you.” Biscuit had elevated his warning to say “Listen, asshole, I still have a lot of room in my stomach and you’re starting to act delicious.”
Justin and I waited in the harsh light for the man to say or do something. He turned the light off again, still smoking his cigarette, waited for a moment, then turned it on us yet again. Biscuit was getting difficult to contain, now he wanted to stop the guy himself. Justin forced him to lay down and tried to calm him, but Biscuit only got louder. The light turned off again. And on again. And off.
“Okay, this is fucking stupid,” I hissed, reaching for my own flashlight, “two can play that game, motherfucker…” I was terrified and shaking, but finally grasped the sleek metal comfort of my light’s handle. I lit it up and shined it on where our harasser had stood, but he was gone. Biscuit quieted down a bit, still alert and pissed. Justin and I were terrified.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Who the fuck was that and what the hell was he trying to do?”
I thought the raccoons had been scary. The raccoons were nothing more than cupcakes with fake spiders on them... this guy had been a true monster. I pulled my bag closer, gripping my flashlight like a frightened child with a stuffed bear. Biscuit curled up on my legs, all three of us looking around for any further provocation. Somehow, I soon fell back asleep.
“Boy, you on private property!”
I lazily turned over in my sleeping bag, not sure if we were still sleeping or having another confrontation with an RV park asshole.
Apparently it was the latter, because he continued his comments, which were directed at Justin. “You best git on outta here, boy, yer on private property and if you don’t yer gonna git yerself shot fer truspassin.”
“Um…” Justin casually informed our rude alarm clock, “We’re with George.”
The man paused.
“George?!” He exclaimed this like it was a secret password we had trickily figured out to prevent him from dutifully shooting us. Without another stammer, he stormed back into his Old Glory-adorned RV.
Justin sniffed his stuffy nose, spat, and glared at the gaudy display of U.S. patriotism. The guy’s RV looked like the 4th of July decoration aisle at Wal-Mart. “Fucking Americans," he observed, "they’re so friendly.”
We stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks, rolled up the tarp, and cracked unapologetic, mean jokes about American jingoism. Yawning as a side-effect from the disturbing night, we knocked on George’s door. He made us some coffee and showed us some beautiful and sad photographs of people and places in Sri Lanka. He then led us the park’s showers, and had I a few more bucks I would have stayed in there for hours.
George drove us to the freeway in the morning, as promised.
~~~~~
We were tired and full and just wanted to find a place to sleep. Justin, Biscuit and I had hitchhiked into San Luis Obispo earlier that afternoon and had been ballyhooed in great detail of a possible sleeping place with “a totally spectacular view” called Terrace Hills.
Our informant was a middle-aged cyclist who happened upon us at the local coffee shop. He seemed to pity us after realizing we had no site in mind to rest our weary backs, it completely not occurring to him that I’d be fine with spending our time exploring the town and stumbling upon a place to spend the night. With almost unwarranted zeal, he hunted down a phone book in the coffee shop for fifteen minutes, afterwards exuberantly trying to navigate me through the unfamiliar lines and street names on the city map therein. Terrance Hills itself did not appear on the said map, “but its right about here” he eagerly reassured me by pointing to the apparent location. Finally, both of us satisfied that I could apprehend the area, he handed me three dollars and departed, his good deed done for the day.
We started out okay, passing foretold signs and landmarks, carelessly venturing in the right direction. Then somewhere, though I tried to follow his instructions best I could, I obviously screwed up. The railroad tracks that had been described were nowhere along our track, as were the street names I’d memorized. I didn’t say anything to Justin, less and less caring how on track we were.
A few minutes before closing time, we came across a health food store and decided to check its dumpster for abandoned goodies. And what a feast there was! Justin gleefully pulled out a box containing four perfectly ripe avocados, two red apples, a grapefruit, some bagged vegetables, an organic tomato, bouquet of fresh basil, and half a fresh watermelon. We carried our find a bit further, halfway hoping to run into some indication that we were headed in the right direction, and then finally plopped down in an empty lot to gorge ourselves. With some sub rolls I’d purchased earlier with an old Albertsons’ gift card, we dined on avo-tomato-basil sandwiches and watermelon.
Across the dimly-lit road, nestled between hills of yellow grass and weeds, was the entrance to California Polytechnic University. Recalling the map from a few hours before, I was finally certain that we were way off track. A student with a fashion mullet and purple skinny jeans walked by, nice, but unable to give us information regarding our original goal.
“Fuck this,” I grunted between mouthfuls of watermelon, “let’s just sleep up there.” I pointed to low slopes of dry, matted, cadaverous-looking grasses and other forage. It didn’t look like much of a hike, but was high and secluded enough that we’d likely go undisturbed till morning. Justin agreed, so we stuffed the apples and grapefruit in an extra plastic bag and raced across the street to locate a point of entry. Biscuit was getting tired, but was still alert and adventurous, eager to sniff the unfamiliar plant life at the base of the hills and seek out something to chase.
Turns out the hills weren’t as easily penetrable and they appeared. A menacing fringe of thorny bushes and implausibly monstrous grey-green weeds seemed to be the foundation of the desired hill. Still, we advanced further and further down the road, determinedly looking for a weak spot to invade.
Then Justin found the dead snake. The creature appeared to have slithered halfway out of its hole, its jaw slack and eyes open as if it had simply gone “oh, fuck!” and keeled over right then and there. It looked so ridiculous that Justin and I wondered if it were a plastic toy, placed there to alarm passerbys. Justin poked at it a bit, until my patience wore and I began to nag him to cut it out. Now we were nearly at the end of the not-so-opportune hills (though we hadn’t checked the ones on the other side of the street) and decided to wander through the university to check the much grander hills we could see towering behind the parking lot and student dormitories.
Polytech University, as it turned out, is quite an interesting campus. Tempting orchards, model irrigation systems, livestock, and other programs kept us interested throughout our hike through the campus. As we neared the campus’ Einstein’s Bagels and partying students, I saw an inspiring amout of bicycles crammed together in a ton of little parking structures.
We spotted some restful looking hills directly behind the dorms and determined that we should try to sleep there. Finally, we looked down on a silent ravine, nestled between the partying students and the road leading through a canyon like a secret hiding spot. Ignoring the “No Trespassing” signs, the three of us hiked down the grassy slope and followed a dry stream bed to an inviting tree. All was quiet except for the occasional passing car along the canyon road and the few students who were still awake way above us. We were secluded enough that we were sure not to be found out, but close enough to the road and the dorms not to feel too isolated.
Justin and I threw down our heavy sacks and relieved Biscuit of his Roughwear doggy backpack, stretching out our aching bodies and sighing relief that we’d finally found a place to rest. We threw out our sleeping bags and Biscuit collapsed onto Justin’s as if he’d never known such relaxation. I pulled out my letter writing kit and began to scribble an address. The sky above us was a peculiar, milky-orange color, a byproduct of the foggy nature of the sky and the city lights beyond.
A few minutes passed, and the forest we were calling a campsite for the night began to look a bit creepy. Then, we heard the scuffling.
It wasn’t terribly loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. At first it sounded like a drunken frat boy stumbling lost through the thick leaves, but then it would be utterly silent. Justin and I watched with wide eyes and stiff, quiet bodies. Scuffle, scuffle, and then quiet. Scuffle, step, step, step, quiet. Justin and I looked at each other.
Scuffling, stepping through the leaves. I don’t believe that I had never been so completely terrified. Literally, I felt that my veins were frozen. Fear slowly pulsed through me like a drug you can’t get out of your blood, almost to the point that you’d slit your wrists just to purge it. Justin sat observing the area where the unidentified noises originated from, calm but alert. Biscuit just snored, which should have assured us that nothing threatening was lurking about.
Whispering with considerable unease, we debated what could be creating the racket. A person? An animal? Not likely a person, we determined, it sounded more like a small group of smallish animals foraging. But what animal? A mountain lion would not have been so carelessly noisy, and Biscuit surely would have alerted us by now to something interested in eating us. Not mice or rats, too small. They must be raccoons. We even heard some tell-tale squeaking to validate our theory.
But we weren’t sure, as our eyes had not actually seen the furry beasts.
It is almost mind-blowing how something as humdrum as a hungry family of raccoons can be so embarrassingly fearsome to modern, nature-sheltered humans late at night. Raccoons, I knew, are benign creatures who generally avoided confrontation unless they or their young were directly intimidated. Even Biscuit, who growls or barks at anything that even seems to have the most miniscule capability to infringe on our territory or safety, snored peacefully through most of the incident. But still, I rolled up my sleeping bag and squeezed into Justin’s, irrationally puerile and still shaking scared. Knowing full well that it was just raccoons that would ignore us, I lay wide-eyed like an atheist who isn’t 100% sure about the nonexistence of a god.
Then, at about three in the morning, Biscuit, who had been slumbering this whole time, finally must have decided that the squeaky critters were too close. He sat alert, eyeing a dark spot not more than fifteen feet in front of us. Justin and I also sat up, seeing nothing. An invisible raccoon hissed, Biscuit growled, and Justin and I decided at last to just leave the place.
Five minutes later, adrenaline channeling stamina through our exhausted, sleepless bodies, we hiked back through the tall, yellow grass, passed the dorms, before finally coming back to the hills at the front of the school that we’d originally schemed to sleep upon. Looking across the road from them, we realized there sat an even more secluded little hill, with no brambles or dead snakes to impede us.
A brief hike and a quick turn later, completely hidden in lovely trees and almost insultingly perfect, was a sleeping spot. Even soft mulch was littered about, coyly whispering “Here I was all along, now come and rest.” And so we did.
~~~~~~
We had heard from friends in Salt Lake City that Highway 1 along the California coast was the way to go if you were hitching. Even kids who typically hop freight trains animatedly confided that they’d rather hitch along that coast than take a train… all for the spectacular views. Our friend Dallan had been the most convincing; his eyes shining like the silver-blue oceans in his memory as he described the worthwhile beauty on each side of the two lane road.
And it was beautiful, for the time we saw it. We caught a ride out of San Luis Obispo with an old man who lectured us about the spot we chose to hitch hike from (he didn’t think we gave drivers enough space to pull over, though he seemed to do just fine) and bored us with brief, vague stories about his own hitch hiking experiences from long before we were born.
He dropped us off at a beach and camping site a few miles north of Morro Bay, letting us know as we grabbed our gear that it wouldn’t be likely for us to catch any rides there until the morning. He pointed out the camping site, wished us luck, and departed. We cooked some rice and the rest of our dumpstered vegetables in our hobo stoves, fed the dog, and explored the beach. The campsite seemed to be a few miles walk into a small forest area. We decided to try hitch hiking until the inevitable fog came, and if our luck had run out for the day, we’d hike the campsite. After a while, the biggest cloud of fog either of us had seen began to absorb the beach and woods, Justin describing it as “black metal as fuck!” Within minutes the ocean had been quietly buried, and a quick head turn revealed that the woods were next. I checked my wristwatch and declared five more minutes on the shoulder. Literally seconds before taking down our sign and resigning to the now concealed copse, a Jeep lumbered out of the parking lot across the road and immediately pulled over.
Another sole old timer invited us in, and after some luggage-tetris we melted into our seats. Our driver turned out to be a just-retired-engineer-turned-photographer named George. He didn’t ask us many questions, but talked for most of the trip, periodically pulling over to take some photographs of things like the Hearst Castle and ocean water that looked more like CGI than real life. He told us that after a year and a half of volunteering in Sri Lanka had made him unsatisfied in his job and that he was now working on publishing a photo-memoir called “Another Leaf.” George told us about his multiple houses, ex-wife and beautiful children he’d photographed while volunteering, chatting nonstop for hours. Americans have a notion that only psychopaths and morons pick up hitch hikers, but in my experience it is just lonely people.
Night fell upon us as we reached the curvaceous mountain roads that clung to the coastline… just as we clung to our seats as our driver nonchalantly raced at almost twice the speed limit. George laughed and said “if my driving is scaring you, just yell at me… just not too loud, haha. No really, if I’m scaring you, just let me know.” Having either a bizarre idea of tact or an inclination to be silent, neither Justin nor I questioned his erratic driving. We passed the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse and the crass, enormous summer homes forced into the magnificent cliffs throughout Big Sur.
George offered us a place to sleep in his RV and a ride to the 5 Freeway in the morning, or a drop off at any place we fancied along the way. We told him we’d consider the couch, drawing boundaries and haphazard scenarios in our heads. After stopping for coffee, we decided that he could pass through our “psychopath filter" and we could at least check out the RV park.
I could hardly stay awake as we practically fell out of the Jeep and stumbled towards the brightly-lit RV. After going over our options, Justin and I chose to sleep in the meadow behind the park, not quite thrill-seeking enough to climb into the RV with our new friend for the night. He pointed us out a nice spot under a tree and authorized us to “tell anyone who gives you trouble that you’re with George.” Aching and grumbling, we rolled out the tarp and sleeping bags, took our last pee for the night, and passed out.
It wasn’t the light that woke us, but Biscuit’s warning growl. Dogs have a fascinating language, and right then I suspect that Biscuit was calmly, but assertively saying “Guys, guys… there's a dude over there being sketch as fuck."
It took me a second to wake up and get a sense of what exactly was going on. About three RVs down from where were trying to shush the irritated dog, the dark shadow of a man stood with an annoyingly bright flashlight. He scanned the meadow, as if not sure where the dog’s growling was coming from, and then fixed blinding beam on us. He held it there momentarily; us more fervently whispering to Biscuit to cut it out, and then he turned it off.
All we could see was the lit cigarette he was smoking. The little red glow hovered there for a moment, and then he turned the light on again, holding it there like some annoying god saying “ha, caught you.” Biscuit had elevated his warning to say “Listen, asshole, I still have a lot of room in my stomach and you’re starting to act delicious.”
Justin and I waited in the harsh light for the man to say or do something. He turned the light off again, still smoking his cigarette, waited for a moment, then turned it on us yet again. Biscuit was getting difficult to contain, now he wanted to stop the guy himself. Justin forced him to lay down and tried to calm him, but Biscuit only got louder. The light turned off again. And on again. And off.
“Okay, this is fucking stupid,” I hissed, reaching for my own flashlight, “two can play that game, motherfucker…” I was terrified and shaking, but finally grasped the sleek metal comfort of my light’s handle. I lit it up and shined it on where our harasser had stood, but he was gone. Biscuit quieted down a bit, still alert and pissed. Justin and I were terrified.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Who the fuck was that and what the hell was he trying to do?”
I thought the raccoons had been scary. The raccoons were nothing more than cupcakes with fake spiders on them... this guy had been a true monster. I pulled my bag closer, gripping my flashlight like a frightened child with a stuffed bear. Biscuit curled up on my legs, all three of us looking around for any further provocation. Somehow, I soon fell back asleep.
“Boy, you on private property!”
I lazily turned over in my sleeping bag, not sure if we were still sleeping or having another confrontation with an RV park asshole.
Apparently it was the latter, because he continued his comments, which were directed at Justin. “You best git on outta here, boy, yer on private property and if you don’t yer gonna git yerself shot fer truspassin.”
“Um…” Justin casually informed our rude alarm clock, “We’re with George.”
The man paused.
“George?!” He exclaimed this like it was a secret password we had trickily figured out to prevent him from dutifully shooting us. Without another stammer, he stormed back into his Old Glory-adorned RV.
Justin sniffed his stuffy nose, spat, and glared at the gaudy display of U.S. patriotism. The guy’s RV looked like the 4th of July decoration aisle at Wal-Mart. “Fucking Americans," he observed, "they’re so friendly.”
We stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks, rolled up the tarp, and cracked unapologetic, mean jokes about American jingoism. Yawning as a side-effect from the disturbing night, we knocked on George’s door. He made us some coffee and showed us some beautiful and sad photographs of people and places in Sri Lanka. He then led us the park’s showers, and had I a few more bucks I would have stayed in there for hours.
George drove us to the freeway in the morning, as promised.
